The main road through the area was called Forest Row. It had scattered houses, mostly of timber, and an occasional church or school. We stopped at a few houses; I inquired for Reverend Portland, showing the sketch. In each case, I received a disinterested shake of the head. No one had ever seen or heard of him. The last dame was kind enough to direct me to the closest post office, at West Hoathly.

We continued and found the village, which stood on a hilltop above Ashdown Forest, but the name Reverend Portland was not known at the post office. The clerk suggested we try Lindfield, which he assured us we had already passed.

The carriage was turned around, we retraced our steps, and did indeed discover a village called Lindfield. We had not spotted the High Street from the road, but it was picturesque, with elegant Tudor and Georgian houses. I made one last try at the post office there. I could not remember Mr. Bradford's exact words, but he had said my uncle's cottage was in the countryside, near Ashdown Forest, or something of the sort. I pulled the check string, and Rafferty drew to a stop.

When he let down the step for me, he wore a frown. Rafferty, I should explain, is an old and trusted servant, of the sort called black Irish. His hair was once black, and his eyes are still a beautiful blue. He came from Ireland twenty years ago as a lad, and is practically family. He did not know the precise reason for our trip, but he knew something havey-cavey was afoot.

"I see Lord Weylin's rig is parked down the street,” he said. “That is odd. His groom mentioned he was off to London."

"Weylin is here! Good God! Get back on your perch and get us out of here at once, Rafferty, before he sees us."

Rafferty is amazingly spry for his years. Before you could blink, the carriage was rattling around the corner. He drove several yards down the side road before stopping. I did not wait for him to open the door, but bolted out to spy on Weylin from behind the tree closest to his carriage.

"I shall be back shortly,” I said, and ran off.

I was just in time to see Weylin enter his carriage and drive away. I could see only one explanation for his being here. He had spoken to Bradford and learned about Barry selling what must surely be stolen jewelry. He was checking up on him behind our backs. As he was at such pains to deceive us, he obviously intended to prosecute, if it is possible to prosecute the relatives of a felon. In any case, he hoped to prove Barry had stolen the necklace and shame us into paying for it. Why else was he going to such pains to trace Barry's movements?

Between fear and anger, I was trembling all over when Rafferty caught up with me. “Shall I follow him?” he asked.

"No, I shall stop at the post office while we are here, and have a look at that house Weylin came out of, too."

The post office was run by an elderly married couple, the Sangsters. They were both small and gray-haired, with the quick, twitchy manner of mice. The man was sorting the mail, while his wife tended to customers. I waited until the last one left before inquiring if she knew the address of Reverend Portland. She did not, but her little nose twitched in curiosity. I unrolled the sketch and showed it to her.

She shook her head. “No dear. I've never seen him. Vicar Quarles has been here for two decades."

"Are there other post offices in nearby villages?” I asked. “I am very eager to find Reverend Portland. His late sister was my mother's friend. The sister recently passed away, and we want to let him know,” I said, to distance myself from Barry, in case he was a known felon in these parts.

"Now, that is odd!” she exclaimed. “This seems to be a day for lost relatives-and for bringing a sketch along, too. So very odd, for it has never happened before. I had a gentleman in not twenty minutes ago looking for his long-lost cousin. He had her picture with him, too. He did not even know her name, for he heard she had married since he last saw her. He was a lord,” she said, lifting her eyebrows into her hairline. “His carriage had a lozenge on the door. I was sorry to have to tell him his cousin was dead. She was used to come here often before she died, but I do not know Reverend Portland.” Her head ducked forward in concern. “Are you feeling weak, dear? Let me get you a glass of water. You look pale as a sheet."

She darted off for water, while I sank against the counter. Weylin had shown Mrs. Sangster my sketch of Lady Margaret, and the woman had recognized her! Lady Margaret had been here, in that house that Weylin was coming out of. At least he had not discovered that Barry also lived nearby.

Mrs. Sangster returned with the water. I sipped it slowly, while trying to think how I could elicit more information from her without arousing too much curiosity. She was inclined to gossip, and I said, “I believe I saw that lord's carriage-the one who was looking for his cousin. It was parked just half a block along the street."

