their one week’s honeymoon in London. His face softened. There came upon it a great awe. God! How he loved her. Every moment they spent together he seemed to discover some new, hitherto hidden beauty of mind, soul, or body in this wonderful, still mysterious, but wholly delightful young creature who not only allowed him to worship her but—miracle of miracles—returned his passion. Such were the disconnected but wholly contented thoughts which filled half an hour of the last easy, unquestioning, and, as if for an immortal moment, ecstatic morning of Harry Garlett’s life. With no premonition of coming pain or evil Jean Bower’s fortunate lover passed through the big paved courtyard of the Etna China factory. He walked quickly into the 57early Victorian marble-papered hall and so past the office where sat two clerks, into the high square room which had been for so long known to the good folk of Grendon as “Mr. Dodson’s room.” 57 His letters lay unopened on the shabby leather-covered writing table, and as he sat down he saw that on the top of the pile was an unstamped envelope marked “Private.” Opening it, he read: Sir I propose to call on you to-morrow at eleven with regard to an important matter. Will you please arrange to be in at that time? James Kentworthy He stared down at the sheet of paper, trying to remember if he had ever heard the name Kentworthy before. But no, it meant nothing to him. Whoever this Kentworthy might be he had no business to take it for granted that he, Garlett, would be here, waiting his convenience, at eleven o’clock! He got up and went into the outer office. “If a Mr. Kentworthy calls, I will see him. But say that I can only spare him a few minutes, as I am very busy.” As it was striking eleven, the door opened with: “Mr. Kentworthy, sir,” and at once, with some surprise, Harry Garlett recognized in his visitor a stranger he had seen walking about Terriford village during the last week or so. The first time he, Garlett, had noticed him, this gray-haired stout man had been standing in the road just outside the gate of the Thatched House, chatting with one of the gardeners. On another occasion he had seen the same person looking at the inscriptions on the graves in the beautiful
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