"Peter Quint--his own man, his valet, when he was here!"

"When the master was?"

Gaping still, but meeting me, she pieced it all together.
"He never wore his hat, but he did wear--well, there were
waistcoats missed. They were both here--last year.
Then the master went, and Quint was alone."

I followed, but halting a little. "Alone?"

"Alone with US." Then, as from a deeper depth, "In charge," she added.

"And what became of him?"

She hung fire so long that I was still more mystified.
"He went, too," she brought out at last.

"Went where?"

Her expression, at this, became extraordinary. "God knows where!
He died."

"Died?" I almost shrieked.

She seemed fairly to square herself, plant herself more firmly to utter
the wonder of it. "Yes. Mr. Quint is dead."