“Go to what, Granny?” he said. “What do you mean? What are you talking about?” “Aha, I am talking of what I know and what you know. We talk in parables that are plain to us. He knew, too--that man who never comes here now. Yes, and yet another. They have both gone. Only Colin and I are left now, and the chapel is empty.” She stopped as suddenly as she had begun, and rose, leaning on her sticks. But all through these days, while spring every hour was weaving fresh embroideries, some black pattern was being worked, stitch by stitch, so Violet felt, into Colin’s heart. Sometimes the needle was nimbly plied, and then, despite herself, she shuddered at the depths that lay beneath the bright surface of his gaiety, for it was when some black business within went well that his mood was sunniest. Such was the case when he came back from the inquest held on the body of Vincenzo. “There was an autopsy,” he told her, “and though they rummaged about, so Dr. Martin told me, with great thoroughness, they could find no cause of death whatever. Visitation of God, that was all they could make of it, and I daresay they were quite right. He was like Enoch, apparently: he was translated. I wonder how Vincenzo would bear translation. I wonder what he was translated into.” It was difficult not to shudder at that. “Colin, don’t talk like that,” she said. “You’re terrible.” “Terrible? Why? I didn’t translate him. And then I gave my evidence, and we were all very polite and complimentary, and bowed at each other with respectful and mournful little smiles. I told them just what I told you, and they all agreed I had acted with great wisdom and prudence. That was quite true: they had no idea how true that was; and then we all bowed again like--like a minuet. By the way, have you made anything of that little puzzle I set you about the departure of Douglas following so closely on the death of Vincenzo, and the reason he gave for it?” Violet made no reply. “Your manners are getting very bad, darling,” said Colin. “I asked you a civil enough question. Now, here’s another queer thing. Both the doctor and his assistant noticed a very curious smell about the frail earthly tabernacle of poor Vincenzo. What do you think that was? You’ll never guess, so I’ll tell you. There was a strong odour of incense. Now where can that have come from? I could throw no light on it. Can you?” She got up. “Colin, supposing I told them there was more about Vincenzo’s death than they know?” she said. “Ah! That’s a great idea. What fun! Write an anonymous letter to the coroner. And what will you say it was that they don’t know?... I thought that information about the incense might interest you. Consider it in connection with the puzzle.”