acts on her fingers--there was the amazing little game of
cross-questions. That too was entirely explained. How precisely it was
explained she did not attempt to put into actual formulated words.
Nevertheless she perceived quite clearly that it was explained. And
lastly there was Pia's letter to her, the letter which had vainly tried
to hide the bitterness which had prompted it. Clear as daylight now was
the explanation of that letter. Buoyed up by Trix's advice, by Trix's
eloquence, she had once more attempted to put the high-sounding theories
into practice. And it had proved a failure, an utter and complete
failure.

All these things fell at once into place, fitting together like the
pieces of a puzzle, an unfinished puzzle, nevertheless. The largest
pieces were still scattered haphazard on the board, and there seemed
extremely little prospect of fitting them into the rest. How had Pia ever
met the man? What was he doing at Chorley Old Hall? And why was he
pretending to be Michael Field, when she--Trix--now knew him to be Antony
Gray? The last two proved the greatest difficulty, nor could Trix, for
all her gazing into the fire, find the place they ought to occupy. She
remembered, too, her own idea regarding the colour of that bubble. Was it
possible that she had been right in her idea? Verily, if she had been, in
the face of this new discovery, it opened up a yet more astounding
problem. Pia actually and verily in love with the man, a man she believed
to be under-gardener at the Hall,--Pia, the distant, the proud, the
reserved Pia! It was amazing, unthinkable!

Trix heaved a sigh; it was all quite beyond her. One thing alone was
obvious; she must go down to Woodleigh again as soon as possible.
Certainly she had no very clear notion as to what precise good she could
do by going, nevertheless she was entirely convinced that go she must.
And then, having reached this point in her reflections, she returned once
more to the beginning, and began all over again.

And suddenly another idea struck her, one which had been entirely omitted
from her former train of thought. Was it possible that Mr. Danver knew of
the identity of this Michael Field? Was it possible, was it conceivable
that he held the key to those greatest riddles? Truly it would seem
possible. His one big action had been so extraordinary, so mad even, that
it would be quite justifiable to believe, or at least conjecture, that
minor extraordinary actions might b