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you.’’
    “No, no. I do not wish at all to see St. Felix. Perhaps you could handle it, dear.”
    Sensing a heavy windfall from a long overdue debt to be waiting in the next room, Daphne was not inclined to lose it only because her aunt was suddenly shy of this man she had never met. “Very well, I’ll see him. But before I go, what was the nature of the other St. Felix’s dealings with you?”
    “We were—just friends,” she answered vaguely.
    “Did you lend him money?”
    “Lend St. Felix money? Lord, no, he had more of it than I.”
    “I see,” Daphne replied, surprised. Was it possible one person was actually calling out of mere friendship?
    When she was face to face with St. Felix, she relinquished the thought. There was no token of friendship on the formidable gentleman’s arrogant face, nor indication of it in his stiff bearing.
    “Miss Pealing?” he asked, looking her over from head to toe with cold grey eyes.
    She returned the inspection, taking in a well-cut coat of blue Bath cloth, an elegant but unexaggerated cravat, a generally subdued outfit. He was too tall for the foppish mode. “Miss Ingleside. I am Mrs. Pealing’s niece. She is indisposed and asked me to see you in her stead. Pray be seated, Your Grace.”
    He sat, still regarding her coldly. “I daresay you are privy to her dealings, and we can handle the matter between us.”
    “Very likely. What is your business with my aunt?”
    “I have no business with her, I am happy to say. I am here on behalf of Sir Lawrence Thyrwite.”
    The name conveyed nothing to Miss Ingleside. She had not read all the memoirs, by any means. “And what is Sir Lawrence’s business with my aunt? I am sorry, I know nothing of him.”
    “His business at the moment is of only a financial nature. There is no need to go into details. Just tell me the sum.”
    “Oh, he owes her money, you mean?” she asked, smiling with satisfaction. At this rate, the book would bring in more before its publication than it was likely to do after.
    “That is a matter of opinion. He is willing to pay in any case."
    “I’m sure we don’t want him to pay if he didn’t borrow anything,” she said, disliking the tone of her caller. The others had at least put a decent face on it—pretended friendship. “We are not extortionists, you know.”
    “How much are you charging for your silence?” he asked in a sneering voice.
    “I told you we are not extortionists! If Sir Lawrence owes nothing, certainly we want nothing from him.”
    “I would prefer not to have to return to this place,” he stated with an emphasis that implied the “place” was a snakepit. “What is the price?”
    “Well, ‘Silence is Golden’, you know,” she answered, piqued into ill humour herself.
    “Will five hundred do it?”
    “I had best speak to my aunt. Perhaps she recalls Sir Lawrence.” She left and walked at a sedate pace till she was beyond his view; then she broke into a run.
    “Auntie, who on earth is Sir Lawrence Thyrwite?” she asked, breathless.
    “Larry Thyrwite? Gracious, I haven’t thought of that ninny in a quarter of a century. Is he here?”
    “No, St. Felix is here on his behalf. Does this Sir Lawrence owe you money?”
    “No, I never gave him anything. He used to try to make love to me after Jerry died, but I didn’t care for his lips. They hung open in that loose way some dull-witted people have. He is married now to—oh, dear!—St. Felix’s daughter. That is why that man is here.”
    “Daughter! He can’t be more than... Oh, married to the sister of this St. Felix, I suppose. And you are sure you didn’t lend him any money? Think hard, Auntie. He mentioned five hundred pounds, and I would dearly love to gouge this gentleman.”
    “It doesn’t need thinking about. Larry was always well to grass. He only came around for romance and didn’t get much of it, either.”
    “Too bad. I’ll send St. Felix off then.” She was extremely sorry to have to let him