A faint brownish flush ran like a stream of muddy water beneath the surface of the skin of her face. She bent her head over the table; and like a great ruffled bird, in a cage, that has been shaken from the top, she began picking up and lifting to her mouth every crumb of bread in sight. Then, with a shaky hand, she poured some spilt drops of cold tea from her saucer into her cup.

“What I want to know,” repeated Wolf, “is why my sister Mattie has this child Olwen to look after. Is she a foundling? Is she adopted? Where did she spring from?”

But the daughter of the late headmaster of Ramsgard School remained obstinately silent. She folded her hands mechanically over the heavy teacup and sat straight in her chair, staring into her lap like an image of Atropos.

“Don’t you want to tell me, Miss Gault? Is it something you can’t tell me?”