The Terriford Mystery/Chapter 7

ITHIN an hour of his having left the Etna factory, James Kentworthy got up from his chair in Dr. Maclean's consulting room.

The man who had come down to Terriford to make these delicate inquiries was honest and conscientious, set on finding out the truth and nothing but the truth. Also, this was to be his last official investigation, and he had every reason for hoping that it would be a short business. The moment it was over he was to retire from the service and start for himself as a private inquiry agent. He was, therefore, sincerely glad that the conversation he had had with the late Mrs. Garlett's medical man had been, from his point of view, thoroughly satisfactory.

During the first few minutes of his interview with Mr. Kentworthy, Dr. Maclean had been so indignant and so shocked when he realized his visitor's business, that he had been very unwilling to give the police inspector any information. But he had soon realized that this was a mistake on his part, and by the end of their conversation the two men were on excellent terms the one with the other.

And now that their long talk was, as they both thought, drawing to an end, Dr. Maclean said earnestly:

“I do hope, Mr. Kentworthy, that I have been able to convince you not only that Mrs. Garlett died a natural death, but that my friend Garlett himself was for long years an exceptionally good husband to the poor, sickly woman?”

“You have convinced me,” said the inspector frankly, “that Mrs. Garlett's death was almost certainly a natural death. But I cannot pledge my superiors in any way, and the best thing would be for you to come with me to London to-night and see the gentleman in charge of the case to-morrow morning.”

Dr. Maclean stood up.

“There's one more thing I feel you should know, though it has nothing directly to do with the matter in hand.”

Mr. Kentworthy stiffened into quick attention.

“My wife's niece, Jean Bower, is just about to be married to Harry Garlett. As a matter of fact, the wedding has been fixed to take place to-morrow”

A quick inward debate took place in the Inspector's mind. Should he imitate the other's frankness? He made up his mind that it was his duty to do so.

“I am aware of that, Dr. Maclean, for Mr. Garlett told me the fact himself. I hope you won't be offended when I say that I regret very much that he did not wait a little longer. After all, it's a very short time since Mrs. Garlett's death.”

“She died in May, and we are now in December!” exclaimed the doctor with some heat. “And remember—I speak as from man to man—that the woman had been Garlett's wife only in name for many a long year.”

“I do remember that,” said James Kentworthy slowly. “But ask yourself, Dr. Maclean, how so quick a second marriage would strike ordinary people—who knew nothing of the special circumstances of the case?”

“But every one here, in this neighbourhood, does know the circumstances,” objected the doctor.

Each word this stranger had uttered in the last few moments had been said again and again in the last month by Dr. Maclean to his wife. But he was not going to admit anything of the sort now, even to himself.

Hardly knowing what he was doing he sat down again, and Mr. Kentworthy did the same.

Leaning forward, the police inspector said earnestly: “You must remember, sir, that what we, in our line of inquiry, are always looking for, is—motive.”

“Motive?” repeated the doctor. “I don't quite follow what you mean, Mr. Kentworthy.”

“I need not tell you—a doctor—that in the vast majority of cases the death of a man or woman is always of interest, and very often of considerable benefit, to some human being?”

“I see your point,” said the other uneasily.

“In this case,” went on Mr. Kentworthy, “I soon realized that money had played no part at all in the matter I had been sent to investigate.”

He stopped abruptly, hardly knowing how to frame the unpleasant fact he wanted to convey.

At last he said frankly: “You must admit, doctor, that Mrs. Garlett's death released her husband from a very trying position. It made him a free man.”

“That's true. Yet I ask you to believe me, Mr. Kentworthy, when I tell you most solemnly that Harry Garlett never longed, even unconsciously, for that sort of freedom. He is a man's man in daily life; he never seemed in the least interested in women; and there was never the slightest breath of scandal about his name.”

The police inspector looked at him gravely.

“I am sorry to say that you are mistaken, Dr. Maclean. You are evidently not aware that there has been a great deal of gossip, not only since Mrs. Garlett's death, but even before her death, concerning Mr. Garlett and the young lady to whom he is now engaged.”

Dr. Maclean jumped up from his chair.

“I deny that! I deny it absolutely!”

His eyes flashed, he struck his writing-table with his hand.

