It was almost uncanny that Mathilda should be writing to Potter Osprey....
But was it? Now she remembered he had told her the place of his birth—a mere conversational allusion, which she had passed over quickly, not wishing to discuss the city. It had surprised her mildly; then she had recalled in passing that years ago there had been some people named Osprey whom she never knew. Could Mathilda have known them? Could she have known the painter, perhaps in his youth? It was unlikely; she had never mentioned the name in Moira’s hearing.
There was nothing to be gained on that tack, and soon she was off on a more fruitful one. Rob Blaydon had told her about Mathilda’s new hobbies, one of them helping young artists, another buying pictures for the city museum. She had drifted out of social life and interested herself in a little club, not very prosperous, where the artists of the city met.
Here was a possible even a probable, explanation. Osprey was a native painter, who had gained reputation elsewhere. He had been a struggling boy at home, and what could be more natural than that Mathilda should decide the city must be enriched by one of his works? Or if this was not exactly the case, there were a dozen other reasons why, on behalf of the club of which Rob had spoken, she might be communicating with him.
The reason was enough for Moira, or at least she made it suffice. She would find out the truth before long, and in any case it could not concern herself. For it was incredible to her that Rob, in the face of their definite understanding, had mentioned her at home. “At home!” How naturally she used the phrase. Well, there was much to be cleared up—both there and here. She troubled herself no more about the letter. She laid it with the others on Osprey’s table, took the children up to Nana to look after, and went off for a long walk. By ten o’clock that night she was in bed asleep.
The two men drove up to the farmhouse, in accordance with their plan, at about two o’clock in the morning in Roget’s car. They lingered in the hall and studio for a few moments and went upstairs, the painter taking his mail with him.
Some hours later the same sound woke not only Roget, but Moira, down in the cottage. It was a sharp report, and her first clear thought was that a passing automobile had back-fired, perhaps Emmet Roget’s, just arriving. She sat up for a time listening and then prepared to sleep again. Some one knocked on the outside door.
It was the producer, looking ominous as he stood in the half darkness, in a long black dressing gown.
“Mrs. Harlindew, an accident has happened,” he said gravely. “I think, perhaps, I had better ask you to step up to the house with me.”