“I grow them there in two small barrels in which holes have been pierced,” answered Miss Prince quickly. “A French governess showed me how to do it when I was little more than a child, and I grow those tiny Alpine strawberries that the French call the ‘Four Seasons.’ On that fatal Saturday last May, hearing that poor Emily Garlett was feeling rather less well than usual, I took her up my first gathering, so to speak. Though the berries were rather white they were very sweet. To think that they should have helped to kill her!”
“And was it your sugar, too?” asked the rector abruptly.
“Good gracious, no—of course not! I took the strawberries to the Thatched House in a little covered basket which I left with Miss Cheale, and she brought me back the basket that same evening.”
“Did Mr. Garlett allude to the strawberries in his speech to-day?” inquired Mrs. Cole-Wright.
“I’m sorry to say he did. He denied absolutely that he had given his wife any strawberries. He said that he had never even seen them! But of course no one doubted that Maclean had told the truth, the more so that one could see that he gave his damning evidence with the greatest reluctance. I thought at one moment that the poor fellow was going to break down. It’s an awful thing for the Macleans. I feel truly sorry for them.”
“You mean because of Jean Bower?” observed his wife. Then she gave a curious little laugh. “Men are so sentimental, aren’t they, Miss Prince? The girl will get over it soon enough, Philip—never you fear! It’s lucky they weren’t already married. There I admit that Jean Bower and the Macleans have had a lucky escape. But as for the girl, no pity need be wasted over her. Why, she hardly knew Harry Garlett, when he came back four months ago!”
“I hope that’s true,” remarked Miss Prince in a singular tone.
“What d’you mean?” asked her hostess eagerly.
“I have my doubts as to the terms they were on before Harry went away.”
“Do you mean before his wife died?” asked the rector, in a horror-struck tone.