There was such an air of masterful determination about her that Henry went without hesitation. What she wanted with brandy he could not think. But then Henry, as should by this time be clear enough, did not really understand feminine human nature.

When he returned with the brandy and a tumbler Sarah took the bottle and glass from him without a word, poured out a good stiff dose, and gave it to Violet Arnell.

“There, my dear,” she said. “You’ll feel better when you’ve put that away.”

Without a word Violet Arnell took the proffered glass, and gulped off the pungent spirit, not without a good deal of coughing and spluttering in the process.

“Ah,” she said, “that’s much better, thanks.” She smiled gratefully at them both.

“I thought so,” said Miss Fairhurst, with a satisfied grin. All her disapproval seemed to have vanished in this little effort of restoration. “You were on the verge of fainting. I had to get this fool of a brother of mine to get some brandy for you.”

“Silly of me,” said Miss Arnell, smiling wistfully again. “I’m sorry. But, you see, I felt so hopeless about Harry. You will help me, won’t you?”

“Of course he will,” remarked Sarah, taking her brother’s permission for granted. “Of course he’ll do all he can to help you. And he’s not such a fool as all that, really, although he does act like a perfect idiot sometimes.”

“Don’t you think,” Henry interjected nervously, “that it would be a good idea if Miss Arnell told us what it’s all about? Except that they arrested Harry Baker—and I don’t even know who Harry Baker is—I’ve learnt nothing at all since Miss Arnell came in.”

“Of course,” she said suddenly. “I didn’t tell you anything, did I? So foolish of me.”

“Well,” said Henry and waited.

Violet Arnell took herself firmly in hand and began. “Harry Baker,” she said, “is my fiancé. We have been engaged for some months now. But my father strongly disapproved of the engagement. He said that he wouldn’t see me marrying a penniless young schoolmaster. He thought that I should aim at someone a little higher on the social scale. Father,” she added, “was a rather old-fashioned man. A good crusted old Tory, someone once called him, and I’m afraid that it was a pretty good description of him.”

Henry made sympathetic noises and waited again.

“Father went as far as to say that if I married Harry he’d cut me out of his will, and leave all his money to a queer cousin of mine—a man called Moses Moss,” she went on.