John Cavendish frowned and changed the subject.

"Come for a stroll, Hastings. This has been a most rotten
business. She always had a rough tongue, but there is no
stauncher friend in England than Evelyn Howard."

He took the path through the plantation, and we walked down to
the village through the woods which bordered one side of the
estate.

As we passed through one of the gates on our way home again, a
pretty young woman of gipsy type coming in the opposite direction
bowed and smiled.

"That's a pretty girl," I remarked appreciatively.

John's face hardened.

"That is Mrs. Raikes."

"The one that Miss Howard----"

"Exactly," said John, with rather unnecessary abruptness.

I thought of the white-haired old lady in the big house, and that
vivid wicked little face that had just smiled into ours, and a
vague chill of foreboding crept over me. I brushed it aside.

"Styles is really a glorious old place," I said to John.