“We shan’t have much, dear, about fifty pounds I reckon, perhaps a little more, couldn’t you possibly manage on that?”
“Impossible, and you have to live as well, remember,” and he smiled at her. “No, there is only one thing. If I can get away to some quiet place, I may be able to do something, there is just a chance. Father told me a secret before he died, and there may be something in it, or it may be that his brain was weakening, and that he was imagining things.”
She looked at him questioningly, but understood he did not wish to say anything further.
And then the post brought a letter from a school friend of Ena’s, one of the few with whom she had kept in contact. It was to say that her parents had a summer bungalow at Portham-on-Sea, which they did not use in the winter, and that if the Seftons cared to make use of it they were quite welcome. The key was with the agent, and so on.
“There,” said Ena gaily, “I told you something would turn up.”
“Where is this Portham, I’ve never heard of it?”
“It’s on the South Coast, my friend has often told me of it, shall we go there?”
“I suppose so, we haven’t much choice, but I should imagine it’s pretty bad this weather. We can’t stay here, so had better try.”
“Oh! let’s get away from here,” said Ena, in a voice which showed how the strain was telling on her.
Jack came round and put his arm round her. “Poor old girl, you have had a wretched time, and all the worry has come on you; let’s get out of it.”