By this time they had arrived at the Common. Here Jarman turned down a shady lane, and passed through an arcade of chestnut trees. At the end of this was an open space surrounded by trees, and amidst these a thatched cottage that might have come out of a fairy-tale from the quaint look of it. The walls were whitewashed, the windows of lattice work, and in front of it flourished a garden filled with old-fashioned flowers, evidently the delight of those who had planted them. A white paling fence separated it from the lane, and over the gate of this leant an elderly lady. Frank recognised Mrs. Perth.
She was a delicate old dame, with an ivory-hued face, smooth white hair, and dressed severely in black from head to foot, even to a black straw hat. She beckoned to Eustace. He knew well enough why she was in mourning, but for obvious reasons asked questions.
"Why are you in black, Mrs. Perth? No bad news, I hope?"
"I don't know if you call it bad or good," she replied, with some asperity. "Walter has been murdered."
Frank, in the background, winced, and dug his cane into the turf. But Eustace took the intelligence with well-feigned surprise. "Murdered! Mrs. Perth! How terrible. Who murdered him?"
"Ah! that's what has to be discovered. Mildred received a letter this morning, telling her that Walter had been found last night shot through the head in his rooms in Sand Lane. Also he was stabbed in the breast--right through the heart."
"Stabbed also," began Frank, incautiously, when Jarman interposed.
"My new secretary, Mrs. Perth--Mr. Desmond O'Neil. He comes from Ireland."
"I am happy to meet you, Mr. O'Neil," said the old lady in a most stately manner. "What was it you said?"
"I was--was--only expressing--my--my surprise," stammered Frank.