March leaned forward.
“Would you know the woman again? Did you see her face?”
“Oh, yes, I’d know her.” Her voice was tired and a little contemptuous. “I knew her then. Henry talked about her quite a lot when she first came to Pilgrim’s Rest to nurse Mr. Jerome. He said she was the most sympathetic woman he had ever met. He showed me a snapshot he had taken of her with his aunts. After that he stopped talking about her, and—I wondered.”
“You say you recognized her from the snapshot you had seen?”
“Yes. It was Miss Day—Miss Lona Day.”
Frank Abbott took a fleeting glance at Miss Silver. He could discern no change in her expression. Little Roger’s sock showed nearly an inch of grey ribbing. She drew on the ball of wool, the needles clicked.
March said, “Is that all, Miss Robbins?”
She l
