"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