“Grey, absent from the funeral rites?” Mr. Sothey cried. “You astonish me, Mrs. Austen! I should have said he would sooner cut off his own arm, than fail in respect of so important a duty.”

“Mr. Grey was called from home on Thursday evening,” Neddie told him, “on what appears to have been a matter of business.”

“I suppose only such a claim as that might sway Mr. Grey,” Mr. Emilious observed. “But I cannot stand in judgement of his actions. He is the most honourable man I know of, in either the financial or the political line; and if he felt himself compelled to be from home, he undoubtedly had his reasons.”

“You are acquainted with Mr. Grey?” I enquired, surprised. “I thought he moved but little in Society.”

“Say rather that he is the acquaintance of a very old friend of mine, Miss Austen, and you shall have got it right.” Mr. Emilious's countenance was as bland and charming as ever, but an acuteness had come into his pale blue eyes that warned me away from suspect ground.

“I may hazard a guess as to the friend's name,” I said slowly, as an idea took shape in my mind. “Is it Mr. George Canning, by any chance?”

“The very man!” Mr. Emilious cried.

“Mr. Grey happened to tell me of his acquaintance with the gentleman. Indeed, Mr. Sothey, he credited Mr. Canning with his introduction to yourself, and could not praise the gentleman enough. I suppose you have all met, at one time or another, around Mr. Canning's table.”

“Just so,” Mr. Sothey said. He affected an easy good-humour, but I do not think I flatter myself in declaring that he was considerably disconcerted, and not a little put out. It seemed that George Canning possessed other qualities besides those of clubman and exotic plant enthusiast — qualities more suited, perhaps, to intrigue and subterfuge. He was, after all, Treasurer of the Navy and an acknowledged confederate of Lord Harold Trow-bridge; Mr. Emilious had informed me of the fact himself. Oh, that I might avail myself of Lord Harold's resources, and know exactly how things were!

“So Grey was from home on Thursday evening,” Mr. Sothey mused. “It was hazardous to be abroad that night, I believe. Is it true, Mr. Austen — are you able to divulge so much — that Mr. Denys Collingforth was murdered in Deal on that very evening?”

“He was,” Neddie replied imperturbably. “I suppose the intelligence has travelled swiftly from Prior's Farm, and is presently the toast of the Hound and Tooth?”

“I heard it first from a manservant of Mr. Finch-Hatton's,” Mr. Sothey replied, “but how he came by the news, I cannot say.”

“Depend upon it, he had it of the butcher's lad, who learned it of his washer-woman mother, who takes in laundry from Prior's Farm — or some such roundabout tale,” Mr. Emilious said comfortably. “Poor Collingforth! And so he was done for as he did.”

“Not quite,” my brother countered quietly. “Mrs. Grey, after all, was throttled. Mr. Collingforth's neck was cut.”

“Really?” Mr. Emilious kept his eyes trained on his knife, which was steadily applying a quantity of butter to one of Cook's feather-light rolls. “There is no suggestion, I suppose, that he effected the wound himself?”

“None whatsoever,” Neddie replied, “since he was discovered bound and weighted at the bottom of a pond.” If my brother felt himself to be the subject of interrogation, he betrayed little of his discomfort in his countenance; but I thought Neddie's easy manner was become guarded. “Have you a notion, sir, of the murderer?”

“Why, as to that — it might as well have been Sothey and myself,” Mr. Emilious cried, with a jovial look for his companion, “for we were abroad on the very road to Deal, in respect of a dinner with some friends, on Thursday night.”

“I should never suspect you, Mr. Finch-Hatton,” my brother replied calmly, “for your name does not appear in Mrs. Grey's interesting correspondence. You can have not the slightest connexion to the affair, as those documents attest.”

There was a sudden, appalled silence; and involuntarily, I closed my eyes. Whatever Neddie had done, was done with calculation; he was not a fatuous insinuator, to trade privileged fact as currency with his guests. He was throwing the letters like a scented bait before a pack of roused foxhounds; and I trembled for the result.

“Her … correspondence?” Mr. Emilious repeated, with a swift glance at Mr. Sothey. “You have had occasion to look into the lady's letters?”

“Any number,” Neddie said airily, “and the names found within it should astonish the neighbourhood, I may assure you!”

“Then I hope you will take care, my dear sir, that they never come to light.” Mr. Emilious held my brother's gaze quite steadily. “From what little I know of Mrs. Grey, I am certain she can have said nothing flattering of her acquaintance.”

“Then she merely returned a common favour,” Lizzy observed idly, “for they certainly had nothing good to say of her.”

“Upon my word, Mr. Austen — the ladies will think us decidedly dull,” Mr. Emilious cried, with a gallant look for Lizzy. “All this talk of dusty matters had better be confined to the Port, had it not? We were charmed to see you at Eastwell, Mrs. Austen, on Friday evening; you have been too chary in your visits altogether.”

“Lady Elizabeth shall wish me at the ends of the earth, sir, do I succeed in wresting her improver from her grasp,” Lizzy rejoined. “I rather wonder at her allowing you to ride over to Godmersham at all, Mr. Sothey! — But perhaps she sent Mr. Finch-Hatton as a sort of surety against your return. Are you charged with bringing Mr. Sothey to Eastwell unharmed, sir, and well before dawn?”

“Unharmed,” Mr. Emilious replied, “but not, I hope, before dawn. Mr. Sothey has so much delight in Godmersham, dear madam, that were it not for a delicacy in appearing forward, I am sure he should express his wish to continue sketching tomorrow.”

Mr. Sothey looked sharply at his friend, but said nothing. Lizzy instantly took the hint, and invited them both to stay the night — protested that it should prove not the slightest trouble — the rooms were already made up; and was so gracious in her assurances, and so frank in her delight, that the two men accepted with alacrity. I wondered, as I observed them, how Miss Sharpe should find the addition — but as the governess had held firm to her intention of remaining above stairs, I was denied the chance to observe her.

Anne Sharpe's poor history had paled in comparison, however, with the suspicions now alive against Mr. Sothey and his companion; and I must wonder whether Mr. Emilious Finch-Hatton had another object in prolonging his stay, than the improvement of my brother's estate. That Neddie assumed as much — that he had indeed incited the event with his careless talk of letters and names — I read in the studied blandness of his looks; and vowed to sit wakeful far into the night, that I might be witness to everything that should come to pass.

IT WAS NEARLY TWO O'CLOCK, AND THE HOUSE HAD BEEN abed some three hours, when a sound in the gallery outside my door alerted all my senses. It was the hesitant, muffled, and quite obvious fall of footsteps along the drugget — footsteps that endeavoured to disguise their passage, and yet could not avoid the creaking board or the impact of an occasional chair leg. They came from the end of the wing just beyond my Yellow Room; Mr. Sothey had been housed there, with Mr. Emilious opposite. Had I been possessed of cunning, as I now assumed these two to be, I should have descended by the back stair, which depended from the opposite end of the hallway; but as the gentlemen were unfamiliar with the house, they might prefer to go as they had come — by the main staircase opposite Neddie's door.

I waited until the footsteps should have passed, and then threw back my bedclothes and moved as soundlessly as possible to the chair by my door. I put on my dressing-gown and reached for the knob. Another instant, and the doorway yawned wide — I peered out, scarcely breathing, and surveyed the gallery. It was empty of life. Whoever had passed must be presently upon the stairs.