"I've a very similar feeling myself," laughed John. "When we turn back,
if you think your coachman can be persuaded to stop at the telegraph
office in the village, I'll give my feeling effect."

"I think we might turn back now," said Lady Blanchemain. "It's getting
rather gloomy here." She looked round, with a little shudder, and then
gave the necessary order. The valley had narrowed to what was scarcely
more than a defile between two dark and rugged hillsides,
--pine-covered hillsides that shut out the sun, smiting the air with
chill and shadow, and turning the Rampio, whose brawl seemed somehow to
increase the chill, turning the sparkling, sportive Rampio to the colour
of slate. "It puts one in mind of brigands," she said, with another
little shudder. But though the air was chilly, it was wonderfully,
keenly fragrant with the incense of the pines.

"Well," she asked, when they were facing homewards, "and your woman?
What of her?"

"Nothing," said John. "Or, anyhow, very little." (It would be extremely
pleasant, he felt suddenly, to talk of her; but at the same time he felt
an extreme reluctance to let his pleasure be seen.)

"But your private detective?" said Lady Blanchemain. "Weren't her
investigations fruitful?"

"Not very," said he. "She learnt little beyond her name and age."

"And what _is_ her name?" asked the lady.

"Her name is Maria Dolores," answered John, (and he experienced a secret