pig, and if you pulled her one way she was apt to go the other. In this case, however, it seemed that she had fairly made up her mind before he came to a holiday abroad, for presently she let slip that she had been studying a guide to the Ardennes, which she had borrowed from a neighbor below. Denis sent her down to borrow it again. While she was away he wandered about, looking at her books. Under a fat dictionary he came upon the paper she had been reading when he entered, and he pulled it out to see if she still took what he called the Radical rag. Its name stared him in the face: _The Westmorland Gazette_. It was doubled back at page four: _Fatality at Grasmere_. He wheeled as she came into the room. "Lettice, how on earth did you get hold of this thing?" She stopped dead for a moment, then came on. "I ordered it." "What for?" "Because I'd seen something about the accident, and I wanted to know more. So I went to Finch's at the corner and asked him to get me the local paper, and he did." Lettice had a talent for explaining the obvious. "Where did you see anything about the accident?" "There was a paragraph in my halfpenny rag." "Confound!" said Denis, black as a thunder-cloud. Lettice smiled, recovering her equanimity as he lost his. "Well, you shouldn't go and make interesting things like aeroplanes and become a public character," she murmured _pianissimo_. "Why didn't you tell me that you knew?" She looked at him, allowing her speakingly derisive eyes to retaliate that question. "I couldn't tell you about it, it wasn't my affair," said Denis hotly and confusedly. "Gardiner doesn't want the story all over the place. How could I help it, Lettice? But when I was talkin' about Easedale, I think you might have let me know you knew!" "My dear child, I couldn't begin on it if you didn't, could I?" said Lettice patiently. "I was simply _longing_ to ask questions. It was nice, proper, lady-like feeling made me hold my tongue, what you always say you like. And now you're cross with me! Well, well." Denis was cross; he stood crumpling the paper in his hands, visibly fuming. Lettice took it away from him and smoothed it out. "I shan't talk about it to Mr. Gardiner when I come to Rochehaut, if that's what you're afraid of." "Are you really comin' to Rochehaut?" "Don't you want me now you know I know?" She looked at him with those impish eyes. "You know too much, Lettice!" said her cousin, discomfited, half laughing. She turned away with her small foreign shrug. "Dear, dear! there's no pleasing some people!" CHAPTER VISIC TRANSIT Are you the new person drawn towards me? To begin with take warning, I am surely far different from what you suppose. WALT WHITMAN. On a cold morning in July, 1913, Lettice climbed down from a Belgian third-class carriage, dragging 

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