in service at the Hall, and she had one boy. The old Lord Chesterham was a very bad lot; it is said he knew something about young Ronald's parentage. Be that as it may, young Ronald grew up a fine upstanding boy. I remember him well. When I was a lad we were at school together, but he ran away from home, Ronald did; he was mad on being a sailor, and the end of that was he was drowned on his first voyage. So there is only Hiram and the old lady left.
"I see." Mr. Lennox was looking up at the Hall as they approached. It was a fine red brick mansion of the Queen Anne period; below it the grounds slanted down to the lake.
Lord Chesterham was at home, they were told, and, explaining their errand, the three men were shown into a small room on the ground floor, evidently used for the transaction of business.
Chesterham came to them without delay. "Well, superintendent, what can I do for you?" he inquired.
The superintendent explained. A warrant for the arrest of one Peter Wilkins was needed, and as Sir Anthony Carew was out they thought it best to come on to Chesterham Hall. Chesterham laughed.
"Well, they have put me on the bench, I know, but I am not very expert at my new duties yet. You will have to tell me what to do, superintendent; I have the forms here."
He unlocked a drawer and drew them out. The superintendent leaned over and showed him how to fill up the vacant spaces, the other two men watching interestedly.
Mr. Lennox put his hand in his pocket and drew out a fountain pen.
"I brought this for the affidavits. I never can write except with my own pen," he observed to Barker confidentially.
As he spoke he tried to take off the top, but apparently it stuck. He tried again, using force, and suddenly the whole thing split in his hand. The ink flew out, spattered his face, flowed out in a murky stream on the table, on the warrant, to which Lord Chesterham was just affixing his signature, on to his hands. He looked up with an expression of annoyance.
"I beg ten thousand pardons. I cannot say how sorry I am. If your lordship will allow me." Lennox caught up a sheet of blotting-paper.
Lord Chesterham took it from him but it was too late to stay the mischief. Superintendent Germain turned for a new form; Chesterham crumpled the warrant up and threw it aside. He rubbed his fingers on the blotting-paper and then, rolling it into a ball, tossed it into the waste-paper basket.
"I am sorry, my lord," Mr. Lennox went on apologizing profusely.
Lord Chesterham did not look particularly gracious. "I suppose you couldn't help it," he said shortly. "We shall have to have another form, superintendent."
"I am afraid so, sir."
While the superintendent and Lord Chesterham bent over the new form Mr. Lennox quietly walked round the table, and secured two balls of paper from the wastepaper-basket. He slipped them into his pocket with a satisfied smile, as he came back to affix his signature to the affidavit.
The rest of the business was soon over and they took their leave, Mr. Lennox's quick eye moving round the hall as they were shown through.
"Very well done, Mr. Germain; very well done indeed," he said genially as they drove off. "Couldn't have been better."
"I am glad you are satisfied, sir," the superintendent replied quietly.
Mr. Lennox's first proceeding on reaching his room at the Carew Arms was to take out the papers he had extracted from Lord Chesterham's waste-paper-basket and spread them on the table. Then, with a look of grim satisfaction, he laid them in a drawer.
He locked it and was turning away when his eye was caught by a vision sailing up the garden path. Célestine, to wit, attired in all the glory of her holiday attire. With an exclamation of surprise the inspector went round to the door.
Seeing him, Célestine bridled coyly. "See you, Mr. Lennox this is not convenable!" she exclaimed as he went to meet her. "But I could not that you should hear my story from anyone else."
"Your story!" the inspector repeated. "But what is it, mademoiselle? Come in, come in! You know I stand your friend whatever happens."
Célestine looked down and did her best to blush. "But that is what I hoped, monsieur. But I will not come in. If monsieur has but the time to spare, there is the arbour where we talked the other day. If we sat there but for five minutes it is not possible that anybody could object. Is it not so, monsieur?"
"The most censorious minded couldn't see any harm," the inspector agreed cheerfully as he caught up his hat. "I hope you are not in trouble, mademoiselle."
Célestine clasped her hands as she sank on the rustic seat. "The worst of trouble, monsieur, I have been insulted. That Sir Anthony."
A curious expression compounded of mingled annoyance and amusement had crossed the inspector's face as she began. It changed to one of interest now.
"Sir Anthony!" he repeated. "But surely he has not insulted you, mademoiselle."
"But—yes," Célestine confirmed, nodding her head. "Figure to yourself, monsieur, I am trying to find some old things of miladi's that are mislaid. I think perhaps they are in the morning-room, and I go and search in the drawers there, and while I am looking Sir Anthony comes in. He says that I am poking, prying. Then when I denied it he says that I am dishonest, because I have with me one little brooch of brilliants of miladi's, which she has lost for a long time, and which I have just found. He call me thief. He says he will send for the police, have my boxes searched. I lift up my head. 'You can send for your police, Sir Anthony,' I say to him, 'and you can search my boxes, I leave them with you. But I myself, I go out of your house at once. I will not stay in it for one minute to be insulted, me.'"
"I admire your spirit, I am sure, mademoiselle," the inspector responded, lowering himself to the chair beside her.
Notwithstanding his commendatory words, however, his countenance was both perturbed and perplexed as he glanced across at the maid.
"And now—" he prompted.
Célestine was too much absorbed in her own story to note the obvious embarrassment in his face. "Now," she said, "I stay with Mrs. Varnham. She have a farm on Milord Chesterham's property, and I—I take my revenge. You understand?"
Lennox looked at her. "No," he said bluntly, "I don't know what you mean, mademoiselle. How can you revenge yourself?"
Célestine looked wise. "That is my business, monsieur. I shall have my revenge, and there are two or three people who will help me to get it, look you; I know one leetle secret of miladi's, just one," holding up her finger. "But it is enough to give me my revenge. There are those who would give me good English gold to know that secret—Miladi Palmer, she would pay me well, for she do not love miladi. And there is somebody else too, but I do not go to them, I wait now—I wait until Sir Anthony send for the police, until he have my boxes searched, and then—then I go up to Heron's Carew once more, and I say 'Ah! you think it one very fine thing, Sir Anthony, to set the police upon poor Célestine, do you not. How if I have a secret—I—that will put the police on to miladi, your wife?' How would Sir Anthony look then?"
Undoubtedly Mr. Lennox was keenly interested now. "He would look pretty much of a fool, I should think, mademoiselle. But how would it be possible for you to put the police on miladi's track. I can't see?"
"Ah! But I see," and
