cally.

"It was very nice of him to do as I asked," she said. "And as a
bargain's a bargain...."

She rose and turned to the open windows....

I saw her settled at the piano, and then stole back.

A moment later the strains of her beautiful mezzo-soprano floated out
into the darkness.

It is doubtful whether _Printemps Qui Commence_ ever enjoyed a more
exquisite setting.

It was a wonderful night.

* * * * *

If we had driven straight to Brooch the incident would not have
occurred.

We had lunched early, for Berry and I were determined to attend the sale
of Merry Down. Sir Anthony, who was sure to be there, would need
comforting, and we had, moreover, a feeling that we should like to see
the last of an old friend. Once the place had passed into the power of
the dog, we should try to forget. It was Adele's suggestion that she
should accompany us. "I'd like to see Brooch," she had said, "and I want
to get a new piece of silk for my wristwatch. Besides, I can sit in the
car while you and Berry are at the sale. That'll save your taking the
chauffeur." We agreed readily enough.

Because Adele was with us we started in good time, so that we could go
by way of Hickory Hammer and Three Horse Hill. That way would bring us
on to the London road at a point five miles from Brooch, and, while the
view from the hill was as fine as any in the neighbourhood, Hickory
Hammer was not only extremely ancient, but generally accounted one of
the most picturesque villages in the whole of England.

I was driving, with Nobby beside me, while Adele and Berry sat on the
back seat. Our thoughts were not unnaturally dwelling upon the sale, and
now and again I caught fragments of conversation which suggested that my
brother-in-law was commenting upon the power of money and the
physiognomy of Mr. Dunkelsbaum--whose photograph had appeared in the
paper that very morning, to grace an interview--with marked acerbity.
Once in a while a ripple of laughter from Adele came to my ears, but for
the most part it was a grave discourse, for Berry felt very bitter, and
Adele, whose father's father was the son of an English squire, had taken
to heart the imminent disseizure with a rare sympathy.

It was five minutes to two when we slid out of Lullaby Coppice and on to
the London road. A furlong ahead the road swung awkwardly to the left--a
bend which the unexpected _debouchement_ of a by-road rendered a
veritable pitfa