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“Allow me, Miss Ainslie!” he said politely, and Meg had no choice but to mutter a word of thanks for his civility.

And that should have been an end of the incident, yet b
oth of them lingered, and Meg, viewing the overgrown paddock and the poor, dilapidated little cottage, was betrayed into saying impetuously :

“Oh, why didn’t you do something about it—and about Nanny?"

He stared at her in such blank astonishment that Meg was almost certain it was genuine.

“And just why, in your opinion, should I have done so?” he asked curiously.

“Well, because—” Meg began, and halted. To say that he had any interest in the cottage and its owner was as good as admitting that he and not Uncle Andra ought now to be in possession of it. But she had no intention whatever of telling him that she had any knowledge of that. It was too much like acknowledging that he had right on his side and so strengthening his position. “Don’t you think it’s only decent for the strong to help the weak?” she substituted.

“Something in that,” he agreed judicially. “But don’t forget that two parties, the donor and the recipient, have to be in agreement for help to be possible.”

“Well?” In spite of herself, Meg spoke defiantly, for she could guess what was coming.

“Nanny was quite a character, you know,” he went on reflectively. “Or no, perhaps you don’t know. But I assure you—and of course you can check that I’m telling you the truth—she
was!
She was fiercely independent, extremely shrewd—and desperately frightened.”

Meg, bereft of words, gasped at the admission.

“Yes, she was scared all right,” Sir Hector repeated. “She became increasingly frail and infirm during the last year of her life and terrified, as so many old people are in such circumstances, that her own desire to finish her days in her own home, whatever the risk, would be overruled by well-intentioned people who believed that they knew better than she did what was good for her. Consequently, she wouldn’t allow a doctor or a district nurse or a health visitor in the cottage. In fact, she practically barricaded herself in.”

“Oh, poor Nanny!” Meg said distressfully. “Why couldn’t people let her alone—” and stopped short because the strong face had creased in lines of ironic humour.

“But, my dear girl, a few minutes ago you were asking me why I hadn’t done anything,” he reminded her relentlessly. “You can’t have it both ways, you know. All the same, I haven’t really answered your question, have I?” he went on reflectively. “Why didn’t
I
do something? Because, of all people, I was the last one whom she would dream of trusting—and I think you know why that was, don’t you?”

Meg set her lips firmly together and didn’t answer. And, surprisingly, he laughed.

“You’ve been well primed!” he taunted. "Never admit anything! In the circumstances, I don’t really blame you, but
my
circumstances are such that I have no reason not to be frank. I honestly believe that my great-grandfather never intended that the little property should benefit anyone except Sturt and his descendants. No, wait a minute,” as Meg’s lips parted. “It’s no good me not admitting that I have no proof to that effect, for obviously, if I had, I would have challenged your uncle’s right to possession. And that, as you know, I have not done. But Nanny knew that I believed there was evidence, so she would have no truck with me.”

“Yes, but even if you had had proof, Nanny
was
a Sturt, so you couldn’t possibly have turned her out during her lifetime,” Meg pointed out.

“No, I couldn’t,” Sir Hector agreed. "But Nanny had her own ideas about that! She was convinced that once she was out of the cottage and into a hospital or an old ladies’ home, I’d make the excuse of keeping the cottage in decent condition to take virtual possession of it. And once that had happened, she’d stand no chance whatever of getting back there. There are times,” he added forcefully, “when I could wish that either my great-grandfather had been a better man of business or else that he had thought of some other way to show his gratitude.”

“I’m sure you do,” Meg said meditatively. “Of course, there might have been another way in which
you would have been spared bother—”

“Yes?” he queried softly, his eyes narrowing.

“Yes. If the Sturt of those days hadn’t managed to save the child, there would have been no need for him to have been rewarded.” Meg lifted limpid eyes to his. “What’s more, if he hadn’t, you wouldn’t be here at all, would you?”

And leaving that to soak in, she turned and began to forge her way through the long grass. When she was halfway over, a piercing whistle stopped her in her tracks and involuntarily she turned.

