I hated asking auntie questions, they seemed to worry and distress her so; but that evening, in view of my projected visit to Torquay, I was obliged to cross-examine her rather closely about many things. I wanted to know about my Torquay relations, and as far as possible about my mother’s family. In the end I learned that the Willie Moores were cousins of ours on my mother’s side who had never quarrelled with my father, like Aunt Emma, and through whom alone accordingly, in the days of my First State, Aunt Emma was able to learn anything about me. They had a house at Torquay, and connections all around; for the Moores were Devonshire people. Aunt Emma was very anxious, if I went down there at all, I should stop with Mrs. Moore: for Minnie would be so grieved, she said, if I went to an hotel or took private lodgings. But I wouldn’t hear of that myself. I knew nothing of the Moores—in my present condition—and I didn’t like to trust myself in the hands of those who to me were perfect strangers. So I decided on going to the Imperial Hotel, and calling on the Moores quietly to pursue my investigation.

Another question I asked in the course of the evening. I had wondered about it often, and now, in these last straits, curiosity overcame me.

“Aunt Emma,” I said unexpectedly after a pause, without one word of introduction, “how ever did you get those scars on your hand? You’ve never told me.”

In a moment, Aunt Emma blushed suddenly crimson like a girl of eighteen.

“Una,” she answered very gravely, in a low strange tone, “oh, don’t ask me about that, dear. Don’t ask me about that. You could never understand it.... I got them... in climbing over a high stone wall... a high stone wall, with bits of glass stuck on top of it.”

In spite of her prohibition, I couldn’t help asking one virtual question more. I gave a start of horror:

“Not the wall at The Grange!” I cried. “Oh, Aunt Emma, how wonderful!”

She gazed at me, astonished.

“Yes, the wall at The Grange,” she said simply. “But I don’t know how you guessed it.... Oh, Una, don’t talk to me any more about these things, I implore you. You can’t think how they grieve me. They distress me unspeakably.”

Much as I longed to know, I couldn’t ask her again after that. She was trembling like an aspen-leaf. For some minutes we sat and looked at the fireplace in silence.

Then curiosity overcame me again.

“Only one question more, auntie,” I said. “When I came to you first, you were at home here at Barton. You didn’t come to Woodbury to fetch me after the murder. You didn’t attend the inquest. I’ve often wondered at that. Why didn’t you bring me yourself? Why didn’t you hurry to nurse me as soon as you heard they’d shot my father?”

Aunt Emma gazed at me again with a face like a sheet.

“Darling,” she said, quivering, “I was ill. I was in bed. I was obliged to stay away. I’d hurt myself badly a little before.... Oh, Una, leave off! If you go on like this, you’ll drive me mad. Say no more, I implore of you.”

I couldn’t think what this meant; but as auntie wished it, I held my peace, all inwardly trembling with suppressed excitement.

That night, when I went up to bed, I lay awake long, thinking to myself of the Australian scene. In the silence of the night it came back to me vividly. Rain pattered on the roof, and helped me to remember it. I could see the blue-gum trees waving their long ribbon-like leaves in the wind: I could see the cottage, the verandah, my mother, our ............