“What devils some women are! Why, my poor little niece had only just become secretary to the Etna Company when Mrs. Garlett died”

“She took over her new duties on the 26th of last April,” observed the inspector quietly, “and, from what I can make out, there seems no doubt that Mr. Garlett, who up to then had much neglected his duties as managing director, leaving everything, it appears, to his partner, a certain Mr. Jabez Dodson, began going daily to the Etna China factory.”

Dr. Maclean sat down again. He felt far more disturbed than he would have cared to acknowledge, even to himself.

“I suppose,” he said slowly, “that it would not be fair to ask you the source of this absolutely untrue and poisonous gossip?”

“I don't say it would be unfair—but I am sure you will understand that it would not be right of me to oblige you.”

“Do you mind telling me exactly what it is you have heard?—narrowing down the point to what you have been told happened before Mrs. Garlett's death?”

Mr. Kentworthy began to feel sorry he had said anything about that side of his investigations. He had been tempted into indiscretion by his liking for this man, and his growing conviction that Harry Garlett's wife had died an absolutely natural death.

It was as a friend of these foolish, if honest, people that he had just said what he knew was true. After all, it was perhaps just as well that they should know the kind of gossip floating about.

“The most serious thing I have heard,” he said quietly, “is that your niece and Mr. Garlett occasionally met secretly, late at night, in a little wood which forms part of Mr. Garlett's property.”

Dr. Maclean stared at the speaker with growing anger and astonishment, and the other, pursuing his advantage, as even the kindest men are sometimes tempted to do, went on—

“I have actually spoken to the person who saw them there on at least two occasions.”

Again Dr. Maclean got up. “You have actually found a man or woman who declares that he or she saw my niece, Jean Bower, and Harry Garlett, under the compromising circumstances you have described?”

“No,” exclaimed the other quickly. “I cannot say that the person in question mentioned Miss Bower. What she said—I admit it is a woman—was that she had twice seen Mr. Garlett and a young lady in the wood forming part of the Thatched House property, and that, on the second occasion, she overheard something like an altercation between the two. Garlett's companion burst into, tears and reproached him, from what I can make out, for his coldness to her.”

“Good God!” exclaimed Dr. Maclean.

He sat down again, heavily. He felt suddenly years older.

“Having said so much, I think it is only fair to you to read the exact words I put down after seeing the young woman in question.”

“Young woman? Then the author of this infamous lie is not Miss Prince?” said the doctor to himself as he listened to the inspector beginning to read from his note-book.

“You must understand,” explained Mr. Kentworthy, looking up, “that the person in question did not give me this connected account that I have read out. I had more or less to drag out of her these apparently unimportant details.”

“There is nothing there about a quarrel or tears,” observed the doctor.

“We are coming to that,” said the other quietly.

“I may as well read you the impression the story made on me at the time,” said Mr. Kentworthy, and he went on with his note-book:

“You cannot be surprised,” he added looking up, “that I feel everything points to Mr. Garlett's companion in the wood having been the young lady with whom he is now on the eve of marriage.”

“I suppose I can't expect you to agree with me,” said Dr. Maclean, “when I say that I am convinced that the story is entirely false from beginning to end. I know my niece never met Harry Garlett secretly at night, or, for the matter of that, in the daytime. Only his own admission would make me believe that Garlett met any woman in such com promising and dangerous circumstances.”

Mr. Kentworthy remained silent. It was clear he did not accept the other man's view of the story.

Suddenly the doctor pressed the electric bell on his table, twice, sharply: “I'm going to send for my niece,” he exclaimed.

Mr. Kentworthy started up.

“That's not fair,” he cried. “That's not playing the game!”

“Bide a wee, man. I'm not going to do anything unfair. I simply want you to see the child. I'll give her a message for my wife.”

A moment later the door opened and Jean Bower ran in.

“Yes, Uncle Jock? What” and then she stopped short. “I beg your pardon. I did not know you had any one here.”

“Mr. Kentworthy—my niece.”

The two shook hands, and as he looked keenly into her fresh guileless face and noted, as only a trained eye would have done, the dozen little details which go to differentiate one type of modern girl from the other, James Kentworthy told himself that Dr. Maclean had shown a sure instinct in thus obliging him to see Harry Garlett's betrothed.

The experienced police inspector was not a susceptible man, and he was one whose work habitually caused him to see the ugliest side of feminine human nature. Yet he would have staked a great deal on the probability that the girl now before him was as pure and essentially simple-hearted as had been the mother whose memory he cherished. He made up his mind that Harry Garlett's mysterious companion had almost certainly not been this young woman.

