“I know little of the world, Mr. Theydon,” said Miss Beale, rising, and beginning to draw on her gloves, “but I shall be very greatly surprised if you are advising me to act otherwise than honorably.  I shall certainly not utter a word about Mr. Forbes at Scotland Yard.  When all is said and done, my statement to you was largely guesswork.  You must remember that I have never seen Mr. Forbes, nor hardly ever heard his name except in connection with public matters in the Press.  O, yes.  I make that promise readily.  I trust you implicitly!”

CHAPTER VI

 Close quarters

Theydon escorted Miss Beale downstairs.  As they passed the closed door of No. 17, the lady shivered.

“To think that within the next few days I would have been staying there with Edith, and planning evenings at the theater before going to Newquay!” she murmured; there was a pitiful catch in her voice that told better than words how the remainder of her existence would be darkened by the tragedy.

At best she was a shrinking, timid little woman, for whom life probably held but narrow interests.  Such as they were, their placid content was forever shattered.  The death of her niece had closed the one chief avenue leading to the outer world.  She would retire to the quiet back-water of Iffley, to become more faded, more insignificant, more lonely each year.

Theydon commiserated with her deeply and did not hesitate to utter his thoughts while putting her into a cab.

“Have you no friends in London?” he inquired.  “I don’t like the notion of sending you off alone into this wilderness.  London is the worst place in the world for any one in distress.  The heedless multitude seems to be callous and unsympathetic.  It isn’t, in reality.  It simply doesn’t know, and doesn’t bother.”

“I used to claim some acquaintances here, but I have lost track of them for years,” she said.  “In any event, I shall have more than enough to occupy my mind today.  The inquest opens at three o’clock, and I must face the ordeal of identifying Edith’s body.  The detective told me that this should be done by a relation, while the only other person who could act—­ Ann Rogers—­ has been nearly out of her mind since yesterday morning.”

“Where are you staying?”

She mentioned a small hotel in the West End.

“I used to go there with my people when I was a girl,” she added, sadly.

“Then I’ll get my sister to call.  You’ll like her.  She’s a jolly good sort, and a chat with another woman will be far more beneficial than the society of detectives and lawyers and such-like strange fowl.  Keep your spirits up, Miss Beale.  Nothing that you can say or do now will restore the life so cruelly taken, but you and I, each in our own way, can strive to bring the murderer to justice.  I am convinced that a distinct step in that direction will be taken this very day.  You can count on seeing or hearing from me as soon as possible after I have discussed matters with Mr. Forbes.  Meanwhile, don’t forget to have a lawyer representing you at the inquest.”