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were, “Pity about Ronald Leroy.”
    “We were just discussing it,” Nora answered, glancing to the newspaper expectantly.
    “We were wondering whether Wingdale is not having these fires set,” I said, and watched for his reaction,
    “There is no evidence of that. I would not say such a thing in company, Chloe,” he warned me, with a nervous look.
    “He is too sharp to leave any evidence,” I pressed on. "There is only Chapman’s between Grasmere and Ambledown now. If Chapman’s goes up in smoke, I mean to call in a constable and have it investigated. In fact, it ought to be done now. The men of the area should get together and insist,” I said, casting a challenging look on him.
    “Chapman won’t give him any trouble,” was his answer. “He has got the concession of brewmaster for Wingdale Hause. Well, he never had more than a nominal interest in sheep and will be glad to be rid of what he has. He is tickled pink with the new village. It will bring a good deal of prosperity to the area. I’m not sure it is a bad thing, when all’s said and done.”
    “It is a wretched thing! You would say so too if your estate were situated in his path, instead of safely away on the far side of the mere.”
    “As to that, Miss Barwick, you are welcome to join me any time, away from all the construction that will soon be going forth. And your aunt, Mrs. Whitmore, as well,” he added punctiliously, with a nod to include her in his proposal. “As to Edward,” he went on, to account for the whole family, “I expect there would be plenty of room for him at Carnforth Hall. Wingdale will not plan to include it in his village.”
    Naturally we had not bruited about town the state of Carnforth’s finances, but it struck me of a sudden that the Hall might very well be included in Wingdale’s ultimate plans. It would be easy picking. He might have the mortgages for it in his pocket this minute for all we knew. The Hall had sat like a fortress guarding that situation known as Kirkwell Pass for centuries. The blood fairly boiled to think of its falling to Wingdale’s commercial hands. He would turn it into a haunted house, or some such thing, to attract customers. Ices and lemonades and gingerbread would be served on the grounds, assemblies held nightly in the ballroom. And the only people in the world to prevent this happening were Lord Carnforth, bellowing out his obscene songs in a drunken stupor, and Lady Emily, mooning around under the trees with Edward.
    “Someone ought to notify Mr. Gamble in India how matters stand,” I said.
    “From what I hear of Jack Gamble, he is more likely to throw in his lot with Wingdale than hinder him,” Tom replied. Then he launched into an exposition on a new carpet he is having installed on his front staircase. These improvements to the nest are inducements to attract me into it. Any lack of refinement, any desired renovation that slips my lips regarding Ambledown is quickly instituted at Tarnmere, as Tom has foolishly called his home. He did not realize the repetition of it (a tarn being a small mere). As he has had the name carved in stone over the front portal, the name sticks.
    And still the sodden newspaper was being carefully held an inch about his lap. “Can I take your parcel for you, Tom?” Nora asked, not intimating by so much as a blink that she guessed it to be a gift.
    “A nice pair of trout I caught early this morning,” he said, handing it to her. “Small heads and good full back, which make the best eating. Not one of those bull trout I brought you last time.”
    The gift served a dual function. It got rid of Nora, as the trout must be taken to the kitchen, and it informed us politely he would accept an invitation to dinner. Emily had long ago stopped bringing her offerings, but it was known that she, too, would accept a Sunday invitation to dinner. We contrived a merry meal and evening, despite Tom’s finding an opportunity to press me for an answer and despite