"Why not? An undiscovered mystery is like an unfinished tune. You feel a tantalizing desire for the closing cadence. All my life I shall worry about that poor fellow's death, until I really know how he was killed, and who killed him. Only one more try, Olive, I promise you. If Mr. Brock fails to help me, I suppose I must give up the chase." "Well, see Mr. Brock, and then tell him the story. But I fear you will be disappointed." "Who knows, dear. His knowledge of your father and Carson's life in Kikat should be precise. For all we know, Michael Trall may have done it." "I can't think that, Laurence. Michael Trall has not been seen or heard of for thirty years." "True, true. His own brother doesn't know of his whereabouts. I dare say the scamp is dead." "And even if he were alive, I can't see where his motive could have been." "True, again. But I think I'll ask Mr. Brock, nevertheless." CHAPTER VI. "MR. BROCK'S ADDENDA." In spite of herself Olive fretted. Her trouble had taken firm hold of her mind, and bade fair now to make havoc of her body. She lost flesh rapidly. In vain Mallow tried to combat this brooding over her father's wrong-doing. He pointed out the futility of it; he urged her--implored her--to make the effort to rouse herself. But without result. Her father's sin became with her an ever-present enormity. She was continually dwelling upon it. They tried to get her to work--to use her hands, employ herself actively, anyhow--at anything--so long as, for the time being, it was capable of absorbing her, and thus releasing the terrible tension under which she laboured. At last Mallow saw there was nothing for it but an entire change of scene and surroundings. "You must go, Olive dear--away from here, away from all that reminds you of yourself. You shall go abroad at once, Mrs. Purcell shall go with you, and later I will join you, and in six months' time you will return, dear, a totally different woman--no longer Olive Bellairs, even in name, for we will be married, and you will laugh at yourself and these wretched phantoms of your own raising." "You speak as though I were a child!" she cried petulantly. "Phantoms indeed!--facts, you mean. My father was a--oh, don't speak of it, the very thought drives me beside myself. And I have to keep it all to myself--all, all!" "Oh, Olive," said Mallow, reproachfully, "am I not some help to you?" "A man never understands--he does not feel these things." "Really, Olive, I think the sooner you get away from Casterwell the better." "I shall never be better--never, never!" Mallow did not argue with her. He saw that it was quite useless. Actions, not words, were necessary if Olive was to be restored to a proper sense of what was due to herself and to others. Laurence recognized this, and took an early opportunity of calling at the Vicarage. Again Mr. Brock refused to see him; but next day Mallow received a note requesting him to call. He obeyed promptly.