“You think, then, that he was drowned?” the man asked.
She nodded. Speech seemed to be becoming too painful.
“Drowning,” her companion continued, helping himself to brandy, “is not a pleasant death. Once I was nearly drowned myself. One struggles for a short time and one thinks—yes, one thinks!” he added.
He raised his glass to his lips and set it down.
“It is an easy death, though,” he went on, “quite an easy death. By the way, were those clothes that were found of poor Wenham's identified as the clothes he wore when he left the house?”
She shook her head.
“One could not say for certain,” she answered. “I never noticed how he was dressed. He wore nearly always the same sort of things, but he had an endless variety.”
“And this was seven months ago—seven months.”
She assented.
“Poor Wenham,” he murmured. “I suppose he is dead. What are you going to do, Elizabeth?”