THE saffron glow in the evening sky filtered into the dining- room at Oversands, and caused the candles on the table to gleam fitfully under their green shades. The rest of the room was in shadow, picked out here and there by the dull gleam of polished oak, the gold picture frames, and the flash of silver on the sideboard. The wax candles made pools of light upon the table, at which three people were seated. At the head, Sir Horace Amory sat, facing his daughter Vera. Lady Amory had been long dead, and to Vera she was little more than a memory.Over against the old Elizabethan sideboard sat Maria, Lady Amory, widow of Sir Gabriel Amory, Sir Horace’s deceased uncle, from whom he had inherited the title and the property. There are few families of standing without some strange story or whispered rumour, and the Amorys were no exception to the rule. The servants in the house and the people in the village generally spoke of Lady Amory with a significant glance or a smile as the case might be.
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