half expected you. I will explain the situation. Mrs. Manderson, who is my niece—'
'What!' Trent laid down his knife and fork with a clash. 'Cupples, you are jesting with me.'
'I am perfectly serious, Trent, really,' returned Mr. Cupples earnestly. 'Her father, John Peter Domecq, was my wife's brother. I never mentioned my niece or her marriage to you before, I suppose. To tell the truth, it has always been a painful subject to me, and I have avoided discussing it with anybody. To return to what I was about to say: last night, when I was over at the house–by the way, you can see it from here. You passed it in the car.' He indicated a red roof among poplars some three hundred yards away, the only building in sight that stood separate from the tiny village in the gap below them.
'Certainly I did,' said Trent. 'The manager told me all about it, among other things, as he drove me in from Bishopsbridge.'
'Other people here have heard of you and your performances,' Mr. Cupples went on. 'As I was saying, when I was over there last night, Mr. Bunner, who is one of Manderson's
