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the sentence unfinished.
    “I think what you mean is that since their ancestors went to all the risk and trouble of wrecking the Nimrod they don’t see why anyone else should cash in!'' Martin said quietly. “Isn't that it?''
    “Who said she was wrecked purposely?” Fenella demanded swiftly. “It’s never been proved."
    “Oh yes, it has,” he told her very positively. “Beyond all doubt!”
    “I don’t see how it can have been,” Fenella objected stubbornly. “But whether it has or not, if you’ve been going about saying that it was, then no wonder you can’t get people to talk to you! And if you don’t mind, Mr. Adair, I’d rather not discuss it any more!”
    “I’m sorry, I’ve embarrassed you,” Martin said regretfully. “It was thoughtless of me—they’re your friends, of course—forgive me! ”
    “Oh, please, it’s quite all right,” Fenella assured him, “but I do really advise you not to spread this story, because it’s only natural for people to resent such aspersions about their families, isn’t it?”
    “After all this time?” he raised his eyebrows doubtfully. “Nearly two hundred years? Rather an exaggerated sensitiveness, isn’t it?”
    “It might be in town where people are constantly moving from one district to another. But not here where families have lived in the same cottages for far longer than that!” Fenella told him.
    “I’ll take your word for it,” he said good-humouredly, and then : “I’ve some shopping to do—fishing tackle and what not, so I’ll say goodbye, and apologise again for having bothered you! ”
    He smiled, raised his hand in salute and turned into the shop in question. Fenella, continuing down the hill, frowned at the memory of their conversation. Of course there were quite a lot of people who thought it probable that the wreckers had been out the night the Nimrod went down, and Anthony had said more than once that though he was quite sure there was no written record to that effect, none the less, a lot of the fisherfolk had had the story handed down by word of mouth for generations. But somehow Fenella had got the impression that Martin Adair had been more emphatic in his statement that he would have been had he only had verbal confirmation. Proved —beyond all doubt, he had said. It almost suggested that he had at least seen that proof, perhaps even had it in his possession. Well, she’d tell Anthony about and he could decide if there was anything that ought to be done. In the meantime, she was approaching the place where the road took a sharp bend before it staggered crazily downhill to the harbour.
    It was at this point that Miss Prosser had her home, conveniently situated on the outer curve of the road so that from her bay window she could see both up and down the hill. It was, in fact, impossible to pass without her seeing you if she happened to be looking out, as she almost always was. Fenella’s heart sank as she heard the all too familiar rap on the window. She stopped. There was nothing else she could do.
    The window opened directly on to the street with no intervening garden, and as Miss Prosser now opened it and leaned out, the stiffly starched Nottingham lace curtain draped her grey head like an incongruous wedding veil. Her peculiar eyes, one green and one brown, which gave her the odd appearance of being able to look round comers, bored unmercifully into Fenella.
    “Well,' she demanded, “what do you think of the news?”
    “What news?’’ Fenella asked as pleasantly as she could manage.
    Miss Prosser regarded her suspiciously. When anyone professed ignorance like that it wasn’t always easy to decide whether it was genuine or just a trick to gain time. However, she had every intention of finding out! Fenella’s position at Lyon House intrigued her considerably, but it was rarely that she had a chance like this to find anything out.
    “The Lancings are coming back to Poldean House! ” she announced dramatically, and