I had always watched Cousin Arthur's hands with a sort of repellent horror because I hated it when he touched me; and he was rather fond of physical contact I noticed. I had thought this was reserved for myself, but it seemed it was a habit of his. I noticed him do it again and again with Sophia at the piano and it comforted me in an odd way. It did mean that it was not specially for me.

The evening was over at last and the Glencorns left in their carriage. Grandfather, Cousin Arthur and I saw them off and when they had gone grandfather sighed with satisfaction.

"It would not surprise me," he said, "if old Glencorn were not on the edge of bankruptcy."

Each day seemed long in passing, yet looking back one week had gone and we were halfway through another. I knew I was fast approaching a precipice. Miss Elton had only one month to go, for we were now well into February. My grandfather's ultimatum was about to burst upon me and I was still dreaming impossible dreams about getting to that remote country which was only a name to me. I had looked at it many times on the atlas—a little pink spot very small and insignificant compared with the mass of America, Africa and Europe, with our little island flung out on the side. But then there were all those red pieces which were British—that Empire on which the sun never set. But the place that I longed to see and to know more about was that little pink spot in the midst of all those brown mountain ranges.

In despair I decided to call at the Grange once more. I started across the lawn, and as I did so a man came towards me.

I was startled for a moment because I thought he was Francine's lover. I caught my breath and must have turned pale.

"Is anything wrong?" he asked.

"No. ... I just came to call on ... er ..."

"To call on?" he repeated encouragingly.

"I met the Grafin when she was here some years ago. She was kind enough to invite me to ... call again."

"She is not here, I'm afraid." He spoke impeccable English with only the faintest trace of a foreign accent. "Can I be of any help?"

"You are ... ?"

"Oh, I am just here to see that things are well with the house. It is some time since it was lived in. That is not good for houses. May I know your name?"

"It is Philippa Ewell."

He was alert. A picture of those newspaper lines flashed into my mind. "We know the identity of the English woman. She is Francine Ewell... .

He would have recognized the surname, but all he said was: "How do you do?" and added, "Would you like to come into the house?"

"You say the family is not at home?"

He laughed. "I am sure the Grafin would not wish me to be inhospitable. I will welcome you on her behalf."

"Are you a sort of—what do you call it? a major-domo?"

"That is a good description."

I had the position clearly. He was a servant but a very superior one. He had come to make sure that all was well with the house. That sounded very reasonable.

"I suppose you are getting the house ready for them?"

"That could well be," he said. "Come in and I will refresh you. You drink tea at this hour, do you not?"

"Yes, we do."

"I believe we could have tea."

"Is that in order, do you think?" I asked dubiously.

"I don't really see why not."

I remember how Hans had shown us round and how embarrassing that had been. Still, I was certainly not going to refuse such an offer. I was tremendously excited. I could feel my cheeks beginning to burn as they did on such occasions. Francine had said: "Don't worry about it. It makes you quite pretty."

He opened the door and we went in. I remembered it so well—the dining hall, the stairs, the small room where we had been entertained by the Grafin.

Tea was brought by a serving maid who did not seem in the least surprised. He smiled at me. "You would perhaps, as I believe they say, do the honours, yes?"

I poured out the tea and said, "I—I wonder if you ever met my sister."

He raised his eyebrows. "I have been very little in England lately. I spent some years here in my youth ... for my education."

"Oh," I said, "this was four or five years ago. She met someone in this house. She was married and then ... she died."

"I think I know to what you refer," he said slowly. "It was a big scandal at the time. Yes ... I remember the name of the Baron's friend."

"My sister was his wife."

He lifted his shoulders slightly. Then he said: "I knew there was a friendship ... a liaison."

I felt myself growing hot with indignation. "That was not true," I said shrilly. "I know the account in the press mentioned her as his mistress. I tell you she was his wife."

"You must not get angry," he said. "I know how you feel, of course. But the Baron could not have married your sister. His marriage was of the utmost importance to the country because he was heir to the ruling house."

"Do you mean my sister would not have been considered good enough for him?"

"Not necessarily so, but he would have married someone of his own nationality ... someone chosen for him. He would not have married outside that."

"I must assure you that my sister was worthy to marry anyone."

"I am sure she was, but you see it is not a matter of worthiness. It is a matter of politics, you understand?"

"I know that my sister was married to him."

He shook his head. "She was his mistress," he said. "It is what will happen, you know. She would not have been the first or the last... had he lived."

"I find these comments most offensive."

"You must not find the truth offensive. You must be a realist."

I stood up. "I will not stay here to hear my sister being insulted." I felt the tears in my eyes and I was enraged with him for making me show my emotion.

"Now come, please," he said gently. "Talk reasonably. You must look at this as a woman of the world. They met romantically, I suspect. They loved. Well, that is charming. But marriage for a man in his position with someone who ... oh, I am sure she was beautiful and charming, I am sure she was worthy in every way ... but it was simply not suitable. A man in his position must consider his liabilities • . . and he always did that."

"I tell you they were married."

He smiled at me and his calmness angered me more than anything else. That he could talk of this tragedy almost as though it were an everyday occurrence wounded me so deeply that I felt I should lose control of myself completely if I stayed any longer and had to look at that unruffled, smiling face.