“Something I forgot to say,” Sir Hector shouted from his side of the gate.

Meg waited in silence. Had she at last managed to pierce that thick skin of his? Was he going to apologise —but she soon knew that nothing was further from his mind.

“Just wanted you to know that I wish most heartily that while I was at it, I’d landed a few more wallops on that small backside of yours!” he announced regretfully. Then, lifting his hand in a mocking salute, he turned on his heel and strode off across the field.

Meg returned to the hotel in a state of mind bordering on sheer fury.
That man!
He had behaved disgustingly, and that final impertinence had really been beyond forgiveness. Why, quite apart from anything else, he had contrived to have the last word which was, surely, a woman’s inalienable right!

None the less, as the distance between them increased and she cooled down to some degree, she realised that she had at least gleaned some information from him, though whether it was reliable or not was another matter.

Yet, reluctantly, she had to admit that so far as Nanny was concerned, what he had said had had the ring of truth about it. Old people
did
get frightened, and for just the reason that Sir Hector had given. Meg knew that at first hand, for in addition to acting as her uncle’s secretary-receptionist, she had also paid regular
visits to the hospitals with which he was connected, either to make herself useful in any way that offered or else to talk to old and lonely patients who had few visitors. And time after time, that same problem, the conflict between the desire of independence and the very real need of care, would crop up. It was a problem which Meg, and for that matter Uncle Andra, had never been able to solve. The trouble was that any answer depended on one’s point of view. It was easy to see that to an individualist, preferring a solitary life, the idea of living in a community, however well organised, was hardly better than being sent to prison. And yet it was equally easy to see that one couldn’t just stand aside and shrug one’s shoulders when a downright dangerous state of affairs had developed. Something had to be done—

But that was thinking in general terms. It was Nanny’s particular case which concerned Meg. Had Sir Hector been speaking the truth when he had said that Nanny had become increasingly frail and infirm during her last year of life? That could well be. Her forehead puckered as she remembered the dilapidated notice board she had unearthed in Nanny’s garden. The single word :
teas
was printed on it in uncertain capitals with the letter s the wrong way round. Evidently it was Nanny’s own effort, so presumably there had been a time when she had been strong enough to look after thirsty visitors.

But the find had provided her with another piece of information. The stake supporting the board had rotted away and the notice itself was so battered and weatherbeaten as to make it reasonable to suppose that Nanny had abandoned her little enterprise before the summer which had just passed. Because she had found it too much for her? Quite likely that was the answer, but could it have been because the supply of visitors had stopped ?

Sir Hector had told her that his reason for prohibiting trespass so stringently had been the damage which had been done to crops and animals. That, if it was true,
made sense. People could be both ignorant and thoughtless, and the more there were of them, the greater the likelihood there was of damage being done. But the “quite a few hundred” of whom he had spoken was surely an exaggeration. It seemed unlikely that people in such numbers would visit such an out-of-the-way place as Blytheburn, beautiful though the surrounding country undoubtedly was.

Or was it so unlikely? In these days of cars and coaches visiting beauty spots was the easiest thing in the world. And what could be more pleasant after a drive than a comparatively short walk along a pleasant, tree-shaded road with, at the end of it, a good cup of tea waiting?

The by-road. That could be the reason for the failure of Nanny’s little money-making scheme. It was true, of course, that there was another way of access to Nanny’s cottage, but it was too narrow a lane to allow for much in the way of parking. It would quickly become congested and people would have to walk quite a distance along a dull, rutty road that, in dry weather, would probably be very dusty as well. It was surely not stretching imagination too far to guess that, already mistrusting the Heronshaws, the closing of the by-road would seem to Nanny to be the outcome of downright malice directed deliberately at her. No wonder if she had become a little odd in her behaviour—in fact, brooding over what she felt were her wrongs might well have at least contributed towards her failing health.

