Roger set her down. He put his hand in his pocket and brought out what must have been a coin which he pressed into the child’s hand.

Then a strange thing happened. Piet Schreiner came striding across the courtyard. He must have been lurking close, watching, for he took the coin from Anna’s hand and threw it on the ground at Roger’s feet.

For a moment it seemed as though Greta, Roger and the child were turned to stone. No one spoke; no one moved; then Piet Schreiner seized Greta’s arm and dragged her away, Anna clutching at her hand.

Roger looked at the coin on the ground, shrugged his shoulders and came walking towards the schoolhouse, leading his horse which he tethered to the post there.

He was coming to see us.

When I opened the door he was smiling urbanely and showed no sign that he was in the least ruffled by the little scene in which he had taken part.

I said: “Hello, so you have come to see us?”

“To see you, Miss Grey.”

“Is everything all right? Paul …”

“I think Paul is enjoying his new school.”

“I couldn’t help seeing what happened just now.”

“Oh, that pious old fool! It was because I gave the child money.”

“It was so extraordinary.”

“He’s a little mad, I suppose. Religious maniac. He thinks everyone is destined for Hell Fire—except himself.”

“It seemed so amazing … when you have merely been generous to the child.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I feel sorry for his poor wife.”

“I suppose everyone must be. I thought she seemed very pleased that you were friendly towards her.”

“I’m a friendly person. I can’t tell you how pleased I am about the way things are working out here. Miss Milne is out, isn’t she?”

“How did you know?”

“Ha! I’ll tell you. Mrs. Garton, whom I happen to know, was visiting us yesterday and she was talking about sending her girls to England to school. I pointed out that that was something of an undertaking—particularly as things are now—and while she was waiting why didn’t she send the girls to the school which was really an excellent one since the new ladies had taken it over. I could vouch for that as I was sending Paul there. I said, ‘Why don’t you consult Miss Milne, who is the senior teacher?’ She said, ‘I’ll do that tomorrow.’ I said, ‘I daresay Miss Milne would come and see you when school is over.’ So there you are. That is why I knew I should find you alone.”

I felt a twinge of uneasiness. In spite of his urbanity and obvious desire to help, I felt vaguely suspicious of his motives.

“I expect you are wondering how Paul is getting on with his studies,” I said. “I can tell you that Miss Milne thinks he is very bright. She knows a good deal about children, of course.”

“And you, too.”

“The fact is I am not really needed here. It’s a post for one … at the moment.”

“And you came out because you wanted to get away from England.”

“It seemed an exciting adventure.”

“And you were not very excited by life at home?”

He was looking at me quizzically. What does he know? I was asking myself. I could not quite understand the expression in his eyes. I fancied they were a little mocking. I did not understand this man. In spite of his flattering words and his attitude of gallantry, I felt he was taunting me, and that he knew it had been imperative for me to get away.

I had to turn the conversation away from myself.

“I was surprised to hear that Paul is not your son.”

“Oh … did you not realise that?”

“But … I think you said he was your son. Or that was how I understood it. You spoke of him as though …”

“He is my stepson, but I wanted him to regard me as his father. When I married his mother I felt I had a duty to him.”

“He remembers his father too well to accept someone else, I imagine. Children are faithful, you know.”

“I realise that now.” He smiled at me deprecatingly. “But I shall go on trying.”

“If he had been a little younger,” I said, “it would have been easier. He might have forgotten his father and have been ready to accept you.”

“I know.”

“How old was he when his father died?”

“About five, I think.”

“He’s nine now, isn’t he? It was only four years ago.”

“Yes, it happened rather quickly.”

“You must have married his mother soon after.”

“Well, it was more than a year … eighteen months perhaps.”

“I should imagine the speed of it all was too much for him. At seven his mother dies … and at nine he has not only a stepfather but a stepmother. Oh, I understand how difficult he must find it to adjust to all the changes.”

“I hadn’t thought of it like that. It seems that Margarete has been dead for a long time. Margarete … oh, she was such a sweet and simple girl! She could not deal with everything that had to be done when her first husband died. I helped her with her affairs. She was lonely and I was sorry for her. We slipped into marriage. And then … she died.”

“Was she ill?”

“When she lost her husband she was quite, quite bewildered. She felt she couldn’t cope with life. She was the sort of woman who needs someone to look after her. I did that as best I could. But it had all been a terrible shock for her. She began … well … please don’t mention this to anyone … but she began to drink a little … at first. I suppose she found some solace in that. I did not realise what a hold it was getting on her. She did it secretly, you see. But it was undermining her health, and one morning she was found …”

“Found?”

He turned away, as though to hide his emotion. He reached for my hand and gripped it hard. Then he said: “Found, at the bottom of the staircase.”

I knew which staircase. I understood now Paul’s obsession with it.

“She had fallen,” he went on. “It was an accident. I was greatly relieved when nothing came out about the secret drinking. They thought she had tripped over the carpet. One of the stair rods was loose. However, she fell from top to bottom. Her neck was broken.”

“What an awful thing to happen! And you had only been married for such a short time. Poor Paul.”

“He was dreadfully upset. It’s changed him. Made him moody. He misses his mother.”

“I understand that. And then you married Myra … quite soon after.”