"At his cousin's house. I pointed it out to him. Mrs. Langtree's house,” she said. “She was ever so nice. A real lady, but retiring. She did not go out much. Of course, she was only here a few times a year. Her home is in London. She came to get away from the bustle for a week or so every season."

"Did she come here all alone?” I asked.

Had Mrs. Sangster been a suspicious sort, she must have wondered at such an odd question. Fortunately, she was more interested in gossip than anything else, and answered readily.

"Oh no! She had her woman with her. Ladies of quality would not travel alone. She had that nice young nephew who used to stay with her as well, Mr. Jones. And a male servant, too. Real quality. She was ever so fond of Mr. Jones."

It was the word “nephew” that brought Weylin to mind, but a second thought told me he was not Mr. Jones, or the postmistress would have recognized him. Who could Mr. Jones be?

"Who is living in the house now?” I asked.

"No one. Mr. Jones inherited the house. He would have no use for it, which is why he has put it up for sale."

"Ah! It is for sale.” So perhaps Weylin had not actually gotten inside, but had just had a look. I had only seen him coming away from it. I knew at once how I could get into the house, though what I hoped to find was unclear.

"The estate agent is Mr. Folyot. He has his office just at the end of High Street,” Mrs. Sangster said.

I was eager to call on Mr. Folyot, and said, “I shan't take up more of your time, Mrs. Sangster. Thank you very much."

"Sorry I could not help you, Miss…?"

"Smith. Miss Smith,” I replied, and escaped.

I could not like to give my own name. Smith, the most common name in the country, popped out without thinking. Smith or Jones are the usual aliases. I thought of Mr. Jones, and wondered, was that also an alias?

I had Rafferty drive by the house Weylin had been coming out of. It was only a cottage, but a pretty one in the Tudor style, with plaster and half timber on the top floor, and brickwork below. There was a for sale sign posted. The windows were boarded up. I pulled the check string, and Rafferty drew to a stop. I peered out at overgrown grass. Well-tended roses along the border of the walk spoke of recent habitation.

While I was looking from the carriage window, a man came walking along and turned in at the house. The stuffed shoulders and pinched waist of his jacket indicated a lack of gentility. He wore his hat at a cocky angle, and had the strut of a man who thinks well of himself. He was actually holding a brass key in his hand. Mr. Folyot! I leapt out and accosted him.

"Are you the agent for this house?” I asked.

A pair of sharp, green eyes smiled at me. “That I am, madam. Are you on the lookout for a cottage hereabouts?"

"Indeed I am. Could I have a look at the inside?"

"Why not? I am about to go in and have a look around myself. You will find it a nice, snug place. The present owner had it done up over five years ago."

He unlocked the door and stepped into a perfectly dark house. “I shall just light a few lamps. I had the windows boarded up to prevent vandalism,” he explained.

When the lamps were lit, I peered around at an elegant hallway, still very dark due to the wood paneling. He led me through the saloon and dining room and library, pointing out the desirable features of the house. I had to take his word for it that the furnishings, included in the sale price, were of the quality he described, for I could scarcely see them in the gloom. My real interest was not in the house or furnishings, but anything that might suggest my uncle had been here.

After touring below, we went upstairs. All personal items had been removed. There was nothing to indicate habitation by Lady Margaret or anyone else. The dresser tops were bare, the clothespresses empty. The mysterious “nephew” must have tidied up. “Very nice,” I said to Folyot from time to time.

"Mind you don't delay too long if you're interested in buying, Miss Smith.” I was still, or again, Miss Smith. “I have another fellow coming to look at the house this very afternoon, which is why you found me here. Ah! That will be Mr. Welland now,” he said, when the door knocker sounded. He hastened along to the front door.

I had a horrible premonition who Mr. Welland would be. And indeed it was none other than Lord Weylin. It would be hard to say which of us was more shocked and embarrassed. We exchanged a long, silent look as Mr. Folyot introduced us.

"How do you do, Miss Smith,” Lord Weylin said in perfectly wooden accents.

"Good day, Mr. Welland,” I replied, and dashed out the door, with Folyot hollering after me that he would be happy to have the boards taken down to give me a better look, if I thought the house would suit me.