RED MADAM,--This is from one who wishes you no harm, but onley
good. There is a woman lives in the Waterfall Cottage your husband
goes to see often. Such doins ought not to be Aloud.

"From your sinceer Well-Wisher,
XXX."

If it had been a longer letter she would not have read it. It was so
short and written so legibly that the whole disgraceful thing leaped at
her in a single glance.

As though it had been a noxious reptile which had bitten her she flung
it from her into the heart of the brightly burning fire of wood and
turf. A little flame sprang up and it was gone, just as Sir Shawn came
into the room.

They had the breakfast room to themselves now that there were no
visitors, but Lady O'Gara hesitated to speak. She had no intention of
keeping the matter of the anonymous letter from her husband, but she
wanted to let him eat his breakfast in peace, and to talk later on,
secure from possible interruptions.

She gave him scraps of news from her letters, and from _The Times_ of
the preceding day, which reached them at their breakfast table. She
felt disturbed and agitated, but only as one does who has received an
insult. She would be better when she had told Shawn about the horrid
thing.

Her restlessness, so unlike her usual benign placidity, at last
attracted her husband's notice.

"Any disturbing news, Mary?" he asked.

"Nothing." Her hand hovered over Terry's letter. "Terry thinks he can
get a few days' leave next week for the pheasants and bring a couple of
brother-officers with him."

"H'm!" Sir Shawn said, a little grimly. "He hasn't been away very
long. I suppose Eileen is coming back."

"She comes on Monday."

"I expect he knows it."

"Perhaps he does. Have you finished, Shawn? Another cup of tea? No?
I want to talk to you, dear. Will you come out to the Robin's Seat.
It is really a beautiful morning."

"Let me get my pipe."

Unsuspiciously he found his pipe and tobacco pouch and followed her.
The Robin's Seat was a wooden seat below a little hooded arch, under a
high wall over which had grown all manner of climbing wall-plants. The
arbour and the seat were on the edge of a path which formed the
uppermost of three terraces: below the lowest the country swept away to
the bog. The wall, made to copy one in a famous Roman garden, was
beautiful at all times of the year, with its strange clinging and
climbing plants that flourished so well in this mild soft air. In
Autumn