“I want to know,” said Sally, “if Content's aunt Eudora had any young relative besides Content. I mean had she a grown-up young girl relative who would wear a dress like this?”
“I don't know of anybody. There might have been some relative of Eudora's first husband. No, he was an only child. I don't think it possible that Eudora had any young girl relative.”
“If she had,” said Sally, firmly, “she would have kept this dress. You are sure there was nobody else living with Content's aunt at the time she died?”
“Nobody except the servants, and they were an old man and his wife.”
“Then whose dress was this?”
“I don't know, Sally.”
“You don't know, and I don't. It is very strange.”
“I suppose,” said Edward Patterson, helpless before the feminine problem, “that—Eudora got it in some way.”
“In some way,” repeated Sally. “That is always a man's way out of a mystery when there is a mystery. There is a mystery. There is a mystery which worries me. I have not told you all yet, Edward.”
“What more is there, dear?”