“We can only wait,” I said. “Personally, I have confidence in Jevons. If there is a clue to be obtained, depend upon it he will scent it out.”
I did not tell them of my misgivings, nor did I explain how Ambler, having found himself utterly baffled, had told me of his intention to relinquish further effort. The flying trip abroad might be in connection with the case, but I felt confident that it was not. He knew, as well as I did, that the truth was to be found in England.
Again we spoke of Ethelwynn; and from Mary’s references to her sister I gathered that a slight coolness had fallen between them. She did not, somehow, speak of her in the same terms of affection as formerly. It might be that she shared her mother’s prejudices, and did not approve of her taking up her abode with the Hennikers. Be it how it might, there were palpable signs of strained relations.
Could it be possible, I wondered, that Mary had learnt of her sister’s secret engagement to her husband?
I looked full at her as that thought flashed through my mind. Yes, she presented a picture of sweet and interesting widowhood. In her voice, as in her countenance, was just that slight touch of grief which told me plainly that she was a heart-broken, remorseful woman—a woman, like many another, who knew not the value of a tender, honest and indulgent husband until he had been snatched from her. Mother and daughter, both widows, were a truly sad and sympathetic pair.
As we spoke I watched her eyes, noted her every movement attentively, but failed utterly to discern any suggestion of what her mother had remarked.
Once, at mention of her dead husband, she had of a sudden exclaimed in a low voice, full of genuine emotion:
“Ah, yes. He was so kind, so good always. I cannot believe that he will never come back,” and she burst into tears, which her mother, with a word of apology to me, quietly soothed away.
When we arose I accompanied them to the drawing-room; but without any music, and with Mary’s sad, half-tragic countenance before us, the evening was by no means a merry one; therefore I was glad when, in pursuance of the country habit of retiring early, the maid brought my candle and showed me to my room.
It was not yet ten o’clock, and feeling in no mood for sleep, I took from my bag the novel I had been reading on my journey and, throwing myself into an armchair, first gave myself up to deep reflection over a pipe, and afterwards commenced to read.