. It was
_impossible_ to keep the two old twins in the dark, and it seemed to her
that delay might make matters worse. As for ingenious schemes to reveal
the strange story gradually, some did occur to her, but none bore
reconsideration. Probably disaster lay in ambush behind over-ingenuity.
Go gently but firmly to the point--that seemed to her a safe rule for
guidance. If she could only anchor her dear old fairy godmother in a
haven of calm knowledge of the facts, she was less distressingly
concerned about the sister and daughter. The former of these was the
more prickly thorn of anxiety. Still, she was a wonderfully strong old
lady--not like old Mrs. Picture, a semi-invalid. As for the latter, she
scarcely deserved to be thought a thorn at all. She might even be relied
on to put her feelings in her pocket and help.

Yes--that was an idea! How would it be to make Widow Thrale know the
truth first, and then simply tell her that help she _must_, and there an
end! Gwen acted on the impulse produced in her mind during the last
twenty minutes of her journey, in which conversation with her mother
continued a discomfort, owing to the strong effect which the poisoned
tooth or bad example of the down-train express had produced on her own
hitherto temperate and reasonable engine. On arriving at Grantley Thorpe
she changed her mind about seeing Adrian before visiting Strides
Cottage, and petitioned Mr. Sandys, the Station-master, for writing
materials, and asked him to send the letter she then and there wrote, by
bearer, to Widow Thrale at Chorlton; not because the distance of Strides
Cottage from the main road was a serious obstacle to its personal
delivery on the way home, but because she wished to avoid seeing any of
its occupants until a full interview was possible. Also, she wanted
Widow Thrale to be prepared for something unusual. Her letter was:--"I
am coming to you to-morrow. I want to talk about dear old Mrs. Prichard,
but do not show her this or say anything till I see you. And do not be
uneasy or alarmed." She half fancied when she had written it that the
last words were too soothing. But this was a mistake. Nothing rouses
alarm alike reassurance.

It was a relief to her, between this and an early start for Chorlton
next day, to be dragged forcibly away from her dominant anxiety. The
Colonel's shooting-party was still in possession at the Towers, though
its numbers were dwindling daily. It had never had its full comple