"Why in the world Lillian and I did not think of making further inquiries about Aunt Betsy's Spanish visitor is more than I can see," remarked Anita. "I, at least, knew my brother had been in Chichester. It is strange how one will let a thing like that slip through the fingers."
"It is because we are so given to following up a pet theory and lose sight of any other while the one occupies our thoughts," said Mr. Kirkby. "One has to look on all sides in order to perceive a small truth as well as a large one. Ah, here comes the crumpets."
They were taking their tea when Mrs. Beltrán said to her son: "Mr. Kirkby has told you, I suppose, that your Aunt Pilar is dead."
"No, I did not tell him," Mr. Kirkby interrupted. "I left all that to you, Katharine."
"She is dead? Tia Pilar is dead?" exclaimed Pepé. "I am sorry, my mother, that I cannot sorrow for her. I should, I suppose, for although she did it grudgingly and because Uncle Marcos demanded it, she did look after me when I was a child."
"Yes, but how did she do it?" asked Anita, indignantly. "Not so kindly as one would care for a dog, certainly not so well as the dogs here are cared for."
Pepé looked at her and smiled. "Then you perhaps have heard some things."
"We have heard quite enough and have seen enough of her to feel anything but kindly toward her," Anita rejoined. "I shall never forgive her, never, for withholding from our mother the information which would have spared her so much sorrow and you so much unhappiness."
"I do not understand," Pepé looked up with a puzzled expression.
"You do not know that our mother wrote to her years ago and that the answer from this Pilar was that she knew nothing of you."