ad hung the three sets of curtains now and he sat on the
top step and looked round the room curiously. It was less oppressively
modern that the rest of the house and he had an idea the master of
Stormly was not responsible for that. He felt a vivid interest in the
late Mrs. Masters, Why had she gone and why had neither Aymer nor St.
Michael mentioned her existence? He longed to override his own sense
of etiquette and question Mrs. Eliot, who continued to ramble on in
her own way.

"I takes off the coverings every two months, and brushes it all down
myself," she explained, "and I've never had anyone to help me before.
If I were to let them girls in they'd break every vase in the place
with their frills and their 'didn't see's.'"

"Do those sheets hang over the panels?"

"I couldn't think of troubling you! But if you will, sir, why then,
that's the sheet for there. They are all numbered."

Christopher covered up the dainty walls regretfully. Why had she left
it? Had she and Peter quarrelled? It seemed to Christopher, in his
present mood towards Mr. Masters, they might well have done so.

"Do you remember Mrs. Masters?" he was tempted to ask presently.

"Indeed I do, seeing I was here when he brought her home. Tall, thin,
and like a queen the way she walked, a great lady, for all she was
simple enough by birth, they say. But she went, and where she went
none of us know to this day, and some say the Master doesn't either,
but I don't think it myself."

Christopher straightened a pen and ink sketch of a workman on the
wall. It was a clever piece of work, life-like and sympathetic.

"She did that," said Mrs. Eliot with a proprietor's pride. "She was
considered clever that way, I've been told. That's another of hers on
the easel over there."

Christopher examined it and gave a gasp. It was a bold sketch of two
men playing cards at a table with a lamp behind them. The expression
on the players' faces was defined and forcible, but it was not their
artistic merit that startled him, but their identity. One--the
tolerant winner--was Peter himself--the other--the easy loser--was
Aymer Aston.

So Aymer did know of Mrs. Masters' existence, knew her well enough for
her to make this intimate likeness of him.

"Was it done here?" he asked slowly.

"No, she brought it with her. I don't know who the other gentleman is,
but it's a beautiful picture of the master, isn't it? so life-like."

"Yes."

He looked again round the