Her mind hastily surveyed the young women known to her who lived in and about Grendon. There were at least a dozen with whom Harry Garlett was on easy terms of acquaintanceship. But no young people had ever come openly to the Thatched House. Mrs. Garlett did not care for girls, and Agatha Cheale was well known to have no friends, with the exception of Miss Prince.
She walked on, threading her way as if blindly through mean, and shabby streets, and, as she looked furtively to the right and left, she knew that in every one of those little houses there were people who were honestly convinced that Harry Garlett had poisoned his wife for love of her. Small wonder that she hurried on till at last she was in the open country, with not a creature in sight. There, standing on a field path, she stopped and burst into bitter tears.
Crying did her good; it seemed to lift something of the load weighing on her despondent heart. She dried her eyes, vaguely telling herself that she would walk on till she felt too tired to go on—then, turning back, she would in time reach Terriford village.
She had been walking for close on an hour, her nerves sensibly soothed by the fresh air, when all at once she saw in front of her a farmhouse which she knew to be the home of Lucy Warren.
The sight of this place reminded her that her next painful task must be to see Lucy Warren, to try to persuade the girl to tell her that thing which it was so vital she should know, and which yet she knew Harry Garlett hoped she would never know. There are people—perhaps more women than men—who delight in discovering that which those about them do not wish them to know. But Jean Bower was the exact opposite. She had an acute—some people might have said an absurd—sense of honour. It would have seemed to her dishonest to try and worm a secret, even a little secret, out of a child.
She wondered uneasily how she could see Lucy Warren without Miss Prince becoming aware she had done so. And then fortune favoured her, for, as she took the turn which would soon bring her to Terriford, she saw Lucy Warren coming toward her.
The two met in the middle of the field path, and Jean saw an eager look leap to Lucy’s eyes. Lucy would have passed any other young lady by with a curt nod, but this particular young lady was not only always kindly, and even friendly, in her manner, but was also the heroine of the most exciting affair which had ever happened in the recollection of the whole neighbourhood.
“Lucy! I am so glad to meet you——” and then Jean held out her hand.
The other grasped it warmly. “You do look bad, miss!” she exclaimed, real concern in her voice.
“I feel very tired,” faltered Jean.