— — —In the beginning of February, Belle went to Scotland Yard and asked to see Superintendent Matchwell. She was told that if she returned in half an hour or so, she might see him, so she went to the fruit-pie-maker’s at the corner, and asked for a tart and a glass of milk. When sherry, as a matter of course, was offered her, she declined it with a smile.
Daisy’s father had been a baker. In Clerkenwell, Belle had seen the little shop, with rolls and seed-cake in the window, where Daisy must often have played about as a child — a charming, radiant little child, no doubt.
Belle thought of the picture of The Last Judgement with the thick spray of yew stuck above the bird’s-eye maple frame. Who had taken that down? Who had flung aside the bough of evergreen that was the only funeral wreath
