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number of years, for the outline was quite distinct, the paper within it several shades lighter than the rest. She examined the faded patch with interest, but could find no clue as to what had hung there, and her curiosity remained with her long after she left the room.
    Sometimes in the afternoon when the weather was fine she would go for long walks in the countryside, taking Dominic's two red setters, Nelson and Napoleon, to explore the woods and hills, returning with a glow of health in her cheeks which had not been there since her childhood. After tea there was the pleasant labour of reading to Miss Berresford and at seven o'clock there was dinner, followed by another hour of reading o watching television, until it was time for the old lady to go to bed.
    When Miss Berrcsford retired, Barbara would go downstairs again and in the sombre book-lined study play a few of the gramophone records she found there; the heavy magnificence of Wagner, with its lush sweep of strings, or the crashing drums and rugged splendour of Sibelius seeming to recreate the scenery in which the brooding house was set.
    She thought Rockwood's choice of music was signi ficant of the man, for it mirrored the very qualities she had come to associate with him—bitter strength, taut vitality and a curious streak of quietude running beneath the fury. Often she would shut the gramophone almost with a sense of relief, as if she were closing the door on something upon which she had no right to intrude, and mounting the stairs to her room, the ghostly moonlight falling upon the grey stone steps, would wonder what in fluence had made him into the tortuous individual he was, glad to reach her own room with its warm, rose-tinted lamps, and shut out the aura of tragedy pervading Crags' Height,
    CHAPTER THREE
    COMING downstairs one morning three weeks after Rockwood's departure, Barbara was surprised to see a low-slung racing car parked in the drive, and went into the dining-room to find it already occupied.
    A man stood at the sideboard with his back to her, and for an instant she thought Rockwood had returned. The set of the broad shoulders and the solidity of the figure were the same, but when he turned round, the lid of a chafing dish in his hand, she saw it was a stranger. And yet obviously not a stranger to the house, for he came towards her with the easy assurance of someone completely at home.
    "Hullo, there! I bet you're Aunt Ellie's new com panion? I'm Mark Rockwood, Dominic's cousin." He held out his hand and took hers in a friendly grip.
    "I'm Barbara Mansfield," she smiled.
    He moved to the table and pulled out a chair for her. "Sit down and let me serve you with breakfast."
    "Don't bother, thanks, I'd rather do my own choos ing."
    He attacked his plate vigorously, and for the next few minutes concentrated entirely on his food. Barbara seated herself and studied him covertly while they ate, feeling she had had some justification in mistaking him for his cousin. Although they were superficially alike she could see now that they were quite different except in type. Of the same height and build, he had none of the other man's muscularity, and where Rockwood gave the impression of strength and sinewy resilience, Mark seemed soft and easy-going, although the line of his jaw bespoke the same stubborn determination. His eyes had none of his cousin's intensity of colour; neither had his hair, which was sandy and indeterminate.
    He looked up suddenly and caught her eyes on him. "Forgive the lack of conversation. I'm usually far more sociable than this, even in the mornings, but I'm darned hungry,"
    "So I see," she smiled.
    He grinned back. "Drove up from London overnight, and apart from stopping at Oswestry for some coffee in the early hours, I haven't had a bite."
    "Do you mean you left London last night?"
    "Yes. You sound surprised."
    "I am, although I suppose it's only because the last few weeks here has made London seem so remote that it might be another