"Can you be sure?"
"Alice Malleson," said the resolute old dame, "if you were younger I would shake you and send you to bed on bread and water. You don't deserve to be loved by such a man. He gave up all for you, and you believe the worst of him."
"Bernard has a temper, and he might have—"
"But he didn't. I know he has a temper. I admire his temper. I saw him thrash a tramp for throwing away a loaf of bread, and that warmed my heart towards him. Had I married the villain I didn't marry, and he hadn't been such a villain as he was, I would have had a son just like Bernard—perhaps two or three. Dear! dear, what a loss to the British Empire that I never married."
In spite of her grief Alice could not help smiling at this way of putting things. But certainly Miss Plantagenet was right. Had she been a mother, her dauntless nature was of the sort that would have bred brave sons for the motherland. The old lady was one of those strong people always to be relied upon in time of calamity. The worse the trouble the quicker Miss Berengaria rose to the occasion. She prided herself on facing facts, alleging that only in this way could things be settled. At the present moment she acknowledged silently to herself that things looked black against Bernard Gore and that he really might be dead for all she knew. But to Alice she refused to admit these thoughts.
"This must be looked into," she said energetically, "and I am going up to town to see about the matter. When I have heard the evidence at the inquest I'll know how to shape my course."
"What will you do?" asked Alice, brightening under this optimism.
"When acquainted with the facts," said Miss Berengaria, rolling up her napkin, "and when I have formed my theory—"
"Your theory, aunt?"
"Yes! My theory as to who murdered the old—Well, it's Sir Simon I mean—we must be lenient to his memory. But when I have formed my theory I'll see a detective and place the matter in his hands. I shall then advertise for Bernard and we must see if we can't get him to come here."