"I have told you all I know," said Miss Destiny, rising. "And now may I take my departure, as I have a long way to drive?"
Dredge nodded. "You may have to return for the inquest," he said abruptly, "and in any case, I shall come over to Burwain to ask questions."
"By all means. Anyone will tell you where I live," said Miss Destiny with dignity, "and I trust that my expenses will be paid, should I be required as a witness at the inquest." Here I noted she again revealed a miserly tendency.
"Oh, yes, that's all right," said Dredge, and Miss Destiny, again making her queer little curtsey to Cannington and myself, was about to depart, when I stopped her with a question.
"Will you please tell me the name of this lady?" I asked, indicating the photograph in the silver frame.
Miss Destiny's eyes were too keen to require glasses, and she recognised the face at once. "Dear me, it is a photograph of Gertrude."
"Your niece?"
"Certainly. Anne nursed her, you know, and Gertrude was always greatly attached to her. She will be distressed when she hears of this tragedy. Dear me, I never knew Gertrude had given Anne her portrait, and in such a very expensive frame. Waste! waste! But why do you ask about it, sir?"
I coloured. "I thought the face was so lovely," was my reply, made in a low and somewhat awkward voice.
Miss Destiny gave me a piercing glance, and nodded in a friendly manner, evidently amused by my embarrassment. "Gertrude is as good as she is beautiful," she said smiling. "Good-day, gentlemen," and she left the shop to mount the trap. Lucinda wrapped the rug carefully round her knees and the oddly assorted pair drove away.