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the drive to the house, although until they passed a small coppice there was no sign of any building.
    Then, abruptly, one saw Spindles, mellow, elegant and strangely tranquil. Involuntarily Lucy gasped, not only because of its beauty, but because of its size. Spindles fell a lot short of being a stately mansion, but it was certainly a very large house—larger than any that had previously come into Lucy’s life.
    “Lovely, isn’t it?” Owen remarked, evidently forgetting their recent clash in his own appreciation of the house. “I’ve always thought myself very lucky that it happened to be on the market just as I was able to buy it.”
    “You—bought it?” Lucy exclaimed. “But I thought—"
    “That it belonged to Aunt Louise?” he finished with, again, that slightly amused smile. “Oh no, it’s mine all right. But when Uncle Ben—her husband— died, I suggested that she should come and live here. There’s plenty of room—she has a complete suite to herself—and the arrangement suits us both. She doesn’t have to worry about household arrangements and I know, if I’m abroad as I often am, that the house isn’t getting musty by being shut up.”
    “I see,” Lucy said briefly. This was something for which she had not bargained, but perhaps he would be going abroad soon—
    “I’m afraid not,” he announced ironically, just as if she had spoken aloud. “As a matter of fact, I’ve only just got back from America. I shall be here for at least six months.”
    “How interesting,” Lucy commented in a voice completely devoid of interest or any other feeling.
    And was almost certain that Owen chuckled very quietly to himself.
    * * *
    If Lucy had taken an instant dislike to Owen, the reverse was the case when she met Mrs. Mayberry. She was waiting for them in her wheelchair on the sunny terrace, and although she made no attempt to get up to greet Lucy, her whole bearing expressed a welcome.
    In her youth Louise Mayberry had been a beautiful woman, and even now in her middle fifties and marked by the indelible lines of constant pain, she caught and held attention.
    Her hair was snowy white, cut short but thick and curly. Without the skilful make-up she so gallantly used her clear skin would have been entirely devoid of colour, but as it was, the hollows under her cheekbones hardly showed. Her mouth was both sensitive and strong, but it was her eyes that Lucy noticed most. They were big and dark and vital. The spirit that lived in the twisted body shone through them, refusing pity for itself though not lacking in sympathy with the troubles of others.
    And now, as this tall, fair girl walked towards her, Louise Mayberry could not help wondering, though she was careful to suppress any signs of curiosity. That there was something wrong was obvious, even if there had not been that insistence to come here at once which had so clearly indicated a desire for escape. But there were more indications than that. Her new secretary companion’s smile had a fixed quality about it, and it went no farther than the soft pink lips. The dark blue eyes were no more than dim, deep pools, entirely lacking in expression of any sort. Clearly the poor child had had a bad shock and it was as yet too recent for feeling to have returned. When it did— Louise smiled and held out her hand.
    “I can’t tell you how welcome you are, my dear,” she said warmly. “I’m just itching to get on with my book and I’d almost given up hope of ever finding someone suitable to help me.”
    Very gently Lucy took the proffered hand in hers. It was badly twisted and through its fragility she could feel the bones, slender as a bird’s.
    “I hope that I shall be able to do what you want,” Lucy said sincerely. “It will be different from the work I did for Mr. Keane.”
    Instead of protesting that, of course she would—a remark which could only have been an insincerity since, so far, Lucy was a stranger to her, Louise simply nodded and