“I’d sold the shop by that time and was flying about patching up things. When did he... die?”
“A week ago Thursday. The funeral... Well, we couldn’t wait, you see. I might have caught you by cable or telephone on the Coronia, but I didn’t have the heart to spoil your voyage.”
“I don’t know how to thank you for all the trouble you’ve taken.” Without looking at her Ellery knew there were tears in her eyes. “It’s good to know that someone—”
“It’s been hard for all of us,” rumbled Dr. Reinach.
“Of course, Uncle Herbert. I’m sorry.” She fell silent. When she spoke again, it was as if there were a compulsion expelling the words.
“When Uncle John died, I didn’t know where to reach father. The only American address I had was yours, Mr. Thorne, which some patron or other had given me. It was the only thing I could think of. I was sure a solicitor could find father for me. That’s why I wrote to you in such detail, with photographs and all.”
“Naturally we did what we could.” Thorne seemed to be having difficulty with his voice. “When I found your father and went out to see him the first time and showed him your letter and photographs, he... I’m sure this will please you, Miss Mayhew. He wanted you badly. He’d apparently been having a hard time of late years — ah, mentally, emotionally. And so I wrote you at his request. On my second visit, the last time I saw him alive, when the question of the estate came up—”
Ellery thought that Dr. Reinach’s paws tightened on the wheel. But the fat man’s face bore the same bland, remote smile.
“Please,” said Alice wearily. “Do you greatly mind, Mr. Thorne? I–I don’t feel up to discussing such matters now.”
The car was fleeing along the deserted road as if it were trying to run away from the weather. The sky was gray lead; a frowning, gloomy sky under which the countryside lay cowering. It was growing colder, too, in the dark and draughty tonneau; the cold seeped in through the cracks and their overclothes.