westward stretched long rambling wings, a story higher than the
main block, crowned with the turrets that gave the house its name.

A low murmur of men's voices came from below, and leaning over
the balustrade she saw Craven and his agent standing talking
before the empty fireplace. Sudden shyness overcame her; her
guardian was still formidable, Peters she had seen for the first
time only a few hours ago when he had met them at the station--a
short broad-shouldered man inclining to stoutness, with thick
grey hair and close-pointed beard. To go down deliberately to
them seemed impossible. But while she hesitated in an agony of
self-consciousness Mouston precipitated the inevitable by dashing
on ahead down, the stairs and plunging into the bearskin hearthrug,
ploughing the thick fur with his muzzle and sneezing wildly. The
sense of responsibility outweighed shyness and she hurried after
him, but Peters anticipated her and already had the dog's unwilling
head firmly between his hands.

"What on earth has he got on his nose, Miss Locke?" he asked, in a
tone of wonder, but the keen blue eyes looking at her from under
bushy grey eyebrows were twinkling and her shyness was not proof
against his friendliness.

She dropped to her knees and flicked the offended organ with a
scrap of lace and lawn.

"Powder," she said gravely.

"You can have no idea," she added, looking up suddenly, "how
delightful it is to powder your nose when you have been brought up