at the announcement
of the spot selected. Even on a hot summer day the laziest could not
object, for, once outside the Manor demesne, a quarter of an hour's
saunter through the delightful scenery at the head of the marsh brought
them to the little strip of pasture land reclaimed from the swamps,
where the tea-tables had been set out in the shade of a group of elms.
Cavillers might have complained that the railway embankment skirting the
place on one side marred the aesthetic harmony of the whole, but if
there were any such they remained discreetly silent.

The snowy damask of the tables laden with dainties and surrounded by a
bevy of smart maidservants from the Manor made an inviting picture on
the strip of verdure, and Montague Maynard's guests renewed their
acclamations. Reggie Beauchamp, who had, of course, annexed Enid Mallory
as his partner for the afternoon, expressed the opinion that it was
"simply ripping."

"And, by Jove!" he added of malice aforethought, "look at that girl
bossing the other maids. She seems to be in charge of the show. She is
ripping too. Just the style of beauty I admire."

Enid cocked a sly eye at him, and catching the gleam of mischief refused
to be drawn. "Yes," she said, following his gaze to the graceful
brunette in black silk who was directing operations at the tables,
conspicuous by the absence of apron and cap-streamers, "that is Louise
Aubin, Violet Maynard's maid. She is certainly pretty, but she looks as
if she had a temper. I shouldn't dare to find fault with her if she
belonged to me."

"A bit of a spitfire, perhaps," assented the Lieutenant, finding that
his harmless shaft had missed its mark. "Might give you beans with the
brush, eh, if you slanged her for pulling out your hair by the roots?"

Miss Mallory sniffed contemptuously at the implied familiarity with the
sacred rites of the dressing-table, and she might have expressed herself
strongly on the subject had not their attention been distracted by the
approach of a train along the embankment above them. It was beginning to
shut off steam for the stop at Ottermouth Station, a mile further on,
and the people in the carriages were plainly distinguishable by the
picnic party.

Just as the train was sweeping past a cry from one of the third-class
compartments drew all eyes that way. Looking up, the picnickers saw a
man leaning from the window and frantically gesticulating--or, rather,
vehemently pointing at some object on