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Updated: May 3, 2025
They walked in their own magical garden. It fell to Martin Hillyard to look after Stella Croyle, and the task was not difficult. She kept her eyes blindfold to what she did not wish to see. She had a chance, she said to herself, recollecting her talk with Harry last night, and the news of Joan which Jenny Prask had given to her. She had a chance, if she walked delicately.
Miss Whitworth was at that moment in the supper-room at Harrel. She was seen there. The woman's voice which answered was either Mrs. Croyle's or yours." Nothing could have been quieter or gentler than Millie Splay's utterance. But it was like a searing iron to the shoulders of Jenny Prask. "Mine!" The word was launched in a cry of incredulous anger. "It wasn't mine.
Stella Croyle, living much alone, had made a companion of her maid. There was nothing of Mrs. Croyle's history which Jenny Prask did not know, and very few of her hopes and sorrows were hidden from her. "My gracious me, madam! There will be nobody to hold a candle to you here!" she said, with a sniff, as she helped Stella to undress. Stella looked in the glass.
She had a week, a whole week, in the company of Harry Luttrell; and what might she not do in a week if she used her wits and used her beauty! Stella Croyle ran down the stairs like a girl. Jenny Prask shut the door, and, opening a wardrobe, took from a high shelf Mrs. Croyle's dressing-bag. She opened it, and from one of the fittings she lifted out a bottle.
Oh, as if I would do such a thing! The idea! Well, I never did!" "I don't believe it was yours, Jenny," said Millie Splay. "Granted, I'm sure," returned Jenny Prask, tossing her head. "But how many people will agree with me?" Millie Splay went on. "I don't care, my lady." "Don't you?
"I only give you the facts I know. I am quite sure that Miss Whitworth can quite easily explain why she came back to Rackham Park last night. There can't be any difficulty about that!" Jenny Prask had kept every intonation of her voice under her control. There was no hint of irony or triumph. She was a respectful lady's maid, frankly answering questions about her dead mistress.
Jenny was busy with Stella Croyle's hair; and the result satisfied her. "There won't be anybody else to-night, madam," she said. "Won't there, Jenny?" said Mrs. Croyle, incredulously. "There'll be Miss Whitworth." Jenny Prask sniffed disdainfully. "Miss Whitworth! A fair sight I call her, madam, if I may say so. I never did see such clothes!
I oh, poor woman!" and with a sob she dropped her face in her hands. "Hush!" Luttrell called sharply for silence, and a moment afterwards, a loud shrill scream rent the air like lightning. Miranda cowered from it. "Jenny Prask!" said Hillyard. "Then then the news is true," faltered Miranda, and she would have fallen but for the arm of her husband about her waist.
But just enough suggestion of the possibility of murder to make it absolutely necessary that Joan Whitworth should go into the witness box at the coroner's inquest and acknowledge before the world that she had hurried secretly back from Harrel to meet Mario Escobar in an empty house. Mario Escobar too! Of all people, Mario Escobar! Jenny Prask had builded better than she knew.
Jenny Prask, she was called, and she spoke with just a touch of pleasant Sussex drawl. "Mrs. Croyle has not been sleeping well, and she looked for a good night's rest in country air." The maid was so healthful in her appearance, so reasonable in her argument, that Hillyard's terrors, fostered by solitude, began to lose their vivid colours. "I understand that," he stammered. "Yet, Jenny "
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