LITMIR.BIZ

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get there from anywhere, in a car. It’s not far from Brighton.”

      “Tell us all about it. What kind of a house is it?”

      “Surely I may speak, Isbel!” said her aunt irritably. “Is it a large property, Marshall? How did you come to hear of it?”

      “It’s an Elizabethan manor. Two hundred acres of ground go with it, mostly timber. The hall goes back to the thirteenth century. I met the owner coming across.”

      “And the price?”

      “He declined to say off-hand. As a matter of fact, he’s not frightfully keen on selling at all. His wife’s just died in San Francisco, so I snatched the opportunity and asked him what his plans were about going back. He hasn’t decided yet, but I’ve got a sort of idea that a prompt bid might do the trick, if it at all appeals to you.”

      “Poor fellow! At least, I hope so . . . Young or old?”

      “He told me his age — fifty-eight. He was in the Birmingham brass trade. His name’s Judge. You don’t know him by any chance?”

      “Do we, Isbel?”

      “No.”

      “He is quite a decent chap. He and his wife have lived at Runhill Court for eight years, so it sounds all right.”

      “Is that the name of the house?”

      “Yes. Historical — supposed to be derived from the old Saxon ‘rune-hill,’ so he says. The runes were engraved letters, intended to keep off the trolls and blendings. I don’t suppose that interests you greatly; what’s more to the point is that the place is thoroughly up to date, he tells me. He’s spent no end on modern improvements — electric lighting, and so forth . . . Well now, do you feel disposed to take it up?”

      Mrs. Moor wriggled in her chair, which was a sign of indecision. Isbel emitted clouds of cigarette-smoke, in the manner of women.

      “An Elizabethan manor,” she remarked reflectively. “Sounds thrilling. Is there a family ghost?”

      “Do you want one?”

      “In any case, you wouldn’t have to live there long, child.” Her aunt’s tone was sharp. “That is, unless you’ve been alerting your programme, you two, behind my back?”

      “We’re not conspirators, thanks. It’s still to be April.”

      “Then pray leave me to make my own arrangements. When could I go over to the house, Marshall?”

      “Anytime, I fancy. Would you care to have Judge’s address in town?”

      “Please.”

      He scribbled it on a scrap of paper, and passed it over.

      Isbel eyed him thoughtfully. “Aren’t you coming with us, Marshall?”

      “Really, I wasn’t thinking of doing so. Of course, of you’d like me to . . . ”

      “We should,” said Mrs. Moor. “What day would suit you best?”

      “There you have me.” He hesitated . . . “Well, as we’re all here together, what’s wrong with to-morrow morning? I could run you over in the car. The country’s looking magnificent.”

      Mrs. Moor consulted the paper in her hand. “But Mr. Judge is in town, you say? How can we get an order to view between now and to-morrow morning?”

      “Yes, I see . . . As a matter of fact, I have an order in my pocket.”

      “But, my dear boy, in that case why did you wish me to go to the trouble of communicating with Mr. Judge?”

      “Yes, why did you?” supplemented Isbel, puckering her brow.

      “The order’s a personal one, you see, and I had no idea I was coming with you.”

      The girl stared at him in a sort of bewilderment. “Do you mean you intended to go alone, without us?”

      “Well, yes. I purposely didn’t tell you, because it’s more or less a confidential matter, but the fact is Judge wants a private opinion from me with regard to one of the rooms . . . ”

      “Go on. What sort of opinion? Do you mean he’s planning and an alteration, or what?”

      “Not an alteration exactly, as far as I’m aware . . . I’m very sorry, Isbel, but it’s confidential, as I said before. Having passed my word, of course I’m not at liberty to say anything more about it, much as I should like to . . . However, I shall be only too happy to accompany you both.”

      She slowly passed her palm backward and forward across her skirt, feeling its texture.

      “It’s very strange, though. So you meant to hide it from us altogether, this mysterious transaction?”

      “I meant to keep my word.”

      “In plain language, you set out a higher value on the regard of this total stranger than on ours? I don’t care two pins about the room, or what he proposes to do with it, but I certainly do care that . . . ”

      “But, my dear girl . . . ”

      “Why have you done it? It’s disquieting. I shan’t know what you’re keeping back now.”

      Mrs. Moor gazed sternly at her niece. “Do try not to be a fool, Isbel. If Marshall has passed on his word, do you want him to break it? He’s perfectly in the right, only, of course, you must try to work up a scene. Just tell us right out, Marshall — would you rather have us with you, or not?”

      “I shall be delighted to have you with me . . . 10.30 in the morning — will that suit?”

      “Admirably. Well, that’s that. Now you can go downstairs, you two. I want to read. I shan’t see you again to-night, Marshall . . . Good-night! . . . Ring for the waiter, please, as you go past. I want these things cleared away.”

      She remained sitting bolt upright in her chair, waiting for the servant to come and go, when it was her intention, not to read — she had changed her mind at the very moment of expressing it — but to play. These wretched misunderstandings over nothing at all always left her with an unpleasant taste in her mouth, which she could only rid herself of by entering that other world of pure and lofty idealism.

      The two younger people walked slowly downstairs, Isbel slightly leading the way.

      “Shall we see if we can get a game of billiards?” asked Marshall, in a somewhat subdued voice.

      “If you like.”

      As they passed by the drawing-room the door was wide open; the room was empty.

      “Let’s come in here,” said the girl.

      They did so. She shut the door after them; both remained on their feet.

      “May I ask,” began Isbel, and a spot of colour came into her cheeks, “if it is your intention to keep confidences from me? I wish to know.”

      “My dear Isbel —”

      “Yes or no?” Her tone was quietly menacing. Marshall felt that the shaping of his whole future very likely depended on the next few words addressed by him to this tranquil, dangerous-mannered girl in black.

      He reflected before answering.

      “Of course, if you put it in that way, Isbel, I mean to keep nothing from you. I gave my word to Judge, it’s true, but I quite see that perhaps I had no right to give it. I fully realise that personal secrets vitiate the whole meaning of marriage.”

      “Then we’ll say no more about it. I’m glad. If we held different views on the subject, it would be rather ominous, wouldn’t it? . . . But what really is your compact wit this man — what does he want you to do exactly? He’s quite a stranger, isn’t he?”

      “Oh, absolutely.”

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