As a rule her manner to the servants and her inferiors was cold and haughty, but, as Stafford had discovered last night, she could be soft and gentle when she chose, and she smiled now at Pottinger and the horse in a fashion that almost dazzled that ingenuous youth.

At the same time her eye had noted Pottinger's coat and waistcoat which hung on a hook at the stall-post with the saddle-wallet slung over them.

The coat was an old one with gaping pockets, and there was no sign of a letter in them, or in the waistcoat.

Instinctively, she knew that it was in the wallet.
"What splendid condition that horse is in, Pottinger," she said.

"His coat is like satin.