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Vera gave a long sigh.

“The mills of God grind slowly,” she said at last. “He’ll never suffer what I’ve suffered, but he’s paying—in part. I’m glad of that.”

It was almost dark now in the little showronea. Near the window one or two hats, perched on their stands, caught the light from a street lamp outside. They looked absurd—trivial and incongruous—like some ridiculous spectators of this queer scene. It was the sort of background a fantastic dream might have. From without came the rattle of a passing dray, the horn of a motor, the sound of a horse’s clattering hoofs.

The silence within the room was unbroken for so long that Ann wondered if Vera had quietly fallen asleep. But suddenly she spoke.

“What has happened to . . . to Biddy and Jo? Are they still at Mrs. Marley’s?”

“They’re spending their holidays at Tirau, with Mr. Holmes. Of course to them nothing is altered—except that you aren’t there.”

“Were their—their small belongings sold—their saddles—Biddy’s old horse———”

“I don’t think the bank made any changes. Mr. Holmes got rid of the car and his polo ponies. Just those things, I believe, that weren’t included in the mortgage. Mr. Ford believes he may eventually get Tirau back—I don’t know much about the business part of it.”

She did not mention the fact that Gerald Waring had been instrumental in putting matters on a better footing for Holmes. She would avoid all further reference to the man who had been an utterly disloyal friend, and yet kind after his own fashion.