Something in the quality of his voice brought Ann’s eyes swiftly to his face. All the geniality had gone out of it. It was set and stern, and there was an odd watchfulness in the glance he levelled at Robin as he spoke.
“Mrs. Hilyard—the new owner of the Priory,” explained Robin. “She arrived yesterday.”
“Hilyard?” repeated Coventry. “Some one told me the name was Hilton. You don’t know what Hilyard she is, I suppose?”
“No, I don’t know anything about her. But Hilyard’s a fairly common name.”
“Yes, I suppose it’s fairly common,” agreed Coventry slowly.
As though to dismiss the topic, he returned to the matter of the repairs required on Sparkes’ farm, and for a few minutes the two men were engrossed in details connected with the management of the estate. But Ann noticed that Coventry seemed curiously abstracted. He allowed his cigarette to smoulder between his fingers till it went out beneath their pressure, and presently, bringing the discussion with Robin to a sudden close, he got up to go. He tendered his farewell somewhat abruptly, mounted his horse, which had been standing tethered to the gateway by its bridle, and rode away at a hand-gallop.
Ann made no comment at the time, as Robin seemed rather preoccupied with estate matters, but over dinner in the evening she broached the subject upon which she had been exercising her mind at intervals throughout the day.
“Robin, did you notice Mr. Coventry’s expression when you mentioned Mrs. Hilyard?”
Robin looked up doubtfully from one of Maria’s beautifully grilled cutlets.
“His expression? No, I don’t think I was looking at him particularly. He thought she was called Hilton, or something, didn’t he?”