“You’ll see Flora Reed?”

“If necessary; but I shall not go if Robert Redmayne has been found.”

“You think it is all very simple and straight-forward, then?”

“So it appears.  The best that one can hope is that the unfortunate man may come back to his senses and give a clear account of everything.  And may I ask what you design to do and if it is in my power to serve you personally in any way?”

Jenny Pendean showed surprise at this question.  She lifted her face to Brendon’s and a slight warmth touched its pallor.

“That is kind of you,” she said.  “I will not forget.  But when we know more, I shall probably leave here.  If my husband has indeed lost his life, the bungalow will not be finished by me.  I shall go, of course.”

“May I hope that you have friends who are coming forward?”

She shook her head.

“As a matter of fact I am much alone in the world.  My husband was everything—­everything.  And I was everything to him also.  You know my story—­I told you all there was to tell this morning.  There remain to me only my father’s two brothers—­Uncle Bendigo in England, and Uncle Albert in Italy.  I wrote them both to-day.”

Mark rose.

“You shall hear from me to-morrow,” he said, “and if I do not go to Paignton, I will see you again to-night.”

“Thank you—­you are very kind.”

“Let me ask you to consider yourself and your own health under this great strain.  People can endure anything, but often they find afterwards that they have put too heavy a call on nature, when it comes to pay the bill.  Would you care to see a medical man?”

“No, Mr. Brendon—­that is not necessary.  If my husband should be—­as we think, then my own life has no further interest for me.  I may end it.”

“For God’s sake don’t allow yourself to speak in that way,” said Brendon.  “Look forward.  If we can no longer be happy in the world, that is not to deny us the power and privilege of being useful in it.  Think what your husband would have wished you to do and how he would have expected you to face any great tragedy, or grief.”

“You are a good man,” said Mrs. Pendean quietly.  “I appreciate what you have said.  You will see me again.”

She took his hand and pressed it.  Then he left her, bewildered by the subtle atmosphere that seemed to surround her.  He did not fear her threat.  There was a vitality and self-command about Mrs. Pendean that seemed to shut out any likelihood of self-destruction.  She was young and time could be trusted to do its inevitable work.  But he perceived the quality of her love for the man who was too certainly destroyed.  She might face life, proceed with her own existence, and bring happiness into other lives; but it did not follow that she would ever forget her husband or consent to wed another.

He returned to the police station and was astonished to find that Robert Redmayne continued at large.  No news concerning him had been reported; but there came a minor item of information from the searchers at Berry Head.  The cement sack had been found in the mouth of a rabbit hole to the west of the Head above a precipice.  The sack was bloodstained and contained some small tufts of hair and the dust of cement.