He--he meant to kill Mr.
Poynter?"
"Yes," said Diane with a shudder. "Yes. I--think so."
"I'm sorry I told him where you were," fluttered Aunt Agatha, taking a
conscience-stricken and somewhat tearful gulp of very hot tea. "I--I
am indeed, but I couldn't in the least know that he went about killing
people, could I, Diane?"
"No," said Diane patiently. "No, of course not. Don't bother about
it. Aunt Agatha. Why not wait until your tea is a little cooler?"
"I'll have to," said Aunt Agatha with an aggrieved sniff. "For I do
believe I'm filled with steam now. Why are you so white and quiet,
Diane? Is it the revolver?"
"Aunt Agatha," exclaimed the girl impetuously, "why have you always
been so reticent about my mother?"
The effect of the girl's words was sufficient proof that the frightened
lady had absorbed but little of Philip's revelation. Tired and
nervous, hazily aware that the scene of the morning had been
portentous, and now confounding it in a panic with something that by a
deathbed pledge had lain inexorably buried in her heart for years, Aunt
Agatha screamed and dropped her teacup. It rolled away in a trail of
steam to the flap of the tent. Covering her face with her hands, Aunt
Agatha burst hysterically into a shower of tears.
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