“No, sir. Miss Mivart said she would wait until you arrived. She wants your opinion.”
“And Mrs. Courtenay. How does she bear the tragedy?”
“The poor lady doesn’t know yet.”
“Doesn’t know? Haven’t you told her?”
“No, sir. She’s not at home.”
“What? She hasn’t returned?”
“No, sir,” responded the man.
That fact was in itself peculiar. Yet there was, I felt sure, some strong reason if young Mrs. Courtenay remained the night with her friends, the Hennikers. Trains run to Kew after the theatres, but she had possibly missed the last, and had been induced by her friends to remain the night with them in town.
Yet the whole of the tragic affair was certainly very extraordinary. It was Short’s duty to rise at two o’clock each morning and go to his master’s room to ascertain if the invalid wanted anything. Generally, however, the old gentleman slept well, hence there had been no necessity for a night nurse.
When I entered the cab, and the man having taken a seat beside me, we had set out on our long night drive to Kew, I endeavoured to obtain more details regarding the Courtenay ménage. In an ordinary way I could scarcely have questioned a servant regarding his master and mistress, but on this drive I saw an occasion to obtain knowledge, and seized it.