“Of that you will learn soon enough, I fear,” she replied in a hard, changed voice, which had a distant touch of sadness in it.
“Yes. But is there not a grave danger in returning to England?”
“He was compelled to do so—first in order to meet you at Totnes, and now for a second reason, in connection with the unfortunate death of poor Mr Melvill Arnold.”
“You, of course, knew Mr Arnold,” I said. “It is your hand that has placed those fresh flowers upon his grave.”
She was silent. Then in a low voice she said—
“I admit that I have done so, for he was always my friend—always. But please say nothing to my father regarding what I have done.”
“To me a great mystery enshrouds Mr Arnold,” I said. “Cannot you tell me something concerning him—who and what he was? By my very slight knowledge of him, I feel instinctively that he was no ordinary person.”
“And your estimate was surely a perfectly correct one, Mr Kemball. He was one of the most remarkable of men.”
“You knew of his death. How?”
“I knew he was in London, for he scribbled me a note telling me his address, but requesting me to reveal it to nobody, not even my father,” she said, in a low, hoarse voice. “I called to see him upon some urgent business—because he wished to see me, but, alas! they told me at the hotel that he had died only a few hours before. So I went away, fearing to reveal myself to you, who they told me was his friend. Two days later I made inquiries, and learned where they had buried him. Then, in tribute to the memory of the man of whose greatness of heart and remarkable attainments the world has remained in ignorance, I laid flowers upon his grave.”