"Word for word, as you say it, madam; so far as my poor wits allow."
"Very well, then. I have made it quite clear. That is the beauty of having to explain to clever people."
"I thank you for the compliment," replied Overshute, with a puzzled look; "but I have not earned it; for I cannot see that you have told me anything that I did not know some weeks ago. It may be my stupidity, of course; but I thought that something had occurred quite lately."
"Oh yes, to be sure! It was only to-day! I meant to have told you that first of all. I was grossly insulted. But I am so forgiving that I had forgotten it—quite forgotten it, until you happened to speak of it. A peculiarly insolent proceeding on the part of poor Mrs. Sharp, it appears—or, perhaps, some one for her; for everybody says that she really now has no mind of her own. She did not write me one single line, although I had written politely to her; and she sent me a message—I am sure of it—too bad to be repeated. No one would tell me what it was; which aggravates it to the last degree. I assure you I have not been so upset for years; or, at any rate, not since poor Grace was lost. And about that, unless I am much mistaken, that very low, selfish, and plotting person, knows a great deal more than we have ever dreamed. It would not surprise me in the least, especially after what happened today, to find Mrs. Sharp at the bottom of all of it. At any rate, she has aroused my suspicion by her contemptible insolence. And I am not a person to drop a thing."
"Why, what has she done?" asked Overshute once more; while in spite of impatience he could scarcely help smiling at poor Mrs. Fermitage's petty wrath and frequent self-contradiction.
"What she did was this. She sent me back, not even packed in nice white paper, not even sprinkled with eau de Cologne, not even washed—what do you think of that?—but rolled up anyhow in brown paper, the same as a drayman would use for his taps—oh, Russel, would you ever believe it!"
"Certainly it seems very unpolite. But what was it she sent back to you?"
"Not even the article I expected! Not even that ingredient of costume which I had lent poor Gracie, very nice and pretty ones—but an old grey pair of silken-hose, disgraceful even to look at! It is true that they bear my initials; but I had discarded them long ago."
"What a strange thing!" cried Overshute, flushed with quick excitement. "How reckless we were at the inquest! We had made up our minds without evidence, on the mere faith of coincidence. And you—you have never taken the trouble to look into this point until now—and now perhaps quite by accident! We were told that you had recognised the stockings; and it turns out that you never even saw them. It is strange and almost wicked negligence."
"I have told you my motives. I can say no more," exclaimed Mrs. Fermitage, with her fine fresh colour heightened by shame or anger. "Of course, I felt sure—who could fail to do so?—that the stockings found with my name on them must be the pair I had lent my niece. It seemed most absurd that I should have to see them. It was more than my nerves could bear; and the Coroner was not so unmanly as to force me. Pray, did you go and see everything, sir?"