“I want you to tell your aunt, my dear, that I have unexpectedly got to go to town to-night.”

“Oh, Uncle Jock!”

Jean looked very troubled and dismayed. “I'd better 'phone to Harry at once, hadn't I?”

“Yes, do, my dear. But first tell your aunt. She'd better send a note to the vicar—that is if you want me to be present at your wedding.”

She reddened deeply. How very strange and odd of Uncle Jock to speak of to-morrow's secret ceremony before a stranger.

“Of course we want you to be there. Why, we shouldn't feel married if you weren't there! We'll put the wedding off for a day or two.”

She tried to speak lightly and, turning, left the room.

“There!” exclaimed Dr. Maclean. “D'you see that girl meeting a married man in a wood at night? She's the most self-possessed, dignified little lassie I've ever met! Not that she is lacking in feeling. She's devoted now, to that man, and,” he went on, speaking with a good deal of emotion. “I hope to God she will never know of this horrible, if it was not so serious I should say this ridiculous, business.”

Suddenly the telephone bell on his table rang. He took up the receiver.

“I said I was not to be disturbed”—and then in a very different voice—“Garlett?”

“Has the man who called on me this morning gone? I feel I must see you.... Yes, I'm still at the office. Where else should I be?... Somehow the horror of it all seems to grow and grow on me.... For the first time in my life I feel as if I don't know what I ought to do!”

The doctor felt dismayed. It was clear that the invisible speaker was painfully excited and overwrought.

“I don't think there's anything to worry about,” he called back soothingly. “My interview with Mr. Kentworthy has been quite satisfactory, and I'm going up to London to-night to see the people concerned to-morrow morning. Best not say too much over the telephone, my dear fellow. Bad breaks will come in business, as we all know.”

He hung up the receiver.

“Garlett's thoroughly rattled!” he exclaimed. “D'you see any objection to his coming up with us to-night and going to the Home Office to-morrow morning?”

The other hesitated.

“Frankly, I shouldn't advise that. If you, as Mrs. Garlett's medical attendant, can convince my chiefs that she died a natural death, the whole matter will be dropped.”

“I understand that, and I'll make him follow your advice,” said the doctor. “But what I can't make cut—what I would give a good deal to know—I suppose you know and won't tell me?—is what started this damnable inquiry?”

The eyes of the two men crossed.

“There are such things as anonymous letters,” observed Mr. Kentworthy dryly.

“Anonymous letters?”

Surprised though he felt, he told himself that he had been a fool not to think of that solution of the mystery.

“I didn't know,” he muttered, “that poor Garlett had an enemy in the world. But I suppose you can't run any business without making some bad blood.”

“I suppose you can't,” agreed the other. “But one thing I will tell you. The letters in question were never written by a factory hand.”

He leant forward and instinctively lowering his voice, he went on:

“Can you think of any one who bears Mr. Garlett a grudge?” Having said so much I think I may go a step further and say that we have no doubt at all that it is a woman.”

“A woman?”

Again the doctor's suspicions swung around to Miss Prince.

“I understand that before his wife's death Mr. Garlett went about a great deal?” went on the other thoughtfully.

“That's true. Garlett's a very good fellow, and very popular. As a famous cricketer he knew people more or less all over England, and the only kind of business he really did for the Etna China works was that of sometimes acting as a sort of glorified commercial traveller.”

“That being so, Dr. Maclean, don't you think it possible that he may have formed some kind of connection which he gave up as, queerly enough, a good many men do give up such friendships after a wife's death?”

“In this strange world of ours,” said the doctor reluctantly, “everything is possible. But I would have staked a good deal that that particular thing was never true of Harry Garlett. I take it you have seen the anonymous letters in question?”

The police inspector quietly opened his black attaché case.

“I see no reason why I should not show the letters to you now!” he exclaimed. “I feel certain the originals will be submitted for your inspection at the Home Office. I, of course, have only a set of facsimiles.

The doctor's face, which had been very grave, livened into eager curiosity.

Mr. Kentworthy came up to the writing table.

“This was the first letter. It was not addressed to the Home Office. It was sent to Scotland Yard.”

While he was speaking he had put his hand over the sheet of paper; now he lifted it, and Dr. Maclean saw a large sheet of paper marked i. Drawn in pencil was a curious conventional design, under which ran the words—“Water-mark of the original (foreign) paper.”

