This I eagerly examined, but no card was attached.
Surely whoever had placed it there had mistaken the grave, for Mr Arnold possessed no friends, and I had been the only follower. His decease had not been advertised; therefore surely none could know of his death.
For a few minutes I stood there, gazing upon the emblem, and pondering.
Suddenly I saw the cemetery-keeper, and walking up to him pointed out the grave and asked him if he knew anything of the cross that had been placed upon it.
“Oh, you mean Mr Arnold’s grave, I suppose, sir,” exclaimed the man.
“How do you know it is Mr Arnold’s!” I asked.
“Well, sir, the day after the funeral a young lady came to me and inquired where a Mr Melvill Arnold had been buried. So I looked it up in the books and told her. She’s been here every day since, and put fresh flowers there.”
“A young lady! What was she like?” I inquired. “Oh, well, she’s about twenty, I should say—pretty, with dark hair, and dressed in mourning,” he replied. “She comes each day about five, generally in a private motor-car—a big grey car. The flowers cost her a tidy lot, I should think, for they’re not common ones.”
“About five o’clock!” I exclaimed. “Has she been here to-day?”
“No. And she didn’t come yesterday either,” was the man’s reply. “Perhaps she’ll come later on. We don’t close till half-past seven just now.”