secret wound. She sat tense, and a quick fear came lest the others
might have also seen. She glanced at them furtively. But the
argument was still unsettled, the tablecloth between them scored
and creased with conflicting sketches. She drew a sharp little
sigh of relief. Only she had noticed, and she did not matter. For
a few moments her thoughts ran riot until she pulled them up
frowningly. It was no business of hers--she had no right even
to speculate on his affairs. Angry with herself she turned for
distraction to the portraits on the walls--they at least would
offer no disturbing problem. But her determination to keep her
thoughts from her guardian met with a check at the outset for she
found herself staring at Barry Craven as she had visualised him
in that first moment of meeting--steel-clad. It was the picture
of a young man, dressed in the style of the Elizabethan period,
wearing a light inlaid cuirass and leaning negligently against a
stone balustrade, a hooded falcon on his wrist. The resemblance
to the owner of Craven Towers was remarkable--the same build,
the same haughty carriage of the head, the same features and
colouring; the mouth only of the painted gallant differed, for the
lips were not set sternly but curved in a singularly winning smile.
The portrait had recently been cleaned and the colours stood
out freshly. The pose of the figure was curiously unrestrained
for the period, a suggestion of energy--barely concealed by the
indolent attitude--broke through the conventional treatment of
the time, as if the painter had responded to an influence that had
overcome tradition. The whole body seemed to pulsate with life.
Gillian looked at it entranced; instinctively her eyes sought the
pictured hands. The one that held the falcon was covered with
an embroidered leather glove, but the other was bare, holding
a set of jesses. And even the hands were similar, the characteristics