Antony drew a deep breath.

"That happens to be exactly what I am," he responded.

"What do you mean, Mr. Gray?" There was bewilderment in the words.

"Exactly what I have said," returned Antony almost stubbornly. "I am under-gardener at Chorley Old Hall, or, in other words, a labourer. I get a pound a week wage, and a furnished cottage, for which I pay five shillings a week rent. My name, by the way, is Michael Field."

The d.u.c.h.essa looked straight at him.

"Then on the ship you pretended to be someone you were not?" she asked slowly.

Antony shrugged his shoulders.

"That was the reason you wrote and said you couldn't see me?"

Again Antony shrugged his shoulders.

The d.u.c.h.essa's face was white.

"Why did you pretend to be other than you were?" she demanded.

Antony was silent.

"I suppose," she said slowly, "that, for all your talk of friendship, you did not trust me sufficiently. You did not trust my friendship had I known, and therefore you deliberately deceived me all the time."

Still Antony was silent.

"You really meant to deceive me?" There was an odd note of appeal in her voice.

"If you like to call it that," replied Antony steadily.

"What else can I call it?" she flashed.

There was a long silence.

"I should be grateful if you would not mention having known me as Antony Gray," said Antony suddenly.

"I certainly do not intend to refer to that unfortunate episode again,"

she replied icily. "As far as I am concerned it will be blotted from my memory as completely as I can wipe out so disagreeable an incident. Will you, please, take your hand off my trap."

Antony withdrew his hand as if the trap had stung him.

The d.u.c.h.essa touched the pony with her whip, Antony stood looking after them. When, once more, the moorland was deserted, he sat down again on the heather.

Josephus, returning from a rabbit hunt more than an hour later, found him still there in the same position. Disturbed by something queer in his deity's mood, he thrust a wet black nose into his hand.

The touch roused Antony. He looked up, half dazed. Then he saw Josephus.

"I've done it now, old man," he said. And there was a queer little catch in his voice.

CHAPTER XVII

AT THE MANOR HOUSE

The d.u.c.h.essa di Donatello was sitting at dinner. Silver and roses gleamed on the white damask of the table-cloth. The French windows stood wide open, letting in the soft air of the warm June evening. Through the windows she could see the lawn surrounded by elms, limes, and walnut trees. The sun was slanting low behind them, throwing long blue shadows on the gra.s.s. A thrush sang in one of the elm trees, a brown songster carolling his vespers from a topmost branch.

At the other end of the table sat a kindly-faced middle-aged woman, in a grey dress and a lace fichu fastened with a large cameo brooch. She was Miss Esther Tibb.u.t.t, the d.u.c.h.essa's present companion, and one-time governess. Now and then she looked across the table towards the d.u.c.h.essa, with a little hint of anxiety in her eyes, but her conversation was as brisk and unflagging as usual.

"I hope you had a nice drive this afternoon, my dear. And did Clinker go well?" Clinker was the Dartmoor pony.

The d.u.c.h.essa roused herself. She was evidently preoccupied about something, thought Miss Tibb.u.t.t.

"Oh, yes, very well. And he has quite got over objecting to the little stream by Crossways."

Miss Tibb.u.t.t nodded approvingly.

"I thought he would in time. So you went right over the Crossways. Which way did you come home?"

"Over Stagmoor," said the d.u.c.h.essa briefly.

"Stagmoor," echoed Miss Tibb.u.t.t. "My dear, that _is_ such a lonely road.

I should have been quite anxious had I known. Supposing you had an accident it might be hours before any one found you. I suppose you didn't see a soul?"

"Oh, just one man," returned the d.u.c.h.essa carelessly.

"A labourer I suppose," queried Miss Tibb.u.t.t.

"Yes, only a labourer," responded the d.u.c.h.essa quietly.

Miss Tibb.u.t.t was silent. She had a vague feeling of uneasiness, and yet she did not know why she had it. She was perfectly certain that something was wrong; and, whatever that something was, it had occurred between the time Pia had set off in the pony-cart with Clinker after lunch, and her return, very late for tea, in the evening. Also, Pia had said she didn't want any tea, but had gone straight to her room. And that was unlike her,--certainly unlike her. It would have been far more natural for her to have ordered a fresh supply, and insisted on Miss Tibb.u.t.t sharing it with her, quite oblivious of the fact that she had already had all the tea she wanted, and was going to eat again at a quarter to eight.

"I walked over to Byestry," said Miss Tibb.u.t.t presently. "Yes, I know it was very hot, but I walked slowly, and took my largest sunshade. I wanted to get some black silk to mend one of my dresses. I saw Father Dormer. He was very glad to hear that you were back. I told him you had only arrived on Thursday, and I had come on the Tuesday to get things ready for you.

My dear, he told me Mr. Danver is dead."

"Mr. Danver," exclaimed the d.u.c.h.essa, her preoccupation for the moment forgotten.

"Yes. I wonder none of the servants happened to mention it. But I suppose they forgot we didn't know, and probably they have forgotten all about the poor man by now. It's sad to think how soon one _is_ forgotten. It appears he went to London in March with Doctor Hilary to consult a specialist and died the day after his arrival in town. Perhaps the journey was too much for him. I should think it might have been, but Doctor Hilary would know best, or perhaps Mr. Danver insisted on going.

Anyhow the place is in the hands of caretakers now; the butler and his wife are looking after it till the heir turns up, whoever he may be.

There's a rumour that he is an American, but no one seems to know for certain. But they must be keeping the garden in good order. Golding is staying on, and the other men, and they've just got another under-gardener." She paused.

"Have they?" said the d.u.c.h.essa carelessly, and a trifle coldly.

Nevertheless a little colour had flushed into her cheeks.

"I'm afraid you think I'm a terrible gossip," said Miss Tibb.u.t.t apologetically. "I really don't mean to be. But in a little place, little things interest one. I am afraid I did ask Father Dormer a good many questions. I hope he didn't--" And she broke off anxiously.