judge until you
know with what reason I hated my brother. It is a very old story.
However, now I hate no one. I will not apologise for what I have done.
I do not want your forgiveness. I had to absolve my conscience."

"And you have no idea where he is now?"

"I have no idea. He may be dead for all I know."

Maggie shivered. "If you have any more information you will give it me?"

"I will give it you."

"This is my address." Maggie gave her a card.

They said good-day, looking for one moment, face to face, eye to eye.

Then Maggie turned and went. Her eyes were dim so that she stumbled on
the stairs. In the street she walked, caring nothing of her direction,
seeing only Martin.

CHAPTER VIII

DEATH OF UNCLE MATHEW

Grace, during the days that Maggie was in London, regained something of
her old tranquillity. It was wonderful to her to be able to potter
about the house once more mistress of all that she surveyed and
protected from every watching eye. She had had, from her very earliest
years, a horror of being what she called "overlooked."

She had a habit of stopping, when she had climbed halfway upstairs, of
suddenly jerking her head round to see whether any one were looking at
her. You would have sworn, had you seen her, that she was deeply
engaged upon some nefarious and underhand plot; yet it was not so-she
was simply going to dust some of her hideous china treasures in her
bedroom.

Always after breakfast there was this pleasant ritual. She would plod
all round the house, duster in hand, picking things up, giving them a
little flick and putting them back again, patting treasures that she
especially loved, sighing heavily with satisfaction at the pleasant
sight of all her possessions tranquilly in their right places. As she
looked around the ugly sitting-room and saw the red glazed pots with
the ferns, the faded football-groups, the worsted mats and the china
shepherdesses, a rich warm feeling rose in her heart and filled her
whole body. It was like a fine meal to a hungry man: every morning at
half-past nine she was hungry in this fashion, and every morning by
eleven o'clock she was satisfied. Her thick body thus promenaded the
house; she was like a stolid policeman in female attire, going his
rounds to see that all was well. From room to room she went, pausing to
pant for breath on the stairs, stumbling always because of her short
sight at the three dark little steps just outside Paul's bedr