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horses, books, the paraphernalia of boyish childhood. While we were still there, a servant brought up my one valise from the inn.
    “I’ll leave you alone to unpack, Miss Stacey,” Lucien said, having not only the mind but the manners of an adult. “Shall we meet in half an hour? I’ll show you the rest of the house and grounds if you like. In that way I shan’t have to have any lessons till tomorrow.”
    “Quite a little dealer, Lucien.”
    “Yes, I was forever striking bargains with Miss Little.”
    “What sort of bargains?” I asked, immediately alert.
    “Not to tell things on her, if she wouldn’t tell on me.”
    “Lucien, if you know anything about her disappearance—”
    “No, I don’t know anything about that,” he assured me solemnly. I didn’t believe a word he said. With a stealthy look at me, he began backing quickly away, before I should interrogate him. I let him go, thinking success more likely if I could catch him off guard.
    “Where are you going?”
    “I’ll be waiting for you beneath the beech tree,” he said, pointing to the spot through the window. “That was our meeting place, mine and Miss Little’s. Shall it be ours too, Miss Stacey?”
    “Very well.”
    My mind was seething with questions as I hastily unpacked my few things and put them away. I meant to go over every inch of Miss Little’s room, in case she had left a clue behind as to where she had gone. The clothespress and dresser were empty of her possessions. Clothing and such personal items as toilet articles were all gone, indicating a fairly thorough packing session.
    Disheartened, I looked around the room for other possible places. I walked aimlessly to the bookcase, thinking the books belonged to the house. I was considerably surprised to see Miss Little’s name inscribed in them. There were three rows of books, indicating a fair investment. Surely a governess would not leave behind the tools of her trade. My heart was beating a little faster as I pulled books out at random to see whether they all bore her signature. Her packing had not been as thorough and well planned as I originally thought.
    Looking out the window, I saw Lucien patiently sitting on a white wooden bench by the beech tree, waiting for me. He was not alone. There was a very beautiful young lady with him. Without another thought to Miss Little and her books, I dashed out the door to find my way below to the park, and the beech tree, and Mrs. Beaudel.
     

Chapter Four
     
    What is it that causes that emotional friction between some people, I wonder? Even before Mrs. Beaudel opened her lovely lips, I knew I would not like her, yet it was difficult to find a real fault in her appearance. She was still youngish, not so young as she appeared from a distance, but young enough to be Beaudel’s daughter. She was somewhere in the general vicinity of thirty. Her hair was of pale gold, its shade more reminiscent of moonlight than sunlight. It was dressed too elaborately for a country matron, unless she was to attend a ball. Her gown too was more elegant than the occasion called for, without being quite vulgar. It was pale blue in color, of fine muslin, the ostentation consisting in a ruched skirt, showing eyelet embroidery beneath, with bows attached. It hugged the bosoms closely, and drew in tight at the waist in a manner no longer considered the highest kick of fashion in the metropolis. I did not think it was an unawareness of the current trend that accounted for it. Mrs. Beaudel did not dress for the fashion, or for women. She was outfitted in a style that would appeal to gentlemen.
    Her face was heart-shaped, the nose straight, the lips full and sensuous. But it was the eyes that ruled the countenance. They were not a nice color, rather a muddy green-brown, but they were large, almond-shaped eyes, heavily lidded and heavily fringed. They gave an illusion of her being sleepy. When one looked more closely, it was apparent she was very wide awake.
    “So