For a while there was not a sound.
“I didn’t see him go, but he’s gone,” said Herbert in a whisper. He clasped his hands tightly. Again he had had his anonymous greeting, and again by Herculean effort of will had kept it from Elizabeth. It was not only because of its ignominious character, it was because at last he was beginning to see his dependence. This was, moreover, his own trouble; it was not Elizabeth’s, nor a trouble common to them both.
“I don’t suppose they’ve had much chance,” said Elizabeth at last; then she added bitterly, “When I first saw this man I thought perhaps we might help the women and children of such people. But now—”
She let her chin sink to her clasped hands.
“Have you any other plan?” asked Herbert.
“Yes, I have. I’m going to talk to the neighbors.”
“I’m going all round this country and wherever there is an old person, I’ll find out what he or she knows about John Baring. There must be some who remember him, and he must have had some friends among them. I believe that he was a good man and that he was kind.”
“But would that have any relation to this?”
“Yes, it would. Somebody might be able to give a clue.”