money than was good for them.

As Mrs Ford gazed at the picture, and the picture stared back at
her, the telephone bell rang. She ran to it eagerly. It was the
office of the hotel, announcing a caller.

'Yes? Yes? Who?' Her voice fell, as if the name was not the one
she had expected. 'Oh, yes,' she said. 'Yes, ask Lord Mountry to
come to me here, please.'

She returned to the portrait. The look of impatience, which had
left her face as the bell sounded, was back now. She suppressed it
with an effort as her visitor entered.

Lord Mountry was a blond, pink-faced, fair-moustached young man of
about twenty-eight--a thick-set, solemn young man. He winced as he
caught sight of the picture, which fixed him with a stony eye
immediately on his entry, and quickly looked away.

'I say, it's all right, Mrs Ford.' He was of the type which wastes
no time on preliminary greetings. 'I've got him.'

'Got him!'

Mrs Ford's voice was startled.

'Stanborough, you know.'

'Oh! I--I was thinking of something else. Won't you sit down?'