Jim Airth’s big bass boomed through the little church; and Myra, close to his shoulder, sang with a face so radiant that none could doubt the reality of her praise.
Then back to a cold supper at the Moorhead Inn; after which they strolled out to the honeysuckle arbour for Jim’s evening pipe, and a last quiet talk.
It was then that Jim Airth said, suddenly: “By the way I wish you would tell me more about Lady Ingleby. What kind of a woman is she? Easy to talk to?”
For a moment Myra was taken aback. “Why, Jim—I hardly know. Easy? Yes, I think you will find her easy to talk to.”
“Does she speak of her husband’s death, or is it a tabooed subject?”
“She speaks of it,” said Myra, softly, “to those who can understand.”
“Ah! Do you suppose she will like to hear details of those last days?”
“Possibly; if you feel inclined to give them, Jim—do you know who did it?”
A surprised silence in the arbour. Jim removed his pipe, and looked at her.
“Do I know—who—did—what?” he asked slowly.