"That isn't generally known, sir," observed the painter. "Leslie told me there was no reward."
"It was privately arranged," explained Leslie's father.
They came in sight of the house at that moment, and the subject was dropped, for Sara was approaching them in earnest conversation with Mr. Carroll, her lawyer.
They met at the edge of the lower basin, where the waters trickled down from an imposing Italian fountain on the level above, forming a deep, clear pool to which the lofty sky lent unfathomable depths. To the left of the basin there was a small tea-house, snug in the shadow of the cypresses that lined the crest of the hill. A series of rough stone steps wound down to the water's edge and the boathouse.
"Mr. Carroll is the bearer of startling news, Mr. Wrandall," said Sara, after the greetings. There was a trace of the sardonic in her voice.
"Indeed?" said Mr. Wrandall gravely.
"I was not aware, sir," said the old lawyer stiffly, and with a positive glare, "that your detectives were such unmitigated asses as they now appear to be."
"I fail to understand, Mr. Carroll," with considerable loftiness.
"That confounded rascal Smith called to see me this morning, sir. He is a rogue, sir. He—"
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Carroll," protested Mr. Wrandall, in a far from conciliatory manner.