neither of us take a single stroke; he said it was an accomplishment incumbent upon every true Englishman. But Charles hates the water; while, as for myself, I detest every known form of muscular exercise.
However, we consented that he should row us on the Firth, and made an appointment one day with himself and his wife for four the next evening.
That night Charles came to me with a very grave face in my own bedroom. 'Sey,' he said, under his breath, 'have you observed? Have you watched? Have you any suspicions?'
I trembled violently. I felt all was up. 'Suspicions of whom?' I asked. 'Not surely of Simpson?' (he was Sir Charles's valet).
My respected brother-in-law looked at me contemptuously.
'Sey,' he said, 'are you trying to take me in? No, not of Simpson: of these two young folks. My own belief is—they're Colonel Clay and Madame Picardet.'
'Impossible!' I cried.
He nodded. 'I'm sure of it.'
'How do you know?'
'Instinctively.'
I seized his arm. 'Charles,' I said, imploring him, 'do nothing rash. Remember how you exposed yourself to the ridicule of fools over Dr. Polperro!'
'I've thought of that,' he answered, 'and I mean to ca' caller.' (When in Scotland as laird of Seldon,
