“I let them bury him at the pauper’s end,” she remarked gravely. “It’s nearer. It’s quieter. It’s hardly ever disturbed. This is the way I generally go in.” With a sly, quick glance up and down the road, a glance that gave an emphasis to the whites of her eyes such as made her companion think of a crafty dray-horse edging into a field of clover, Miss Gault stooped down and propelled herself under a rough obstruction that blocked a gap in the oak palings.

Solent followed her, confused, a little surly, but no longer hostile.

She did not wait for him, but made her way with long, rapid strides to the extreme corner of the enclosure. Her swinging arms, her gaunt figure, her erratic gait, set the man’s mind thinking once more of various nonhuman animals.