Mordaunt asked, looking at him.

The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders, and made no reply. But Chris turned
at the question, turned and confronted her husband with wide, scared
eyes.

"Yes, I am tired," she said, speaking jerkily, breathlessly. "But--but I
was startled too. I--I thought I heard Cinders--barking."

It was the first time she had ever deliberately lied to him, and her eyes
met his full as she did it in desperate self-defence.

He looked at her very steadily for the space of several seconds after she
had spoken, and in the silence Bertrand's hands clenched hard.

Quietly at length Mordaunt turned round to him. "Don't let me interrupt
you," he said. "You were playing, weren't you? Chris and I are good
listeners."

He took his wife's cold hand, and drew her to the sofa; and Bertrand,
seeing there was nothing else to be done, turned back to the piano and
resumed his playing.

Not another word was spoken by any of them until Noel came upon the
scene, and airily dispelled the silence before he was aware of it.

CHAPTER IX

THE ENEMY MOVES

"And you mean to say that this French secretary of Trevor's actually
lives in the house?" said Aunt Philippa.

"But of course he does," said Chris, opening her eyes wide.

"And is Trevor never away?" demanded Aunt Philippa.

"He hasn't been, but he talks of spending a night in town next week."

"And you will go with him?"

"No, I don't think so. It's too hot."

"Then I presume M. Bertrand will?"

Chris flushed a little. "I don't suppose so. He is feeling the heat too."
She stretched up her hands above her head. "How I wish it would rain!"

Aunt Philippa continued her knitting severely in silence. They were
sitting on the terrace awaiting the luncheon-hour. Across the garden came
Noel's shrill whistle, and instinctively, before she remembered her
aunt's presence, Chris answered it. The boy appeared at the farther end
of the long lawn, and came racing towards them.

"Just seen the postman, Chris. Here's a letter for you--such a horrible
fist, Sandacre post-mark, and sealed. Wonder who it's from?"

He leaned against her chair to recover his breath and regarded the
envelope he held with frank interest.

Chris stretched up her hand for it. "I expect it's from Mrs. Pouncefort."

"Mrs. Pouncefort doesn't write like that!" protested Noel. "No woman
could."

"May I have it?" said Chris.

He put it into her hand, but he still leaned against her chai