It occurred to Allan Burnley that Jimmy was acting mysteriously. And if Laura and Elizabeth wanted to see him why didn’t they come out? It wasn’t like them to stand on ceremony in this fashion. He pushed open the sitting-room door impatiently.
Laura Murray was sitting on the sofa, leaning her head on its arm. He could not see her face but he felt that she was crying. Elizabeth was sitting bolt upright on a chair. She wore her second-best black silk and her second-best lace cap. And she, too, had been crying. Dr. Burnley never attached much importance to Laura’s tears, easy as those of most women, but that Elizabeth Murray should cry—had he ever seen her cry before?
The thought of Ilse flashed into his mind—his little neglected daughter. Had anything happened to Ilse?
In one dreadful moment Allan Burnley paid the price of his treatment of his child.
“What is wrong?” he exclaimed in his gruffest manner.
“Oh, Allan,” said Elizabeth Murray. “God forgive us—God forgive us all!”
“It—is—Ilse,” said Dr. Burnley, dully.
“No—no—not Ilse.”
Then she told him—she told him what had been found at the bottom of the old Lee well—she told him what had been the real fate of the lovely, laughing young wife whose name for twelve bitter years had never crossed his lips.