well, tell me, but don’t do any more. All this may sound rather hysterical, but it isn’t; and it’s because I know myself better than I begin to think I know you, even after all these years. So don’t try me more than you can avoid.”

While she was speaking, Perkins entered as silently as before. Edith steadied herself, wondering how much the woman had heard. She took the handkerchief and made an indefinite gesture to her brother.

“I say, Perkins,” he put in, “this garden is running wild, and I’ve got to get some one at once or there’ll be nothing worth while in the summer. Do you know of any good man in the neighborhood?”

“I’m sorry; I don’t, sir.”

“What about the village? Any chance there?”

“I can’t say, sir. I haven’t been to the village for more than a year.”

“Mr. Thursby’s man seems to have been very capable. Think you could find him?”

“I don’t know where he is, sir. He came once a week for the past year, but left the village about a month ago. There’s been no one since.”

“Did Mr. Thursby take over Mr. Millicent’s man?”

“No, sir.” Perkins’s expression changed ever so slightly. “He could not.”

“Why was that?”

“Because Martin, Mr. Millicent’s man, had already left.”

“When?” said Derrick curiously.

“Three days after Mr. Millicent died.”

Edith gave an involuntary shiver. “Why should he do that so soon?”

Perkins glanced at the portrait with a kind of mute unconsciousness. “I cannot say, madam. Martin did not tell me.”

“It’s more or less understandable,” hazarded Derrick; “probably Mrs. Millicent let him go. She wasn’t keeping on the place anyway. Do you happen to know where he went, Perkins?”

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