"The sharpë, greenë, sweetë juniper,
Growing so fair with branches here and there".
The competition proved most interesting, and, as it happened, was to be connected with unforeseen occurrences.
One afternoon, Cicely, who was trying to work her way systematically along the shelves, brought down a thick, bulky volume, bound in brown leather, with metal corners, and entitled Floral Calendar.
"This must be an old one," she remarked. "Look how yellow the paper is, and there are actually long S's. Someone has scribbled notes all round the edges of the pages."
"I wonder if it was Sir Giles Courtenay?" said Lindsay.
Cicely turned to the flyleaf at the beginning. Yes, in exactly the same rather straggling hand was the inscription:
"GILES PEMBERTON COURTENAY,
Haversleigh Manor,
Somerset."
"He seems to have been fond of writing in his books," said Lindsay. "What's this opposite his name?"
On the inside of the cover quite a long piece of poetry had been copied. It appeared to be something in the nature of an acrostic or charade, and it ran thus:—