f dry caked earth. Once, no doubt, flowers had bloomed in them.
Flowers, so the Queen determined, should bloom in them again. They
descended to cool, spacious kitchens, to cellars where wine had been
stored. They passed through a narrow doorway and found suddenly that
the sea was lapping at their feet. They were underneath the centre of
the house. Around them were high walls. From the water itself arose
thick round pillars, supports of the vaulting on which the great hall
rested. The light, entering for the most part through the water, was
blue and faint. The stones beneath the water gleamed blue. The pillars
as they rose changed from blue to purple. The water sighed, murmured,
almost moaned. It seemed as if it tried to cling to the smooth stone
work, as if it sank back again disappointed, weary of for ever giving
kisses which were not returned. They stood in silence, looking,
listening. Then Phillips spoke. His voice sounded strangely hollow. He
sank it to a whisper.

"Miss Daisy," he said, "how long is it since the last king lived
here?"

"Why do you ask me that again?" she said. "I don't know. A hundred
years ago, perhaps. They killed him, you know. I wonder if they threw
his body into the sea there?"

"Was it last December?"

"Of course not. How can you be so silly? As if any one would kill a
king last December! They only did things like that centuries ago."

Phillips took from his pocket the torn envelope he had picked up in
the great hall.

"Look," he said, "I found that near the fireplace in the hall we went
into first."

"It's an old envelope," she said. "It must have belonged to the king
they killed. How interesting! Fancy their having had envelopes in
those days!"

"The postmark on it," he said, "is London, and the date is December
15, 1913. Some one was in the house since then, living in it."

The Queen clapped her hands.

"Oh, splendid," she said. "A mystery. It was the one thing I longed
for. A mystery, a ghost, a secret chamber and all those beautiful
things. I was quite afraid the house was too sunny for mystery until
we came down here. There might be anything here, in this blue light,
brigands or wandering spirits, or the old gods of the island. Now I
call it just perfect. Thank you so much, Mr. Phillips, for finding me
that paper. Now we can just brood on that brigand. It must have been a
brigand. Or do you think the assassins came back, driven by pangs of
conscience, to the scene of their