There was a pause, and then Miss Crofton abruptly changed the subject by saying something which considerably disturbed her young sister-in-law.

“I should be much obliged, my dear, if you would tell me a few details as to my poor brother’s death.  Your letter contained no particulars at all,” and as the other made no immediate answer, Miss Crofton went on:—­“I know there was an inquest, for one of my friends in Florence saw a report of it in an English paper.  Perhaps you would kindly let me see any newspaper account or cuttings you may have preserved?”

“I have kept nothing, Alice!” Enid Crofton uttered the words with a touch of almost angry excitement.  Then, perhaps seeing that the other was very much surprised, she said more quietly:—­“The inquest was a purely formal affair—­the Coroner himself told me that there must always be an inquest when a person died suddenly.”

“Oh, but surely the question was raised, and that very seriously, as to whether Cecil took what he did take on purpose, or by accident?  I understood from my friend that the account of the inquest she saw in some popular Sunday paper was headed ‘An Essex Mystery.’”

Enid felt as if all the blood in her body was flowing towards her face.  She congratulated herself that she was sitting with her back to the light.  These remarks, these questions made her feel sick and faint.  Yet she answered, composedly:—­“Both the Coroner and the jury felt sure he had taken it on purpose.  Poor Cecil had never been like himself since the unlucky day, for us, that the War ended!” And then to Miss Crofton’s surprise and discomfiture Enid burst into tears.

The older lady got up and put her hand very kindly on the younger one’s shoulder:—­“I’m sorry I said anything, my dear,” she exclaimed; “I’m afraid you went through a much worse time than you let me know.”

“I did!  I did!” sobbed Enid.  “I cannot tell you how terrible it was, Alice.”

Then she made a determined effort over herself, ashamed of her own emotion.  Still neither hostess nor guest was sorry when there came a knock at the door, followed a moment later by the entry into the room of a stranger who was announced by the maid as “Miss Pendarth.”

Enid Crofton got up, and as she shook hands with the newcomer she tried to remember what it was that Godfrey Radmore had said of her old-fashioned looking visitor.  That she was a good friend but a bad enemy?  Yes, that had been it.  Then she remembered something else—­the few kind words scribbled on a visiting card which had been left at The Trellis House a day or two ago.

She turned to her sister-in-law:—­“I think Miss Pendarth knew poor Cecil years and years ago,” she said softly.

“Are you—­you must be Olivia Pendarth?” There was a touch of emotion in Alice Crofton’s level voice.

“Yes, I am Olivia Pendarth.”

Enid was surprised—­not over pleased by the revelation that these two knew one another.