and, worst of all, the extraordinary jewel she had been sent to fetch. How could she explain? The only answer she could find was the very obvious one, that it would be best to tell the truth. Then she began to think what words she would use, until her head became confused and she dropped into an uneasy sleep. Meanwhile the cab crawled slowly and cautiously through the fog, towards The Home of Art. Patricia was made aware that she had arrived at her destination by the sudden jerk of the vehicle, as it came to a standstill. Then, still sleep-bemused, she alighted in a stumbling manner to find herself in the arms of Mrs. Sellars.

"Oh, my dear! where have you been? It's terrible; it's terrible!" and the good lady wrung her fat hands. "Oh, what is to be done?"

"What is terrible?" asked Patricia stupidly, for her head ached.

"Mrs. Pentreddle, my own sister; poor dear Martha is dead!"

"Dead!" Patricia felt her weary legs give way with sheer terror.

"Dead!" repeated Mrs. Sellars, weeping. "Murdered! Oh, dear! oh, dear!"

"Dead! Murdered!" Patricia echoed the words faintly, then fell unconscious at the feet of the weeping, distracted old actress.

"Why did you go out? Where have you been? Martha is dead--murdered!" she babbled incoherently.

 

 

 

 

 CHAPTER III

AFTERWARDS

 

Patricia recovered her senses to find that she was lying on her own bed, in her own room. Beside her sat fat Mrs. Sellars, with many restoratives, and with a look of anxiety on her tearful face. When Miss Carrol opened her eyes and asked vaguely where she was, Ma uttered an exclamation of pleasure and thankfulness.

 Prev. P 19/190 next