e a strong sense of the right of property," said Miss Belcher,
sipping her tea.

We had gathered in Dr. Beauregard's deep verandah, at the corner
where it took the late afternoon sunshine. The level rays sparkled
on the silver and delicate Worcester china of the Doctor's tea
equipage, and fell through the open French window into the Doctor's
drawing-room. A wonderful room it was, as everything in the house
was wonderful, a spacious, airy room, furnished in white and gold,
with Dresden figures on the mantelshelf; Venetian mirrors, dainty
water-colours sunk into the panels, cases of rare books (among them,
as I remember, a set of the Cabinet des Fees, bound in rose-coloured
morocco and stamped with the Royal arms of France), stands of music,
and a priceless harpsichord inlaid with ivory. Next to the airiness
of the house, which stood high above reach of the valley mists with
their malaria, what most sharply impressed me, and the ladies in
particular, was its exquisite cleanliness. Yet Dr. Beauregard
assured us that he kept but one servant--the negress Rosa.

At her master's call she had appeared in the verandah above us as we
mounted the last terrace towards the house, and had stood there
watching our ascent with no trace of surprise, or, indeed, of any
emotion whatever, on her black, inscrutable face. Her eyes met mine
as though she had never seen me before. To her care Dr. Beauregard
had given over the still unconscious Glass, and, with a sign to Mr.
Rogers and Mr. Goodfellow to follow her with their burden, she had
led the way through the house to the bedroom at the back.
There, in a bed between spotlessly clean sheets, they had laid the
patient, and been dismissed by her. It was she who, less than ten
minutes later, had brought our tea to us in the verandah, and with
our tea many little plates heaped with small cakes and sweetmeats--
all fresh, as though she had been expecting us for hours, and could
command the resources of a city. I kept a sharp look-out, but of the
strange lady--the lady of the graveyard--I could detect no trace.
Nothing indicated her presence, unless it were the dainty feminine
furniture of the drawing-room.

"I've a strong sense of the right of property," said Miss Belcher,
sipping her tea and touching the oilskin wrapper, which lay in her
lap unopened as Captain Branscome had handed it to her; and so has
Jack Rogers here. You tell me, sir, that you hold Mortallone by
grant, and doub