“He is not very well,” I told her, “and is quite tired out. He has walked a long way this afternoon. He wishes you to excuse him, and to say that he is quite sure that there is no one of that name, rich or poor, living anywhere in this neighborhood.”
She seemed by no means satisfied.
“But shall I not be able to see him at all, then?” she exclaimed. “I had hoped that as he was the clergyman here, and was one of those who were with my brother when he died, that he would be certain to help me.”
I shook my head.
“I am afraid that you will think it very selfish,” I said, “but my father would rather not see you at all. He is in very delicate health, and this affair has already been a terrible shock to him. He does not want to have anything more to do with it directly or indirectly. He wants to forget it if he can. He desires me to offer you his most sincere sympathy. But you must really excuse him.”
She rose slowly to her feet; her manner was obviously ungracious.
“Oh, very well!” she said. “Of course if he has made up his mind not to see me, I cannot insist. At the same time, I think it very strange. Good afternoon.”
I rang the bell, and walked with her to the door.
“Is there anything else which I can do for you?” I asked.
“No, thank you. I think I shall telegraph to London for a detective. I shall see what they say at the police station. Good afternoon.”