For a moment no one spoke. He was particularly vexed at her finding him in the room; she was sick with apprehension at the thoughts which crowded in on her. Then in a low, strained voice she said, “What are you doing—here?” “I am just looking round the house,” he answered evasively. “But here, you can learn nothing here.” “This seems to be the son’s room if I’m not mistaken?” he asked. “I understood he never came here.” “It is ten years since he was here,” she answered; then, seeing his unspoken question, she went on, “It was his mother’s whim to keep the room exactly as it was when he was ordered out of the house: he went, you know, just as he stood, and left everything; he was proud—and angry. I expect you have heard the story. Anyway, his name was never allowed to be mentioned again. Sir Roger had one great fault; he was proud too but in a very different way, and he could not forgive.” “I see, but I should have thought that this——” he paused and indicated the room. “Oh, he never asked about it, why should he? It was never mentioned, just maintained. Sentimental, yes, but it harmed no one and pleased his mother. But I am afraid,” she went on, forcing herself to speak lightly, “that this old history, sad as it has been, is only a waste of time now. Tragedies of ten years ago have little bearing on tragedies of to-day.” “I am bound to look everywhere,” he said, coming out. They walked along the passage together in silence. Each was wondering how much the other knew; she dared not say more in the light of her fears, he did not wish to in the light of his knowledge. Evelyn went to her room and then, after taking off her hat, went with leaden feet to Celia. “Well,” she said as brightly as she could as she entered, “how are you feeling now? It’s lovely out, not too hot like yesterday.” “Where did you go?” asked Celia without interest. “Oh, only in the garden.” Evelyn found a difficulty in keeping her voice quite natural, and her eyes strayed restlessly to the window. This was horrible; what was it that had thrust itself between them? She must make some effort to end the crushing uncertainty she had been suddenly called upon to face. Anything was better than that; and in her heart she was convinced, in spite of all the evidence which was pressing on her, that a frank renewal of speech would dispel the spectre. She might be deceived in her eyes and her reason, but she felt she could not be deceived in the character of her own Celia. She looked up abruptly and said, “I’m afraid the police are working rather at random.” It seemed to her, though she hated to think it, that Celia did not receive this remark quite naturally; she turned quickly and said with a strange note—was it relief or disappointment or was it merely an overstrung imagination in the listener?—“Why do you say that?”