No, no, said I. Only a humble commoner, but his friend. My name is Dr. Watson.

A flush of vexation passed over her expressive face. We have been talking at cross purposes, said she.

Why, you had not very much time for talk, her brother remarked with the same questioning eyes.

I talked as if Dr. Watson were a resident instead of being merely a visitor, said she. It cannot much matter to him whether it is early or late for the orchids. But you will come on, will you not, and see Merripit House?

A short walk brought us to it, a bleak moorland house, once the farm of some grazier in the old prosperous days, but now put into repair and turned into a modern dwelling. An orchard surrounded it, but the trees, as is usual upon the moor, were stunted and nipped, and the effect of the whole place was mean and melancholy. We were admitted by a strange, wizened, rusty-coated old manservant, who seemed in keeping with the house. Inside, however, there were large rooms furnished with an elegance in which I seemed to recognize the taste of the lady. As I looked from their windows at the interminable granite-flecked moor rolling unbroken to the farthest horizon I could not but marvel at what could have brought this highly educated man and this beautiful woman to live in such a place.

Queer spot to choose, is it not? said he as if in answer to my thought. And yet we manage to make ourselves fairly happy, do we not, Beryl?

Quite happy, said she, but there was no ring of conviction in her words.