Had someone entered? Was someone there with her, in the half-light, whispering to her: “I’m in the house now—and I shall stay, so long as I please—unless you can turn me out.” She went back into the drawing-room. “There was no one,” she said. “Perhaps it was Rebekah.” “There’s rather a draught, dear,” said Aunt Aggie, “my neuralgia ... thank you, my dear.” “I’ve done it!” cried Aunt Betty, flushed with pleasure. “It’s come out! If you hadn’t shown me that seven, Katie, it never would have come!” * * * * * Upon the very next afternoon Aunt Aggie made up her mind. After luncheon she went, alone, for a walk; she climbed the fields above the house, threaded little lanes sunk between high hedges, crossed an open common, dropped into another lane, was lost for awhile, finally emerged on the hill above that tiny Cove known as Smuggler’s Button. Smuggler’s Button is the tiniest cove in Glebeshire, the sand of it is the whitest, and it has in the very middle a high jagged rock known as the Pin. Aunt Aggie, holding an umbrella, a black bonnet on her head and an old shabby rain-coat flapping behind her, sat on the Pin. It was a long way for her to have come—five miles from Garth—and the day was windy, with high white clouds that raced above her head like angry birds ready to devour her. Aunt Aggie sat there and looked at the sea, which approached her in little bowing and beckoning white waves, as though she were a shrivelled and pouting Queen Victoria holding a drawing-room. Once and again her head trembled, as though it were fastened insecurely to her body, and her little fat, swollen cheeks shook like jelly. Sometimes she raised a finger, encased in a black glove, and waved it in the air, as though she were admonishing the universe. She clutched vigorously in one hand her umbrella.