Below her stretched a valley of rich meadowland, of yellow cornfields, and beyond moorland hillside glorious with purple heather and golden gorse. He hadn't gambled or played the horses or hit the booze back there in little old New York…. That was the Frenchie, Valade, surely. ’ ‘You’re going?’ asked his friend, and the note of relief was marked. But what if she were to marry? He glanced towards the elderly dame and found her watching him, the dimple very much in evidence. Chapter XXI HER SISTER’S SECRET “I think,” Lady Ferringhall said, “that you are talking very foolishly.
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