It was a habit of his to talk to himself. “By-the-bye, Lady Ferringhall,” he said, “do you know that I am a very great admirer of your sister’s? I wonder if she has ever spoken to you of me. ” Capes watched the limpid water dripping from his oar. Five hours later she tiptoed down the hall and paused at the threshold of what they now called his study. The arrangement had been made by the town matchmaker, a frightening old oak of a man. Conceiving himself called upon, as the intimate friend of the deceased, to pay this last tribute of respect to her memory, he appeared as one of the chief mourners.
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