Compton! At the mention of that name a shudder passed through me. She had been in the family of the murdered man, and had ever since lived with his murderer. I went in without a word, prepared for the worst, and expecting to see some evil-faced woman, fit companion for the pair outside.
A servant was passing along. “Where is Mrs. Compton?” I asked.
“Somewhere or other, I suppose,” growled the man, and went on.
I stood quietly. Had I not been prepared for some such thing as this I might perhaps have broken down under grief, but I had read the MS., and nothing could surprise or wound me.
I waited there for nearly half an hour, during which time no notice was taken of me. I heard my father and John walk down the piazza steps and go away. They had evidently forgotten all about me. At last a man came toward the door who did not look like a servant. He was dressed in black. He was a slender, pale, shambling man with thin, light hair, and a furtive eye and a weary face. He did not look like one who would insult me, so I asked him where I could find Mrs. Compton.
He started as I spoke and looked at me in wonder, yet respectfully.
“I have just come from China,” said I, “and my father told me to find Mrs. Compton.”
He looked at me for some time without speaking a word. I began to think that he was imbecile.
“So you are Mr. Potts’s daughter,” said he at last, in a thin, weak voice. “I—I didn’t know that you had come—I—I knew that he was expecting you—but heard you were lost at sea—Mrs. Compton—yes—oh yes—I’ll show you where you can find Mrs. Compton.”
He was embarrassed, yet not unkind. There was wonder in his face, as though he was surprised at my appearance. Perhaps it was because he found me so unlike my father. He walked toward the great stairs, from time to time turning his head to look at me, and ascended them. I followed, and after going to the third story we came to a room.