continued my indefatigable sister.
I waited patiently.
“His cousin.”
“Flora Ackroyd?” I exclaimed in surprise.
Flora Ackroyd is, of course, no relation whatever really to Ralph Paton, but Ralph has been looked upon for so long as practically Ackroyd’s own son, that cousinship is taken for granted.
“Flora Ackroyd,” said my sister.
“But why not go to Fernly if he wanted to see her?”
“Secretly engaged,” said Caroline, with immense enjoyment. “Old Ackroyd won’t hear of it, and they have to meet this way.”
I saw a good many flaws in Caroline’s theory, but I forebore to point them out to her. An innocent remark about our new neighbour created a diversion.
The house next door, The Larches, has recently been taken by a stranger. To Caroline’s extreme annoyance, she has not been able to find out anything about him, except that he is