"What a dreadful thing the death of poor Mr Mopple!" said Sibylla. "They said he wasn't kind to his wife, though I never saw any signs of it at my cousin's."
"Mopple! Mopple!" he said, as if trying to remember. "Ah! a poor man with a beautiful wife is he dead?"
"Oh, yes—quite suddenly! He was down in Scotland, on the moors. Some people say there is something wrong about it."
"Indeed—ha!" said Mr Marvale. "What—what do they say?"
"He was found dead in a shooting-box. His gun had gone off and killed him; but"—
I looked at the man's face. He was trying to appear as if he scarcely attended to what she was saying.
"Some of the friends are not quite satisfied that it was accidental," continued Sibylla. "How I pity poor Mrs Mopple."
"Pray, Sibylla," I said, "what was the poor woman's Christian name?"
"Her name was Isabella."
"So!" I said, and looked firmly at Mr Marvale. "Do you hear that, sir?
Her name was Isabella."