Then, written in block letters in very black ink, he read the following:


 * THE WRITER FEELS IT HIS DUTY TO DRAW THE ATTENTION OF THE HEAD COMMISSIONER OF POLICE TO CERTAIN MYSTERIOUS CIRCUMSTANCES SURROUNDING THE DEATH, ON THE 28TH OF LAST MAY, OF MRS. EMILY GARLETT AT THE THATCHED HOUSE, TERRIFORD VILLAGE. MRS. GARLETT WAS THE WIFE OF HENRY GARLETT, OWNER AND MANAGING-DIRECTOR OF THE WELL-KNOWN GRENDON ETNA CHINA FACTORY. THOUGH THE DEATH WAS VERY SUDDEN, NO INQUEST WAS HELD.

“This reads like a man's letter,” observed Dr. Maclean.

“It was meant to read like a man's letter,” said Mr. Kentworthy. “But we believe it to be the work of an educated woman.”

The doctor went on staring at the sinister epistle. What dread secret of love or hate—or was it only poisonous malice—lay behind these roughly ink-printed words?

“Here is the envelope. You will notice that the postmark, which by the way has been drawn in, for it was too obliterated for any other method to be of use, shows the letter to have been posted in London just a month ago. For what it is worth I may remind you that almost any educated man would realize that such a communication should be sent to the Criminal Investigation Department of the Home Office, and not to Scotland Yard.”

“What happens,” asked Dr. Maclean, “when such a thing as this is received?”

“By long experience we are well aware that such a letter is likely to be only one of a series—and sure enough, four days later, came this second letter!”

The speaker pushed aside the first sheet of paper he had laid down, and put in its place another.

“This surely is from an uneducated person?” exclaimed Dr. Maclean.

He was now gazing at a most peculiar looking script, marked 2.

“Not necessarily,” said Mr. Kentworthy. “But whether written by the same individual or not, this was undoubtedly written with the left hand. It is extremely difficult for any handwriting expert, however clever, to identify a letter written with the left hand with the writer's ordinary right-hand script. There are as a rule certain similarities, but those proceed from the brain rather than from the mechanical action of the hand.”

“I think I understand what you mean,” and, bending down, he read the following long comma-less sentence:

“What an abominable thing!”

Dr. Maclean's eyes flamed with anger. “I hope to God that neither my niece nor Harry Garlett will ever see this vulgar, hateful letter.”

“I can reassure you on that point,” said the other earnestly. “Under no consideration are these kinds of communications brought into a law case,” and, as he saw a shadow pass over the doctor's face:

“Not that I think there will be a law case. Since my talk with Mr. Garlett this morning, and with you during the last hour, I believe that all this trouble has been caused by some hysterical woman who has a grude [sic] against Mr. Garlett.”

Dr. Maclean muttered: “I only wish I had the writer of this letter here.”

“Perhaps you'd rather not see the other letter?” said his visitor, half smiling.

Human nature was always surprising James Kentworthy, and now he was amused in spite of himself. Dr. Maclean had taken the first anonymous letter calmly, but the moment he himself had been brought into the matter he had evidently felt very differently.

“Of course I'd rather see it!” he exclaimed brusquely, and the police inspector put it down before him.

No. 3 was written in block letters.


 * THE WRITER OF THE LETTER DATED NOVEMBER 25TH ADVISES THE HEAD COMMISSIONER OF POLICE TO ASK MR. HENRY GARLETT TO RENDER A FULL ACCOUNT OF THE CIRCUMSTANCES SURROUNDING HIS WIFE'S DEATH.

“I think,” said Dr. Maclean hesitatingly, “that I know who wrote two of those letters.”

“You do?” Mr. Kentworthy leaped to his feet.

“I suspect,” said the doctor, “that the writer is a certain Mary Prince, the daughter, I am sorry to say, of the medical man from whom I bought my practice.”

“The lady who lives at the Thatched Cottage?”

Mr. Kentworthy felt sadly disappointed. He was convinced the doctor was on a wrong track.

“I feel sure it is she,” Dr. Maclean spoke with growing energy and conviction. “Miss Prince is a most malicious woman. She has never liked Harry Garlett, and I know she has been genuinely shocked at his thought of remarriage. She actually guessed how things were between him and my poor little niece before they knew it themselves.”

“Believe me, you are on the wrong track, Dr. Maclean. I had a talk with this very lady two days ago, and though I don't think she has a pleasant disposition, if she is really the writer of these letters then she entirely took me in.”

