The mystery was now clear to me, and Jack saw this by my face.
“You understand?” said he briefly, setting down the cat.
“Quite,” said I. “Our mistake was beginning with the bodies. But we can get some more stuff.”
“An odd bit always comes in,” said Miss Lining, speaking, I fear, from an experience of bits saved from the dresses of village patrons. “Yisss, misss.”
“Well, good-afternoon, Miss Lining,” said Jack, who never suffered, as Eleanor and I sometimes did, from a difficulty in getting away from a cottage. “Thank you very much. Have you heard from your sister at Buxton lately?”
“Last week, sir,” said Miss Lining.
“And how is she?” said Jack urbanely.
He never forgot any one, and he never grudged sympathy—two qualities which made him beloved of the village.
“Quite well, thank you, sir, and the same to you,” said Miss Lining, beaming; “except that she do suffer a deal in her inside, sir.”
“Chamomile tea is very good for the inside, I believe,” said Jack, putting on his hat with perfect gravity.