"This is in confidence," he said seriously—"there is something I should like to share with you; as I said, a name long unheard, as far as I am concerned, has caught my eye, and brought back an old doubt to my mind."
"You may trust me," said Dr. Crane, sitting down, and pulling his pipe out of his pocket, which he lighted with a taper ignited at the glowing fire in front of him.
"I see here," began Horace Hatherley, "the death of Lucille Medhurst"—picking up the paper again and pointing to the announcement as he spoke.
A flash of interest kindled in his friend's eyes.
"Yes—what of it? Did you know her?"
"Slightly—I met her first upon her wedding day. He—her husband—was—my—friend."
These last words were said slowly, and sadly.
"What—Medhurst of that address—Oaklands, Wychcliff?"
"Yes—that one."
"Then you know something of him now? Excuse me asking, but Margaret Woodford from the Abbey House here, went to that man's home as governess when her father died—he failed, you may remember?"