Daphne, Jill, Jonah and I fired the question simultaneously.

"A terrible fellow's after it. One Dunkelsbaum. Origin doubtful--very.
Last known address, Argentina. Naturalized in July, 1914. Strictly
neutral during the War, but managed to net over a million out of cotton,
which he sold to the Central Powers _at a lower price than Great Britain
offered_ before we tightened the blockade. Never interned, of course.
Well, he tried to buy Merry Down by private treaty, but Sir Anthony
wouldn't sell to him. They say the sweep's crazy about the place and
that he means to have it at any price. Jolly, isn't it?"

There was a painful silence.

Merry Down was the nearest estate to White Ladies, and was almost as
precious to us as our own home. For over two centuries a Bagot had
reigned uninterruptedly over the rose-red mansion and the spreading
park, the brown water and the waving woods--a kingdom of which we had
been free since childhood. Never an aged tree blew down but we were told
of it, and now--the greatest of them all was falling, the house of Bagot
itself.

One of the old school, Sir Anthony had stood his ground up to the last.
The War had cost him dear. His only son was killed in the first months.
His only grandson fell in the battles of the Somme. His substance, never
fat, had shrunk to a mere shadow of its former self. The stout old heart
fought the unequal fight month after month. Stables were emptied, rooms
were shut up, thing after thing was sold. It remained for a defaulting
solicitor to administer the _coup de grâce_....