When Garvington and his wife returned they found Agnes singularly quiet and pale.  The little man did not notice this, as he never took any interest in other people’s emotions, but his wife asked questions to which she received no answers, and looked at Agnes uneasily, when she saw that she did not eat any dinner to speak of.  Lady Garvington was very fond of her kind-hearted sister-in-law, and would have been glad to know what was troubling her.  But Agnes kept her worries to herself, and insisted that Jane should go to the pantomime, as she had arranged with some friends instead of remaining at home.  But when Garvington moved to leave the drawing-room, after drinking his coffee, his sister detained him.

“I want you to come to the library to write a letter for me, Freddy,” she said in a tremulous voice.

“Can’t you write it yourself?” said Garvington selfishly, as he was in a hurry to get to his club.

“No, dear.  I am so tired,” sighed Agnes, passing her hand across her brow.

“Then you should have kept on Silver as your secretary,” grumbled Garvington.  “However, if it won’t take long, I don’t mind obliging you.”  He followed her into the library, and took his seat at the writing table.  “Who is the letter to?” he demanded, taking up a pen in a hurry.

“To Mr. Jarwin.  I want him to find out where Gentilla Stanley is.  It’s only a formal letter, so write it and sign it on my behalf.”

“Like an infernal secretary,” sighed Garvington, taking paper and squaring his elbows.  “What do you want with old Mother Cockleshell?”

“Miss Greeby was here to-day and told me that the woman knows something about poor Hubert’s death.”

Garvington’s pen halted for a moment, but he did not look round.  “What can she possibly know?” he demanded irritably.

“That’s what I shall find out when Mr. Jarwin discovers her,” said Agnes, who was in a low chair near the fire.  “By the way, Freddy, I am sorry you let the Abbot’s Wood Cottage to Mr. Silver.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” growled Garvington, writing industriously.  “Noel didn’t pay me a pound a week, and Silver does.”

“You might have a more respectable tenant,” said Agnes scathingly.

“Who says Silver isn’t respectable?” he asked, looking round.

“I do, and I have every reason to say so.”

“Oh, nonsense!” Garvington began to write again.  “Silver was Pine’s secretary, and now he’s Miss Greeby’s.  They wouldn’t have engaged him unless he was respectable, although he did start life as a pauper toymaker.  I suppose that is what you mean, Agnes.  I’m surprised at your narrowness.”

“Ah, we have not all your tolerance, Freddy.  Have you finished that letter?”

“There you are.”  Garvington handed it over.  “You don’t want me to address the envelope?”

“Yes, I do,” Agnes ran her eyes over the missive; “and you can add a postscript to this, telling Mr. Jarwin he can take my motor to look for Gentilla Stanley if he chooses.”