Yes, Meg felt with growing conviction. That must be what had happened—and Sir Hector was perfectly well aware of it. Probably, she thought, all that he had told her was the truth, but she was quite sure that it was not the whole truth. Very cleverly he had given the impression of frankness and he had even made it appear that his sympathy had been with Nanny—not in so many words, of course, but by his manner. But was that the outcome of genuine feeling or had it been a clever attempt to draw off suspicion that he had in any way contributed to Nanny’s death? How could she possibly
know? she asked herself. With a man like Hector Heronshaw one was at a loss because he had a mind which was not only shrewd but was subtle as well. Generally speaking, she thought, he would be frank to the degree of being brutally outspoken, but he was equally able to disguise his true feelings if it suited him to do so.

It was all so confusing, but of one thing Meg was at least certain. Sir Hector had said all that he meant to and she was most unlikely to get any further information out of him. It would have to come from other people— and it was very difficult to see from whom.

Suddenly she was filled with a sense of revulsion. She wished Nanny hadn’t left Rose Cottage to Uncle Andra. She wished that they had not come to Blytheburn. But above all, she wished that she had never set eyes on Hector Heronshaw.

UNCLE ANDRA made up his mind rather more quickly than Meg had anticipated and not only was he very determined about it but he had also considered and solved the problem which Meg had regarded as insurmountable.

“I’m going to repair the cottage and, for that matter, improve it in some ways,” he announced abruptly after breakfast the day after Meg’s meeting with Hector Heronshaw. “And I shall stay on here so that I can supervise the work.”

“But you can’t, Uncle Andra,” Meg reminded him. “The hotel is closing in a week’s time.”

“I know that,” Uncle Andra said impatiently. “I’ve arranged with the Malverns that one of their smaller caravans shall be towed down the lane and put in the paddock. Don’t look so put out, Meg. It solves the problem, and I’m quite able to look after myself!”

“Yes, I expect you are,” Meg acknowledged. “But where do I come in, Uncle Andra?”

“My dear—” He looked at her very kindly, but all the same, Meg knew that he wasn’t going to retreat by a single inch. “You’ve been a dear, good girl, the way you’ve fallen in with my wishes, but your heart’s not really in the project, is it?”

“Not to the same degree that yours is, perhaps,” Meg admitted reluctantly. “But all the same, I don’t like leaving you to it. I shall feel as if I’m deserting.”

“You’ll be doing nothing of the sort,” Uncle Andra said firmly and, Meg thought, with a hint of anxiety which suggested that, in fact, he would really prefer to be on his own. “As I’ve already said, I can look after myself, and really there’s no need for both of us to be here. What, after all, could you do once the weather really breaks and you can’t do anything more in the garden?”

“Nothing, really,” Meg was compelled to admit, sure now that she had been right in thinking he wanted to be on his own. “But it does leave me rather at a lose end, doesn’t it?”

“Not a bit of it,” Uncle Andra replied so briskly that he must evidently already have thought out his answer to that. “Of course, you’ll stay with Ellen. She’ll be glad to have you.”

“Well—perhaps,” Meg said doubtfully. “But she’ll naturally want to consider her husband’s point of view, and he might not welcome the idea. I don’t honestly see why he should. Besides, they live in the country, and the sort of job I’m suited for isn’t so easily come by away from town.”

“Oh, nonsense!” Uncle Andra denied airily. “Of course you’d find something even if it took a little time. And in any case, seeing that you lost your job because I retired, of course I’ll see that you don’t lose by it.”

“Oh no, you won’t!” Meg told him firmly. “There’s no reason on earth why you should—and I’ve got some pride, you know!”

“A lot too much!” Uncle Andra retorted testily. “You’re really being just difficult and obstinate, Meg!”

“It’s a family failing,” Meg told him bluntly, and fetched a reluctant grin to his face. “But each of us calls it knowing our own mind and being reasonably strong-minded—except when we come across it in another member of the family!”

“Well, be that as it may,” Uncle Andra, while he didn’t deny the statement, clearly had no intention of making any allowances in this particular case. “Can you see an alternative? With the hotel closing—”