"Bailiff Henderson has been over here," Stephen went on. "There's a small army of painters and decorators coming down to the castle next week. You saw the announcement of the wedding in the Morning Post, maybe?"
John assented without words. Stephen smoked vigorously for a few moments. Every now and then he glanced across to where John was sitting. Once again the uneasiness was in his eyes, an uneasiness which was almost self-reproach.
"You mind what I called her once, John—a witch-woman? She is that, right enough. This marriage of hers proves it. Although he is half a Frenchman, the Prince of Seyre is the greatest landowner in the county. He is the worst landlord, maybe, but the blood's there. He is a man who has lived among women all his life. He should know something about them, and be proof against their wiles. Yet he's going to marry her next Thursday!"
John moved a little restlessly in his chair.
"Let's drop it, Stephen," he begged. "We both know the facts. She is going to marry him, and that's the end of it. Fill your glass up again. Here's mine untouched. I'll drink your toast with you, if you'll leave out the little girl who was kind to me. I'll give it to you myself—confusion to all women!"
"Confusion to—" Stephen began. "What on earth is that?"
They both heard it at the same time—the faint beating of a motor-engine in the distance. John set down his glass. There was a strange look in his eyes.
"There are more cars passing along the road now than in the old days," he muttered; "but that's a queer sound. It reminds one—good Heavens, how it reminds one!"
There was a look of agony in his face for a moment. Then once more he raised his glass to his lips.
"It's passed out of hearing," Stephen said. "It's some one on the way to the castle, maybe."