"You are Mrs. Brooke, I suppose, ma'am?" said the first man after an awkward pause.
Clara smiled assent.
"I am Superintendent Drumley of the King's Harold police, and this is one of my sergeants. But our business is with Mr. Brooke, and not with you, ma'am."
"Quite so. But I hope your errand is not an unpleasant one?"
"I am sorry to say it is a very unpleasant one."
"May I ask the nature of it?"
"If you will excuse me, ma'am, I would rather not enter into particulars--at least not just now. As I said before, our business is with Mr. Brooke. May I ask whether he is at home?"
"He is not at home," answered Clara. "It is a pity you did not arrive a little earlier." She consulted her watch. "My husband left home about five-and-twenty minutes ago. His intention was to walk across the fields to Woodberry Station and catch the up-train to London."
The two men stared at each other for a moment or two and then began to talk in eager whispers. Clara, who was close by the piano, turned over a leaf of music and struck a chord or two in an absent-minded way.
In rushed Margery, panting once more, and to all appearance breathless. She made-believe not to see the two constables. "O mum," she cried, "what do you think? He let me carry his bag all the way through the park, and at the gate he gave me a bright new sixpence. I wanted to carry it to the station; but he wouldn't let me. I wish he had--he'd got more'n a mile to walk. But a new silver sixpence! O crumbs!" Margery ended with one of her most eldritch and uncanny laughs. The sergeant of police, who was rather a nervous man, jumped in his shoes; he had never heard anything like it before.