Lord Cheriton, still sauntering in gloomy meditation, came to the cottage garden outside his gates, and found Mrs. Porter standing among her roses,—a tall, black figure, the very pink and pattern of respectability, with her prayer-book in one hand and a grey silk sunshade in the other. She turned at the sound of those august footsteps, and came to the little garden gate to greet her benefactor, with a grave countenance, as befitted the circumstances.
“Good afternoon,” he said briefly. “Have you just come from church?”
“Yes, I have been to the children’s service.”
“Not very interesting, I should imagine, for anybody past childhood?”
“It is something to do on a Sunday afternoon, and I like to hear Mr. Kempster talk to the children.”
“Do you? Well, there is no accounting for tastes. Can you tell me anything about my son-in-law’s murderer? Have you seen any suspicious characters hanging about? Did you notice any one going into the park on Friday night?”
“No, I have not seen a mortal out of the common way. The gate was locked at the usual hour. Of course the gate would make no difference—it would be easy for any one to get into the park.”
“And no one was seen about? It is extraordinary. Have you any idea, Mrs. Porter, any theory about this horrible calamity that has come upon us?”
“How should I have any theory? I am not skilled in finding out such mysteries, like the man who came from London yesterday. Has he made no discoveries?”
“Not one.”