Mr. Collyer got up, raising himself slowly. “My dear Madeline, I wish I could help you,” he said, taking her hands in his, “but only Our Heavenly Father can do that, and since it is His Will——”
“It was not His Will!” Mrs. Bechcombe contradicted passionately. She tore her hands from his. “My husband was murdered. He did not die by the Will of God, but by the wickedness of man.”
“My dear aunt, nothing happens but by the Will of God——” Aubrey Todmarsh was beginning, when the door opened to admit a spare, short, altogether undistinguished-looking man of middle age.
Mrs. Bechcombe turned to him eagerly.
“This is my cousin, John Steadman. You have heard me speak of him, I know, James. He is a barrister, and, though he does not practise now, he is a great criminologist. And I know if anyone can help us it will be he.”
“I hope so, I am sure,” Mr. Steadman said as he shook hands. “This is a most terrible and mysterious crime, but there are several valuable clues. I do not think it should remain undiscovered long.”
“I hope not!” the rector sighed. “And yet we cannot bring poor Luke back, we can only punish his murderer.”
“And that I mean to do!” Mrs. Bechcombe said passionately. “I have sworn to devote every penny of my money and every moment of my life to avenging my husband.”
“Vengeance is mine, I will repay,” murmured Aubrey Todmarsh.
“Yes, I never professed to be of your way of thinking,” Mrs. Bechcombe returned with unveiled contempt. “I prefer to undertake the vengeance myself, thank you.”