"Yes; she's a niece of Mrs. Endicott. I've sometimes thought that it was because of this relationship that Mrs. Lawrence was so kind to her and to her sister."
"Kind to them?" I repeated. "In what way?"
"She gave them the cottage they live in," he explained, "and has helped them in many other ways. The younger girl, Lucy, has a place in her household, where her duties, I fancy, are purely nominal. Her sister is supposed to take in sewing, but she really does very little."
"And they are Mrs. Endicott's nieces?"
"Yes—her sister's children."
"And Boyd Endicott's cousins?"
"Precisely."
I felt a little glow of excitement, for here was a clue which might lead me out of the labyrinth—a loose end, which, grasped firmly, might serve to unravel this tangled skein.
"Please go on," I said. "You have not yet told me what became of Mrs. Endicott and her daughter."
"They made their home with Mrs. Kingdon, who was also a widow. Mrs. Kingdon had had much trouble—her husband had died in an asylum for the insane—and they had a hard time to get along. But Mrs. Endicott died within a year."