“But I had better speak to Mrs. May first,” she continued—“I have something very strange to tell her about her daughter——”
“Her daughter! Our daughter! My poor Diana!” And Mr. May immediately put on the manner of a pious grocer selling short weight—“Our darling was drowned last summer!—drowned! Drowned while bathing in a dangerous cove on the Devon coast. Terrible—terrible!—And she was so——”
“Young?” suggested Diana, sympathetically.
“No—er—no!—not exactly young!—she was not a girl like you!—no!—but she was so—so useful—so adaptable! And you have something strange to tell us about her?—well, why not begin with me?”
He approached her more closely with a “conquering” smile. She repressed her inclination to laugh, and said, seriously:
“No—I really think I had better explain matters to Mrs. May first—and I should like to be quite alone, please,—without Miss Preston.”
At that moment Miss Preston returned and said:
“Mrs. May will see you.” Then, addressing Mr. May, she added: “This lady says she is some relative of yours—her name is May.”
Mr. James Polydore’s small grey-green eyes opened as widely as their lids would allow.
“A relative?” he repeated. “Surely you are mistaken?—I hardly think——”