Miss Besant entered the room and Claire called to her. She began to make preparations with firm, capable fingers, for moving the couch. Claire bent over and kissed her aunt.
“No more morbidness, please,” she insisted. “I’ll be over early to-morrow morning. I may have some news for you.”
“Your uncle has found what he wanted in London then?” Madame asked.
Claire nodded assent.
“He told me a short time ago,” she confided, “that in half an hour he would know everything there is to be known.”
She crossed the lane and passed through the postern gate, gazing wistfully over the roofs of the village houses towards the park. Her preparations for the night, when she finally reached her room, took her longer than usual. It was late when, after she had turned out the lights, she moved to the window and stood there for a moment looking out. Suddenly the little reminiscent smile upon her lips changed to one of actuality, of real and instant pleasure. The moonlight was as yet faint, but, crossing the stile which led from the park, she caught a glimpse of a white shirt. For a moment she was tempted. He might be coming even as far as the gardens, late though it was. Then she looked back at her neatly folded clothes and shook her head.
“Claire,” she soliloquised, “you’re a sentimental idiot!”
After which she turned out the light, got into bed and slept soundly.
When she awoke the sun was shining into her room, the thrushes and blackbirds were singing and there were sounds of unusual movement downstairs. Still only half awake, she sat up, listening to the footsteps upon the gravel beneath her window. There were voices too, muffled, yet agitated. Then she heard one word—a dramatic, horrible slur against the background of the summer morning.
“Dead!—Cold dead he were!”