He said this without any seeming thought of the inference Derrick must draw, an inference that the latter jumped at. Why bring a bundle before one was sure of a job? But perhaps, and here a message drifted in from the paneled walls, perhaps it was already arranged that Martin should get the job, and the man in some queer way was aware of that. And, after all, why should he part from his bundle? He would have slept with it under a hedge.

Derrick felt in his pocket. “Perhaps you’d better stop in the village to-night, and clean up the cottage to-morrow. It must be cold and damp. Got enough money?”

Martin gave a twisted smile. “Yes, sir, I have money, but if you don’t mind I’ll risk the damp. It’s nothing to me.”

“No, let it stand till to-morrow; then you can move in. I’ll see you about ten o’clock.”

He rang the bell, Martin standing motionless, a baffling expression on his face. He had secured what he came for but still seemed ill at ease and uncontent. Then Perkins entered like a sallow ghost, and Derrick, regarding these two, experienced a novel sensation at seeing them stand side by side, the staff of Beech Lodge, the depositories of the secret of the house. Between them lay the thing he pursued, or that pursued him. They did not look at each other, but waited, silent, impassive, and remote. He wondered what it would be that first broke through the surface of this extraordinary calm, so profound as to be already ominous. But that would come in its appointed cycle.

“Perkins, I have engaged Martin as gardener. He will commence work in the morning, occupy the cottage, and do for himself entirely. Did you do anything in the house before, Martin?”

“Boots and coals, sir.”

“I don’t need any help now, sir,” put in Perkins swiftly.

Martin’s lids flickered, but he did not stir.

“Then for the meantime, Martin, stick to outside work. All right, you may go now.”

The man mumbled good night, made his former awkward salute, and marched into the hall. He did not glance at the woman, nor she at him. Derrick’s eyes narrowed a little.

“Please come here, Perkins, when you’ve locked up.”

The door closed, and he looked instinctively at the portrait as though to ask whether in all this he had done the right thing. But Millicent was 

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