“Yes,” I answered, “but I think I understand you better than you understand me.”

“Not a bit of it,” she replied; “that’s nonsense.  Do you see that flower-pot on the top of the stump by the little hill over there?  Percy has been firing at it with his air-gun.  Do you think you could hit it with an apple?  Let’s each take three apples and try.”

It was late in the afternoon when Miss Edith returned from the Holly Sprig, where she and Genevieve had driven in a pony-cart.  I was with the rest of the family on the golf links a short distance from the house, and it was some time before she got a chance to speak to me, but she managed at last.

“How did she take the news?” I eagerly asked.

The girl hesitated.  “I don’t think I ought to tell you all she said and did.  It was really a private interview between us two, and I know she would not want me to say much about it.  And I don’t think you would want to hear everything.”

I hastened to assure her that I would not ask for the particulars of the conversation.  I only wished to know the general effect of the message upon her.  That was legitimate enough, as, in fact, she received the message through me.

“Well, she was very much affected, and it would have teen dreadful if you had gone.  Oh the whole, however, I cannot help thinking that the Italian’s letter was a great relief to her, particularly because she found that her husband had been killed by mistake.  She said that one of the greatest loads upon her soul had been the feeling that he had had an enemy who hated him enough to kill him.  But now the case is very different, and it is a great comfort to her to know it.”

“And about the murderer?” I said.  “Did you ask her if she wanted steps taken to apprehend him?”

“Yes,” she said, “I did speak of it, and she is very anxious that nothing shall be done in that direction.  Even if the Italian should be caught, she would not have the affair again publicly discussed and dissected.  She believes the man’s story, and she never wants to hear of him again.  Indeed, I think that if it should be proved that the Italian killed Mr. Chester on purpose, it would be the greatest blow that could be inflicted upon her.”

“Then,” said I, “I might as well let the negro man go his way.  I have not paid him his passage-money to the city.  I knew he would wait until he got it, and it might be desirable to take him into custody.”

“Oh no,” she said.  “Mrs. Chester spoke about that.  She doesn’t want the man troubled in any way.  He knew nothing of the message he carried.  Now I am going to tell father about it—­she asked me to do it.”

That evening was a merry one.  We had charades, and a good many other things were going on.  Miss Willoughby was an admirable actress, and Miss Edith was not bad, although she could never get rid of her personality.  I was in a singular state of mind.  I felt as if I had been relieved from a weight.  My spirits were actually buoyant.