roke the
silence.

"Auntie Babs, it wasn't a very strong house, was it?"

Courtier looked in the direction of her small finger. There was the
wreck of a little house, which stood close to a stone man who had
obviously possessed that hill before there were men of flesh. Over one
corner of the sorry ruin, a single patch of roof still clung, but the
rest was open.

"He was a silly man to build it, wasn't he, Ann? That's why they call it
Ashman's Folly."

"Is he alive?"

"Not quite--it's just a hundred years ago."

"What made him build it here?"

"He hated women, and--the roof fell in on him."

"Why did he hate women?"

"He was a crank."

"What is a crank?"

"Ask Mr. Courtier."

Under this girl's calm quizzical glance, Courtier endeavoured to find an
answer to that question.

"A crank," he said slowly, "is a man like me."

He heard a little laugh, and became acutely conscious of Ann's
dispassionate examining eyes.

"Is Uncle Eustace a crank?"

"You know now, Mr. Courtier, what Ann thinks of you. You think a good
deal of Uncle Eustace, don't you, Ann?"

"Yes," said Ann, and fixed her eyes before her. But Courtier gazed
sideways--over her hatless head.

His exhilaration was increasing every moment. This girl reminded him of
a two-year-old filly he had once seen, stepping out of Ascot paddock for
her first race, with the sun glistening on her satin chestnut skin, her
neck held high, her eyes all fire--as sure to win, as that grass
was green. It was difficult to believe her Miltoun's sister. It was
difficult to believe any of those four young Caradocs related. The grave
ascetic Miltoun, wrapped in the garment of his spirit; mild, domestic,
strait-laced Agatha; Bertie, muffled, shrewd, and steely; and this
frank, joyful conquering Barbara--the range was wide.

But the car had left the moor, and, down a steep hill, was passing
the small villas and little grey workmen's houses outside the town of
Bucklandbury.

"Ann and I have to go on to Miltoun's headquarters. Shall I drop you at
the enemy's, Mr. Courtier? Stop, please, Frith."

And before Courtier could assent, they had pulled up at a house on which
was inscribed with extraordinary vigour: "Chilcox for Bucklandbury."

Hobbling into the Committee-room of Mr. Humphrey Chilcox, which smelled
of paint, Courtier took with him the scented memory of youth, and
ambergris, and Harris tweed.

In that room three men were assembled round a table; the eldest