Win spent a few moments warming his hands at the fire and considering thoughtfully the back of the old Psalter in which was shut Richard Lisle's letter. Perhaps opportunity would favor him to-day, some chance be provided to show that discovery to either Miss Connie or her father.
That its contents referred to Prince Charles was established beyond doubt by the existing legend of his entertainment at the Manor, but the letter said much more than that. Only some one thoroughly familiar with the Manor and its possessions could interpret further. As the rain beat on the terrace outside, Win chanced to look up at the portrait near the fireplace, and instantly recalled that curious dream.
"I dreamed all that stuff just because I've always been crazy to go treasure-hunting," he thought, "and because that old Cavalier was the last thing I saw before I went to sleep. Well, I might go and read for a while."
With a glance of admiration at some fine old armor passed on the way, Win went into the farther room to settle himself on the comfortable window seat with a fat history of the island of Jersey.
Fully an hour passed before the sound of low voices penetrated his consciousness. Gradually he became aware that two people were now occupying the seat before the smouldering fire. One was Constance Lisle, the other some one Win had never seen before, a dark distinguished-looking young man, evidently of foreign blood.
Connie was leaning back in the corner of the old settle, her white dress and the neighboring bowl of daffodils standing out as high lights in the shadowy surroundings. Her companion, beside her, was bending slightly forward, his face turned eagerly toward hers.
Had he wished to listen, Win could not distinguish the low words. That fact absolved him from the necessity of making his presence known, for leave he could not without passing through the room. Presently the young man raised his voice and Win realized that he was speaking in Italian.
For the moment, interest in the present dismissed the past. Win had heard the girls' chatter about their adored Miss Connie and the romance attributed to her by Mrs. Trott, but boy-like, paid very little attention to what he considered the foolish fancies of sentimental kids. Now he was startled into sudden interest.
That stranger must be Miss Connie's Italian prince. Very handsome and very much of a gentleman he looked and most earnest their conversation. Yet even to an inexperienced observer, it was not that of two happy young people, entering a sunny stretch of life, but of a boy and girl confronted with some stern and very present problem. Connie's hands were clasped too tightly, there was a sense of strain in the poise of her head. Her companion's pose was one of perplexity and doubt.
Win remembered what else he had heard of that rumored engagement, not much to be sure, save that strong pressure was being put upon the last of the Santo-Pontes in order to secure the estates and title of a great Roman house to the church of his ancestors.