As a forlorn hope it had occurred to him that he would call again on Ruth Averill to inquire whether she could think of anyone who might have visited Starvel after she left for York. He did not expect an affirmative reply, but he thought the inquiry would pass the time as profitably as anything else.
Ruth, however, had known of no one.
“We never had a visitor, Mr. French,” she went on, “rarely or ever. Except those three or four calls of Mr. Whymper’s of which I told you, I don’t think a single person had come to the place for a year. Why should they?”
“It must have been lonely for you,” French said sympathetically.
“It was lonely. I didn’t realise it at the time, except just after coming back from school, but now that I have plenty of people to speak to I see how very lonely it was.”
“You didn’t feel able to make confidants of the Ropers? Of course,” French went on hastily, “I know they were only servants, but still many servants are worthy of the fullest confidence.”
Ruth shook her head.
“No, I didn’t feel that I could make friends with either. It was not in the least because they were servants. Some of the cottagers were even lower socially, and yet they were real friends. But there was something repellent about the Ropers, or at least I thought so. I was never happy with either of them. And yet both were kind and attentive and all that. Of course, there was Mr. Giles. He was always friendly, and I enjoyed helping him with his insects. But I didn’t really see a great deal of him.”
French felt sorry for the young girl, as he thought of the unhappy life she must have led.
“I think I understand how you feel,” he returned gently. “Personality is a wonderful thing, is it not? It is quite intangible, but one recognises it and acts on it instinctively. And that Mr. Giles whom you mentioned. Who is he, if it is not an impertinent question?”
“Oh, he is dead,” Ruth answered sadly and with some surprise in her tones. “Did you not hear about him? He lived close to Starvel—at least, about half a mile away—but his cottage was the nearest house. He was dreadfully delicate and, I am afraid, rather badly off. He was wounded in the War and was never afterwards able to work. He was interested in insects and kept bees. He collected butterflies and beetles and wrote articles about them. Sometimes I used to help him to pin out his specimens. He taught me a lot about them.”
“And you say he died?”
“Yes, wasn’t it tragic? The poor man died just at the time of the Starvel affair. It was too terrible. When I came back from York I found he had gone too.”
French almost leaped off his seat as he heard these words. Was it possible that in his careless, half-interested inquiries he had blundered on to the one outstanding fact that he needed? Could it be that Mr. Giles’ death represented Roper’s search for a body? That he was his third victim?
Crushing down his eagerness French did his best to simulate a polite and sympathetic interest.
“How terrible for you, Miss Averill!” he said with as real feeling in his tones as he could compass. “One shock added to another. Tell me about it, if it is not too painful a recollection.”
“Oh no, I’ll tell you. He fell ill a few days before I went to York—influenza, Mrs. Roper thought, but he must have been fairly bad as he had Dr. Philpot out to see him. Both the Ropers were certainly very good to him. They went up and nursed him, for the woman who usually looked after him had not time to stay with him for more than an hour or so in the day. I went up and sat with him occasionally, too. On he seemed much worse. I called on my way into Thirsby, and he was lying without moving and was terribly white and feeble looking. His voice also was very faint. He just said he was comfortable and had everything he wanted. Mrs. Roper said that if he didn’t soon get better she would send Roper in for Dr. Emerson. Dr. Philpot, I should explain, had just gone down with influenza.”
“And what was the next thing you heard?”
“Why,” Ruth made a little gesture of horror, “the next thing I knew of it was that we met the funeral. It was awful. It was . I wanted to go out and see Starvel, and Mrs. Oxley drove me out in their car. When we were coming back, just as we reached the point where the Starvel road branches off, we saw a funeral coming in along the main road. It was trotting and we waited to let it pass on. Mr. Stackpool—that’s the vicar—and Dr. Emerson were there and they told us whose it was. Of course we joined them. Poor Mr. Giles. I was sorry for him. But nothing could have been done. Dr. Emerson said he became unconscious the same day that I saw him, and passed away without suffering. That was something to be thankful for at least.”
“Indeed, yes,” French agreed with feeling. “I wonder if I haven’t heard about Mr. Giles. He was a very tall old man, wasn’t he, and walked with a stoop?”
“Oh no, he wasn’t specially tall or old either. Just medium height and middle age, I should say. Nor did he walk with a stoop. You must be thinking of someone else.”
“I suppose I must,” French admitted, and as soon as he reasonably could he took his leave.
That he now held in his hand the solution of the mystery he
