“Miss Blount?”
“Yes,” said Stella, coming to a halt.
She had noticed the woman for some little time walking on the opposite side of the way, and had been struck by a catlike stealthiness in her gait. Now, face to face with the woman, she met a pair of pale-green, almost expressionless eyes fixed on her with an odd relentlessness. The woman's lips were twisted into the convention of a smile.
“Could I have the pleasure of a few words with you?”
“Certainly,” said Stella. “Will you come into the house with me? We are almost there.”
“If you will excuse me, Miss Blount,” said the woman, holding up a deprecating hand,—she was well-gloved and was dressed like a lady,—“I would rather not go in with you. I have my reasons. I must speak with you entirely in private. If we go round here, there is a comfortable seat.”
Near the point at which they were standing the road up the cliff diverged into two forks. The upper fork led to the gate of the Channel House. The lower one was a pathway round the breast of the cliff. The woman pointed to the latter. Stella hesitated.
“What have you so private to tell me that we can't talk in the garden?”
“It's something about John Risca,” said the woman with the thin lips.
Stella put her hand to her heart. “John—Mr. Risca? What is the matter? Has anything happened to him?”