Agatha Cheale turned herself about, and sitting down, gazed into the fire.
“Well,” she said at last, in a voice that had now become collected and steady, “though none of us suspected anything at the time, there may have been some outsider who thought it odd that there was no inquest.”
“I can tell you who that outsider was,” exclaimed Miss Prince. “Mrs. Cole-Wright thought it a most extraordinary thing that there was no inquest! I remember her saying so to me the very day of the funeral.”
“Perhaps she wrote to the police,” said Agatha Cheale in a hesitating voice.
“I’m sure she didn’t. She’s a cautious woman, and she’s always liked Harry Garlett. No! it’s far more likely that some one who saw Harry carrying on with Jean Bower in the factory wrote to the police.”
“I suppose they called the girl as a witness?” said Agatha Cheale. There was acrid bitterness in her voice.
“No,” said Miss Prince, “they didn’t call her, oddly enough. They seem to have decided to do without her. Dr. Maclean was most anxious she shouldn’t be called. He said she was ill, and, after all, he’s the medical attendant of every one of the magistrates who were there——”
“Does she still consider herself engaged to Mr. Garlett?”
“She certainly does. Though, as to that, I can tell you a very curious thing.”
Agatha Cheale turned round eagerly, her face full of intense, painful curiosity.