We were very silent. Halsey sat on the rail with a pipe, openly watching Louise, as she looked broodingly across the valley to the hills. There was something baffling in the girl’s eyes; and gradually Halsey’s boyish features lost their glow at seeing her about again, and settled into grim lines. He was like his father just then. We sat until late afternoon, Halsey growing more and more moody. Shortly before six, he got up and went into the house, and in a few minutes he came out and called me to the telephone. It was Anna Whitcomb, in town, and she kept me for twenty minutes, telling me the children had had the measles, and how Madame Sweeny had botched her new gown. When I finished, Liddy was behind me, her mouth a thin line. “I wish you would try to look cheerful, Liddy,” I groaned, “your face would sour milk.” But Liddy seldom replied to my gibes. She folded her lips a little tighter. “He called her up,” she said oracularly, “he called her up, and asked her to keep you at the telephone, so he could talk to Miss Louise. _A thankless child is sharper than a serpent’s tooth_” “Nonsense!” I said bruskly. “I might have known enough to leave them. It’s a long time since you and I were in love, Liddy, and—we forget.” Liddy sniffed. “No man ever made a fool of me,” she replied virtuously. “Well, something did,” I retorted. CHAPTER XIX. CONCERNING THOMAS “Mr. Jamieson,” I said, when we found ourselves alone after dinner that night, “the inquest yesterday seemed to me the merest recapitulation of things that were already known. It developed nothing new beyond the story of Doctor Stewart’s, and that was volunteered.” “An inquest is only a necessary formality, Miss Innes,” he replied. “Unless a crime is committed in the open, the inquest does nothing beyond getting evidence from witnesses while events are still in their minds. The police step in later. You and I both know how many important things never transpired. For instance: the dead man had no key, and yet Miss Gertrude testified to a fumbling at the lock, and then the opening of the door. The piece of evidence you mention, Doctor Stewart’s story, is one of those things we have to take cautiously: the doctor has a patient who wears black and does not raise her veil. Why, it is the typical mysterious lady! Then the good doctor comes across Arnold Armstrong, who was a graceless scamp—_de mortuis_—what’s the rest of it?—and he is quarreling with a lady in black. Behold, says the doctor, they are one and the same.” “Why was Mr. Bailey not present at the inquest?” The detective’s expression was peculiar. “Because his physician testified that he is ill, and unable to leave his bed.” “Ill!” I exclaimed. “Why, neither Halsey nor Gertrude has told me that.”