“Did she know why you were here?” asked Dr. Maclean.

“Good heavens, no! I hope you won't be shocked when I confess that I told her I was distantly related, through her mother, to the late Mrs. Garlett. On the strength of this statement she asked me to tea, and we had a long talk. She is a shrewd, clever woman, though I admit a dangerous gossip. By the way, there is one person who, I gather, was actually with Mrs. Garlett when she died. I mean a certain Miss Agatha Cheale, who is a friend of this Miss Prince. How about her, Dr. Maclean?”

Unconsciously the doctor stiffened.

“I don't know that there is anything to say about Miss Cheale. She was distantly related to the Garletts. Mrs. Garlett's death was a real misfortune for her, for although the poor lady left her a thousand pounds, she was actually receiving a salary of three hundred pounds a year.”

“When was she here last?” asked Mr. Kentworthy suddenly.

“She came down for a week-end visit to Miss Prince about a month ago, and I think she is coming for Christmas. A capable, intelligent young woman, but I don't think she could add anything to what I have told you—the more so, that although she was in a war hospital in France, she is not a trained nurse.”

“Well, I'll be going now. Shall we meet at Grendon station at five o'clock and travel together?”

“By all means.” The two men shook hands cordially.

“I hope you will be able to forget all about this business after to-morrow,” said the police inspector earnestly.

But Dr. Maclean felt very sick at heart when he finally shut the door on his unwelcome visitor, and turned his steps reluctantly toward the dining room where he knew his wife, and probably Jean with her, was likely to be.

As he opened the dining-room door he saw with relief that Mrs. Maclean was alone.

“What signifies the message Jean brought me just now?” she exclaimed. “Why must the marriage be put off, even for one day, Jock? Surely you can' postpone going to London till to-morrow afternoon?”

“I'm the bearer of bad news,” he said heavily.

Mrs. Maclean stood up.

“What's the matter?” she asked in a frightened tone.

As her husband remained silent, she went up to him, and gave his arm a shake:

“Jock? You're frightening me! Have you found out anything about Harry Garlett? D'you mean you think the marriage will have to be broken off?”

She added, “The child's fair daft about him!”

“There's no question of breaking off the marriage,” he said quickly. “In fact, if I had my way Jean should not be told anything—beyond the bare fact that her wedding must be postponed for a day or two.”

And then, before he could say anything further, the door behind them burst open and Harry Garlett rushed into the room.

His face was drawn and haggard—he looked years older than he had done that morning.

“I hoped to catch that London detective here—but I hear he's gone. Look here, Maclean. I've had time to think over what I ought to do, and I've decided to go to London at once and clear the matter up.”

“What matter have you to clear up?” asked Mrs. Maclean.

Garlett walked straight over to where she was standing and looked at her fixedly:

“I am suspected of having murdered my wife, Aunt Jenny,” he said in a hard, matter-of-fact voice, “and from what I can make out that suspicion will never be laid to rest till they have dug up the poor creature and satisfied themselves that she died a natural death.”

The colour drifted from Mrs. Maclean's healthy face.

“Is what he says true?” she asked, turning to her husband.

“Yes and no,” he answered in a measured tone. It's true that Harry has some deadly enemy who is trying to fasten this awful charge on him. But my talk just now with a man named Kentworthy who was sent down from the Home Office”

“The Home Office?”

Mrs. Maclean was an intelligent woman, and the words struck a note of sharp fear in her breast.

The doctor went on: “I've just had the fellow here for over an hour, and I think I've convinced him that the—well, the suspicion, if you can go so far as to call it that, is absolutely groundless.”

Harry Garlett broke in: “But did Kentworthy tell you what I forced him to admit to me—that nothing short of an exhumation will really settle the matter, and that unless that takes place the matter may be raised again at any time?”

A tide of dismay welled up in Dr. Maclean's heart. He suddenly realized that what this wild-eyed man, who looked so little like the happy, still-young lover of this morning, was saying, was only too true.

Even so he forced himself to exclaim: “You take an exaggerated view, Harry. All I ask you to do is to await the result of my interview with the Home Office people.”

Harry Garlett was staring at the speaker, a look of terrible perplexity as well as acute suffering on his face.

“In any case, I suppose you would admit that our marriage will have to be postponed?” he said slowly.

“Well, yes, I'm afraid it must be—for a day or two.”

