“Is that you, James?” she called.

 

An unnecessary question, since who else could it be? To tell the truth, it was

precisely my sister Caroline who was the cause of my few minutes’ delay. The

motto of the mongoose family, so Mr. Kipling tells us, is: “Go and find out.” If

Caroline ever adopts a crest, I should certainly suggest a mongoose rampant. One

might omit the first part of the motto. Caroline can do any amount of finding

out by sitting placidly at home. I don’t know how she manages it, but there it

is. I suspect that the servants and the tradesmen constitute her Intelligence

Corps. When she goes out, it is not to gather in information, but to spread it.

At that, too, she is amazingly expert.

 

It was really this last named trait of hers which was causing me these pangs of

indecision. Whatever I told Caroline now concerning the demise of Mrs. Ferrars

would be common knowledge all over the village within the space of an hour and a

half. As a professional man, I naturally aim at discretion. Therefore I have got

into the habit of continually withholding all information possible from my

sister. She usually finds out just the same, but I have the moral satisfaction

of knowing that I am in no way to blame.

 

Mrs. Ferrars’ husband died just over a year ago, and Caroline has constantly

asserted, without the least foundation for the assertion, that his wife poisoned

him.