“Certainly.”
“Carington’s evidence you can get, of course. I really have none to give myself. The woman you will never get.” And they did not. No dugout was found, and whether she too was lost or escaped to breed further mischief, none know.
Lyndsay walked swiftly back, and rejoined his people at the station. When at last they were running at speed between Quebec and Montreal, Anne said:
“Archie, what was it last night?[night?] Why did they want you?”
Then he told her, as he had already told his wife, the sad ending of poor, simple Joe.
“It is a miserable business,” she returned. “Really, Archie, the morals which come at the end of life’s fables are pretty useless for those most concerned.”
On reaching home, Anne found a letter from Carington. He wrote:
That astonishing woman—Dorothy Maybrook—has spent most of her time with me. She calmly told Ellett to go a-fishing. He went. I have been admirably nursed, and, as you may suppose, have not lacked conversation. Who ‘p’ints’ Hiram, in her absence, I do not know.
There has been no news of the Colketts. It is but too probable that she killed the man, and got away in safety. I shall hereafter entertain a profound respect for the intelligence of crime.
It is great fun to hear Ellett and Dorothy. Do write to me—and say pleasant things to all of those dear, good people of yours. Tell Miss Rose I am not too badly crippled to ask for a new place as bowman.