And then Mrs. Maclean broke in:

“Before you even decide on that I think you ought to consult Jean. After all, she's the person most nearly concerned, isn't she? Though perhaps—” she hesitated painfully, “we need not tell her the reason for the postponement?”

Garlett turned away and stared out into the wintry garden, and there was such a look of anguish on his face that Mrs. Maclean suddenly felt a rush of intense, overwhelming pity for him.

She went across to where he was standing and put her hand gently on his arm. But he made no response.

Dr. Maclean cleared his throat: “Perhaps I'd better go and tell Jean what has happened? I don't see how we can hope to keep it from her.”

But the unhappy man roused himself: “No!” he said violently, “I'll tell her myself—I'd rather she heard it from me.

He turned to the doctor. “I know how kind you are” his voice broke, “but I feel that she ought to hear this vile thing from me”

“I think that's true, Jock,” said Mrs. Maclean quietly. “So now I'll go and find the child.”

She was walking to the door when Garlett asked suddenly: “Where is Jean? Out of doors? I'd rather speak to her there.”

“I'll see you're not disturbed.”

Jean Bower was already on her way back to the house when Harry Garlett caught sight of her. She was walking quickly, her whole figure instinct with the joyous buoyancy and grace of happy youth.

When she saw her lover she stopped short, pleased and yet surprised, for he had told her that he was not coming back from the factory till late afternoon.

And then, as he hurried up to her, there swept over her a feeling of sharp misgiving.

“Is anything the matter?” she asked affrightedly.

He took hold of her arm and guided her to a bride path which was now, to them both, filled with delicious associations, for it was here that they had always come, during the few short weeks of their secret engagement, to be alone together. Closed in on either side by old yew hedges, it was the only part of the Bonnie Doon garden really sheltered from prying eyes. Often, nay almost always, their first, their only, kisses, on any given day, were taken and given here, between those high, impenetrable walls of living green. To Jean the yew hedge walk had become holy ground.

And so, as they turned the corner, the girl's heart began to beat quickly. Here it was that Harry always turned with a sudden, passionate movement, and took her in his arms. But to-day her lover hurried her along the uneven brick path until they reached the extreme end of the shadowed walk.

Then, and not till then, he stopped, and faced her with the words: “We can't be married to-morrow”

He had meant to add, “I am suspected of having poisoned my wife.” But he found he could not utter the hateful words. They would not come.

And Jean? Gazing up into his haggard face she felt a mingled rush of intense relief and deep, exultant love and tenderness. It moved her to the soul to think that the postponement of their marriage could make him look as he was looking now. But she was quickly, painfully, undeceived.

“A man came to see me at the works this morning to tell me that there seems to be some doubt as to the cause of Emily's death.”

Her face filled with deep surprise and dismay, but no suspicion of what his words implied crossed her mind. All she did understand was that what had happened had given this man who was so entirely her own, a terrible shock.

“Why should that make any difference to our being married to-morrow morning?” she asked in a low voice.

“Because neither your aunt nor your uncle would wish you to be married to a man suspected of murder.” He spoke with harsh directness.

“Murder?” Jean Bower's eyes flashed. She did not shrink, as he had thought she would do; instead she threw herself on his breast and pressed close up to him, putting her arms round his neck.

“If that is true, but I don't believe it is true, then I want to marry you at once—to-day rather than to-morrow, Harry. Oh, my love, my own dear love, don't look at me like that!”

His arms hungrily enfolded her, but he shook his head determinedly. “Till the whole thing is cleared up, we've got to face this trouble separately.”

“No! No! No!” she exclaimed, looking up eagerly, piteously, into his drawn face. “Not separately, but together, Harry.”

And it was he, not she, who broke down as she pressed up closer to him, for, to her agonized distress, he pushed her away and broke into short, gasping, hard sobs.

“I can't come back to the house,” he said at last. “Tell your uncle I'll meet him at the station, my darling.”

She saw he was making a great effort over himself, and very gallantly she “played up.”

“All right, I'll tell him. But Harry?”

“Yes?” he said listlessly.

“You'll go now and get something to eat. Promise?” and for the first time her lips quivered.

“I promise.”

Again he took her in his arms. Their lips met and clung together. At last, “Oh, Jean,” he whispered brokenly, “do you think we shall ever be happy again?”

“Of course we shall,” she said confidently.

And then she walked with him through the wintry, bare garden to the field where there was a gate which gave into the road leading to Grendon. There they did not kiss again. They only shook hands quietly.