“You did very wrong.”

“I am sorry to hear her mother say so.”

“Her mother does say so.  How do you know she is dead?”

“I am not at liberty to say how I know it—­but I do know it.”

“Are you at liberty to say how you found out my address?”

“Certainly.  I got your address from Mrs. Clements.”

“Mrs. Clements is a foolish woman.  Did she tell you to come here?”

“She did not.”

“Then, I ask you again, why did you come?”

As she was determined to have her answer, I gave it to her in the plainest possible form.

“I came,” I said, “because I thought Anne Catherick’s mother might have some natural interest in knowing whether she was alive or dead.”

“Just so,” said Mrs. Catherick, with additional self-possession.  “Had you no other motive?”

I hesitated.  The right answer to that question was not easy to find at a moment’s notice.

“If you have no other motive,” she went on, deliberately taking off her slate-coloured mittens, and rolling them up, “I have only to thank you for your visit, and to say that I will not detain you here any longer.  Your information would be more satisfactory if you were willing to explain how you became possessed of it.  However, it justifies me, I suppose, in going into mourning.  There is not much alteration necessary in my dress, as you see.  When I have changed my mittens, I shall be all in black.”

She searched in the pocket of her gown, drew out a pair of black lace mittens, put them on with the stoniest and steadiest composure, and then quietly crossed her hands in her lap.

“I wish you good morning,” she said.

The cool contempt of her manner irritated me into directly avowing that the purpose of my visit had not been answered yet.

“I have another motive in coming here,” I said.

“Ah!  I thought so,” remarked Mrs. Catherick.

“Your daughter’s death——­”

“What did she die of?”

“Of disease of the heart.”

“Yes.  Go on.”

“Your daughter’s death has been made the pretext for inflicting serious injury on a person who is very dear to me.  Two men have been concerned, to my certain knowledge, in doing that wrong.  One of them is Sir Percival Glyde.”

“Indeed!”

I looked attentively to see if she flinched at the sudden mention of that name.  Not a muscle of her stirred—­the hard, defiant, implacable stare in her eyes never wavered for an instant.

“You may wonder,” I went on, “how the event of your daughter’s death can have been made the means of inflicting injury on another person.”

“No,” said Mrs. Catherick; “I don’t wonder at all.  This appears to be your affair.  You are interested in my affairs.  I am not interested in yours.”

“You may ask, then,” I persisted, “why I mention the matter in your presence.”