"Not very—not more than twenty-seven."
"And is she dead?"
Roger put some more paper on the fire, and held it down with the poker.
"No. She has left. Her child died here a month ago."
"Poor soul! Her only child?"
"Yes."
"And her husband? Is he dead too?"
Roger thought a moment, and then said slowly, "As good as dead."
He looked round the room and added, "Dick Manvers lent her the house. It used to be the agent's, but no one has lived in it since I can remember. It has always been to let furnished, but no one ever took it. People seem to think it is rather out of the way."
The rollicking, busy flame died down and left them in the candle-light once more. But after a few moments the ghostly pallor above the shutters deepened. Roger went to them and opened them. They fell back creaking, revealing a tall French window. The fog was eddying past, showing the tops of the clump of firs, and then hiding them anew. He gazed intently at the drifting waves of mist.