“Ever yours affectionately,
“Clare Otterbourne.”
Katherine read the note twice over. She profoundly mistrusted the writer. It read very naturally, very unaffectedly; but it was wholly impossible that the writer could be sincere.
She was about to reply and say that her father had left a letter for Hurstmanceaux; but on second thoughts she doubted if she had a right to do so; the matter belonged to the person to whom the letter was addressed, who would tell his sister of its contents or not, as he chose.
She wrote, instead, a few brief polite distant words saying that she had as yet found no communication for the Duchess amongst her father’s papers, and thanking her for her expressions of sorrow and sympathy.
“Why should she expect any remembrance from him?” she wondered. “Did she expect to be named in his will?”
She felt regret that Hurstmanceaux was out of town. She thought his sister quite capable of going to Bruton Street and intercepting the letter if she got wind of it. Perhaps, she thought, there was money in it; it had borne a large seal, bearing the newly-found arms of the Massarenes.
“Did my father ever speak to you of the Duchess of Otterbourne?” she asked his solicitor that afternoon.
“Never!” said the lawyer, with a passing smile.
“Did you ever hear that he helped her in monetary affairs?”
“No,” said the solicitor, with the same demure suggestive smile hovering on his lips. “But everyone knows that Mr. Massarene was a great admirer of that lady.”