Revolving these and sundry other matters in my mind, I went mechanically on my

round. I had no cases of special interest to attend, which was, perhaps, as

well, for my thoughts returned again and again to the mystery of Mrs. Ferrars’s

death. Had she taken her own life?

 

Surely, if she had done so, she would have left some word behind to say what she

contemplated doing? Women, in my experience, if they once reach the

determination to commit suicide, usually wish to reveal the state of mind that

led to the fatal action. They covet the limelight.

 

When had I last seen her? Not for over a week. Her manner then had been normal

enough considering—well—considering everything.

 

Then I suddenly remembered that I had seen her, though not to speak to, only

yesterday. She had been walking with Ralph Paton, and I had been surprised

because I had had no idea that he was likely to be in King’s Abbot. I thought,

indeed, that he had quarreled finally with his stepfather. Nothing had been seen

of him down here for nearly six months. They had been walking along, side by

side, their heads close together, and she had been talking very earnestly.

 

I think I can safely say that it was at this moment that a foreboding of the

future first swept over me. Nothing tangible as yet—but a vague premonition of

the way things were setting. That earnest _tête-à-tête_ between Ralph Paton and

Mrs. Ferrars the day before struck me disagreeably.