The sight, and its calamitous bearing upon her own life, made her so dizzy that she could, for a while, hardly decipher the letters. Stifling recollection by an effort she nerved herself to her work, and carefully read the column. The account reminded her of no other fact than was remembered already.
She turned on to the following week’s report of the inquest. After a miserable perusal she could find no more pertaining to Mrs. Manston’s address than this:—
‘ABRAHAM BROWN, of Hoxton, London, at whose house the deceased woman had been living, deposed,’ etc.
Nobody else from London had attended the inquest. She arose to depart, first sending a message of thanks to Mr. Raunham, who was out of doors gardening.
He stuck his spade into the ground, and accompanied her to the gate.
‘Can I help you in anything, Cytherea?’ he said, using her Christian name by an intuition that unpleasant memories might be revived if he called her Miss Graye after wishing her good-bye as Mrs. Manston at the wedding. Cytherea saw the motive and appreciated it, nevertheless replying evasively—
‘I only guess and fear.’
He earnestly looked at her again.
‘Promise me that if you want assistance, and you think I can give it, you will come to me.’
‘I will,’ she said.