I could see, from the movement of her neck, that she was sobbing. She did not turn round, but motioned me to go away.
"Don't let us talk any more about it," she said. "I am ill to-day, and silly."
I closed the door gently behind me. What mystery was there in this woman's life? This listlessness, this strange self-engrossment and stranger mania about people long dead, this indifference and desire to annoy towards her husband--did it all mean that Alice Oke had loved or still loved some one who was not the master of Okehurst? And his melancholy, his preoccupation, the something about him that told of a broken youth--did it mean that he knew it?