"If you will excuse me ..." I said.

He stood up and bowed.

"I must go," I said. "You are talking nonsense and telling lies. ... I think you are aware of it. Goodbye."

With that I turned and ran out of the house. I was just in time for the tears were now running down my cheeks and the last thing I should have wanted was for him to see them.

I hurried into the house and up to that room which I had once shared with Francine. I threw myself on my bed and for the first time since I had seen those horrible newspaper cuttings, I wept uncontrollably.

I didn't want to go to the Grange after that. I found it hard to understand why he had upset me so. Perhaps it was because he had reminded me a little of Francine's Baron. This man was a servant, I told myself, and wanted everyone to know that although he was a servant he was a very superior one. Rudolph had worn his royalty—or whatever it was these Grafs and Barons had—very lightly. Everyone had known he was the Baron and he did not have to remind them. Perhaps I was being rather unfair to the man, just because he had been so sure that Francine had not been married.

Anyway I did not want to see him again. But perhaps that was foolish, for he might know something. He might be aware of what happened to the child.

Already I was beginning to regret my hasty departure. Why should I have cared if he saw my grief?

I saw him again next day. I think he was waiting to catch me, for when I went out for my afternoon walk he must have seen me leave the house. I went towards the woods at a fast pace but he followed me.

Inside the wood I sat down under a tree and waited for him to come up.

"Good afternoon," he said. "So ... we meet again."

Since I was sure he had waited for me and knew he had followed me this seemed, to say the least, deceitful.

"How do you do?" I said coldly.

"May I?" he said and sat down beside me. He was smiling at me.

"I am glad you are no longer angry with me," he said.

"I was rather foolish, I'm afraid."

"No ... no." He leaned towards me and put his hand over mine for a moment. "It was natural that you should be upset. It was a terrible thing that happened to your sister."

"It was wicked. I wish I knew. ... I wish I could find her murderers."

"It was not possible to find them," he said. "There was a search, of course. Nothing came to light and it therefore remains a mystery."

"Will you please tell me all that you know about it? There was a child. What happened to the boy?"

"A child! There was no child."

"My sister had a son. She wrote and told me so."

"That is impossible."

"Why Should it be impossible for two people to have a child?"

"It is not an impossibility in the way you suggest, but in view of Rudolph's position."

"His position had nothing to do with it. He married my sister and it is the most natural thing in the world that they should have a child."

"This is something you do not understand."

"I should be pleased if you would not treat me as a child, and a half-witted one at that."

"Oh, I do not consider you a child and I am sure that you are in full possession of your wits. I know too that you are a very fiery young lady."

"This is something which is very important to me. My sister is dead but I will not allow her memory to be desecrated."

"You use strong words, my dear young lady."

He had leaned towards me and tried to take my hand which I firmly removed. "I am not your dear young lady."

"Well ..." He put his head on one side and regarded me. "You are young. You are a lady ..."

"Of a family not worthy to marry with foreigners who honour our country by visiting it occasionally."

He laughed aloud. I noticed the firm line of his jaw and the gleam of strong white teeth. I thought: He reminds me of Arthur ... by the very contrast.

"Worthy ... worthy indeed," he said. "But because of certain political commitments, such marriages cannot take place."

"Do you think that a girl like my sister would condescend to become the mistress of this high and mighty potentate?"

He looked at me solemnly and nodded.

"You are talking nonsense," I said.

"Where I was wrong," he went on, looking at me in an odd, intent sort of way, "was to call you my dear young lady. You are not mine."

"I find this an absurd conversation. We were talking about a very serious matter and you have introduced this light and frivolous note."

"It is often wise when talking of serious matters to introduce a light-hearted note. It prevents tempers rising."

"It does not prevent mine." .

"Ah, but you are a very hot-tempered lady."

"Listen to me," I said. "If you are not prepared to talk seriously about this matter, there is no point in our talking at all."

"Oh, do you feel like that? I'm sorry. I have been thinking that there is a great deal of point in talking on any subject. I should very much like to know you better and I hope you feel some curiosity about me."

"I have to find out what happened to my sister and why. And I want to be assured that her child is being cared for."

"You are asking a great deal. The police were not able to solve the mystery of what happened that night in the hunting lodge. As for the non-existent child—"

"I will not listen to any more."

He did not speak, but sat still, glancing sideways at me. My impulse was to get up and leave him and I should have done so if I had not wanted more than anything to learn the truth.

I did start to move away but he reached out and, taking my hand, looked at me appealingly. I felt myself flushing. There was something about him which stirred me. I disliked his arrogance and his assumption that Francine's Baron could never have stooped to marry her. In fact his implication that Francine and I were romancing about the whole matter infuriated me, and yet— I could not say what it was, because I had had too little experience of the world; and yet to be near him brought me such a feeling of excitement as I did not remember ever feeling before. I could tell myself that it was because I was on the verge of discovering something and was actually in the presence of someone who had known Baron Rudolph. Somehow this man gave me the impression that he was aware of more than he was letting me know, and I told myself that whatever effect he had on me I had to see him as much as possible.