“Myra is a sweet and gentle person. I think she reminded me of Margarete.” He was silent for a while and then he said: “I’m rather worried about Myra. I think she may be a little homesick. Do you think she is happy here?”

I hesitated and he went on: “Please tell me the truth.”

“Well … I don’t think she is entirely happy. I think she is afraid of disappointing you.”

“Disappointing me! Why should she be?”

“She is quiet and a little nervous, and you …”

“I am the opposite.”

“Well, you are, aren’t you?”

“I thought she would enjoy a little freedom. Her mother was a bit of a gorgon … and in that village … well, it was hardly riotously merry!”

“Perhaps she does not want to be riotously merry.”

“I thought I could get her away from it … make her happy, Diana … May I call you Diana? Miss Grey is so formal and we are good friends and we shall see more and more of each other here. I wanted to talk to you about her. I want you to help her.”

“In what way can I help?”

“I want you to see more of her. Come to the house. Go out with her … shopping … and all the things you ladies like to do. Be a friend to her. Come and stay at the house. Miss Milne is so efficient. She can manage without you now and then. I’d be so grateful if you could … get closer to Myra. You’re someone from home … you’re already friends. Try to find out what will make her happy.”

I could not understand him. He had always given me the impression that he believed himself capable of dealing with any situation. And here he was, almost humbly pleading for help.

I was intrigued. I had always been interested in people and their motives, the reasons why they acted as they did, the manner in which they often covered up their true intentions with subterfuge. Lilias was so different, so realistic, so practical. I really wanted to know what went on in that house. It fascinated me; Paul, the staircase, the hasty marriages, the strange death of Margarete. I could find life in the schoolhouse a little dull. What suited Lilias did not necessarily suit me, and I was not going to be as dedicated to the school as she was.

“Will you do this for me … for Myra?” he asked.

“I should very much like to help if I can.”

“Oh, you can. I know you can. Myra needs a friend. She needs you.”

I said: “It takes two to make a friendship. It may be that Myra will like to make her own.”

“But she is already your friend. She brightens at the thought of your visits. Please … Diana … come and see us often.”

“Of course I will.”

“Get her to confide in you. You can help her.”

It was then that Lilias returned.

“Two more pupils!” she cried out, then: “Oh … Mr. Lestrange.”

“And I know who they are,” he said, rising and shaking her hand. “It was I who suggested to Mrs. Garton that she should see you.”

“Thank you. How kind …”

“I am so pleased it has turned out to your satisfaction,” he said. “As a matter of fact I was just on the point of leaving. I hope you will both come and see us very soon. What about luncheon next Sunday? It has to be a Sunday, does it not?”

“Oh yes, that’s the best day because of school,” said Lilias. “I should enjoy it … and you, Diana?”

“Yes, thank you very much. It will be a great pleasure.” When he had gone, Lilias said: “Why did he call? Surely not just to ask us to lunch?”

“He’s worried about his wife.”

“Oh?”

“He thinks she’s lonely … homesick. He wants us to be friends. He really seems concerned about her.” “Well, he married her, didn’t he?” “I’ve promised I’ll go and see her more often.” Lilias nodded and said it was time we thought about getting supper.

IT WAS AFTER SCHOOL. Lilias was marking essays which she had set for the older children.

She said: “The subject was ‘The Most Important Thing That Ever Happened to Me.’ I thought that would stretch their imaginations a little. ‘The Day My Mother Gave Me Thomas, My Terrier.’ ‘A Picnic with the Wagons’ and such like. But here’s one that’s different. Paul’s. He’s got a real touch of the dramatic, that boy. It’s interesting. Here, read it.”

I took the exercise book from her and studied Paul’s clear, round handwriting.

“The Kimberley Treasure,” I read.

“The most important thing that ever happened to me was when my father found the Kimberley Treasure. The Kimberley Treasure is a diamond. It weighs eight hundred and fifty carats and that is a lot—almost more than any other diamond has weighed before. We were ever so excited when he found it because we would be rich when he sold it.

“I saw it. It looked like a lump of stone, but my father told me it was a diamond all right. I’d see when they got to polishing and working on it. My mother said, ‘Now we’re all right.’

“The others were jealous of us because they all wanted to find some big diamond that would make them rich for the rest of their lives. Then somebody said it was unlucky. Big diamonds can bring bad luck, they said. But we didn’t believe them. We thought they were just jealous because they had not found the Kimberley Treasure.

“My mother said we should sell it and give up mining. But my father said that there must be more where that came from. He wanted to be not just rich but very rich. He was sure he knew where to find another diamond like the Kimberley Treasure. He went to look for it and he was killed in the mine. So it was right about the Kimberley Treasure. It was unlucky.

“My mother cried a lot. She didn’t care about the old diamond. What was the use of it if he was dead? But she would not sell the diamond. She said he wanted to keep it so she would too.

“Then she married my stepfather and he said what was the good of keeping a diamond like that just to look at it? Diamonds were comfort and riches. So he sold the diamond and we came to Riebeeck House. He missed the bad luck because the diamond had never really been his. But my mother had owned it, so she had the bad luck. My stepfather turned the diamond into Riebeeck House, but my mother had the bad luck and so she fell down the staircase and died.