them as children, and when the end comes it is hard to let them go.”

He was staring, puzzled, at what he had written, when Perkins came in, her face grave.

“If you please, sir, the gardener is here.” Her voice was a little breathless.

“What gardener? I thought you told me just a moment ago that you knew of no one.”

“It’s Mr. Millicent’s gardener,” she replied steadily.

“The man who has not been heard of for two years?”

“Yes, sir. He has just returned.”

Derrick took a long breath. “What brings him back now?”

He regretted the question as soon as it was asked, for Perkins was regarding him as though wondering why he should be surprised. It was all part of something else, something bigger. Surely he must realize that.

“I do not know, sir. He only reached the village this evening and came straight here.”

“Does he expect me to engage him?”

“He would like to come back to his old place, sir.”

“How extraordinary!”

Again Derrick spoke too hastily, and again he regretted it. Perkins did not answer. She stood passively, an austere expression on her sallow features; and, scrutinize as he might, there was no penetrating the veil that enshrouded her. She was an embodiment of something that defied his keenest analysis.

“Where has this man been for the past two years?”

“He did not say, sir.”

“You can tell me whether he was satisfactory in every way to Mr. Millicent?”

She nodded. “Mr. Millicent used to say that he was the best gardener in the county.”

Derrick paused. “Perkins, I’m going to ask you another question, but you need not answer unless you like to.”

“I will tell you anything I know, sir.” She spoke steadily and without a trace of surprise.

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