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“I suspect, Henry, that you have just given him an occupation for the remainder of the season.”

Henry looked at Ned, who was already examining the underside of the desk again.

“I believe you are right.”

He was.

Within a week, Ned had become so thoroughly associated with the library that the family scarcely bothered to look for him elsewhere.

“Where is Ned?”

“In the library.”

“Has anyone seen Ned?”

“He was in the library.”

“Has he come to luncheon?”

“Not yet.”

“Where is he?”

The answer was invariably the same.

“The library.”

At first Edward objected.

“You cannot spend every free hour in there.”

“I am investigating.”

“You are rummaging.”

“Investigating,” Ned insisted.

“I am not convinced.”

Ned only grinned.

Henry, for his part, had no objection so long as the books were treated with respect and the desk survived. He began to find the whole business rather entertaining.

The next discovery produced a ten-pound note. Then a packet of old sealing wax and a bundle of correspondence from Henry’s great-uncle to a solicitor in Bath, which Ned surrendered with considerable disappointment. Two days later he found a silver button bearing a crest which Henry recognised as belonging to a branch of the family no longer in existence. That one Ned was particularly proud of.

“You may keep it,” Henry told him.

“Really?”

“Yes. I have no use for it.”

Ned placed it carefully in his pocket. “I shall have to find something even better.”

“You have five sovereigns, a ten-pound note, and a silver button.”

“Exactly.”

Chapter XLII.