“How long has she been here?” asked Bayre, breaking in rather suddenly and rather imperiously upon the lighter tones of the rest.
“Only a few months. It was after his wife had run away that M. Bayre sent for her from her school. And then, while she could not get to Creux by reason of the gales and the stormy weather, his old cousin died. It was a dreadful business, for the weather was too rough for her body to be brought over for burial here, and—”
“I know,” interrupted Repton. “They told us. It was washed away.”
Madame nodded.
“Yes. It was a dreadful business. Old M. Bayre has never been quite the same man since. You see the one shock came close upon the other. Even if he did not care much for his wife, we must suppose her running away to have had some effect upon him. And though he and Mees Ford used to quarrel, still he had been used to her for long years, and doubtless he felt her death deeply. Now he shuts himself up more than ever, and he never goes away to London or to Paris as he used to do. And when strangers come to see his collection they never see him.”
“Oh, we can see his collection, then?” said Repton, with interest.
“Oh, yes. It is his great pride to let strangers see it. Formerly he or his housekeeper would show them through the rooms, but now it is a servant who leads visitors through them.”
The young men looked at each other.
“We’ll go over to-morrow,” said Southerley.
Bayre assented, but with a grave and pre-occupied air. The whole tale was a weird one, and concerning his own family as it did, it gave him food for reflection.