"I beg your pardon," he said, "I didn't mean to force your interest in myself. Tell me, is there anything I can do for your comfort before I go? And shall I go and leave you to abstruse and intellectual meditation, or do I disturb you by tagging about at your heels?"
His easy, light tone relieved her. She looked around her at the armed figures:
"You don't disturb me. I was trying to think where to begin. To-morrow I'll bring up some reference books——"
"Perhaps you can find what you want in my grandfather's library. I'll show you where it is when you are ready."
"I wonder if he has Grenville's monograph on Spanish and Milanese mail?"
"I'll see."
He went away and remained for ten minutes. She was minutely examining the sword belonging to a rather battered suit of armour when he returned with the book.
"You see," she said, "you are useful. I did well to suggest that you remain here. Now, look, Mr. Desboro. This is German armour, and here is a Spanish sword of a different century along with it! That's all wrong, you know. Antonius was the sword-maker; here is his name on the hexagonal, gilded iron hilt—'Antonius Me Fecit'."
"You'll put that all right," he said confidently. "Won't you?"
"That's why you asked me here, isn't it?"