CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVEFrank Abbott dropped in at Field End on Tuesday morning. He asked for Miss Silver, and she came to him presently with her knitting-bag on her arm and the white woolly shawl now two thirds of the way towards completion wrapped up in a soft old face-towel—one of those fine white ones with a diaper pattern on it now quite out of date and superseded by cleansing tissues. The much faded date in the corner of this one was 1875, and it had been part of the wedding outfit of an aunt.
Miss Silver took out the shawl, spread the towel over her knees, and turned her attention to Frank.
‘The enquiries about Sid Turner? Have they had any success?’
He gave a faint shrug.
‘Beyond producing considerable alarm and despondency in Maudsley’s office I should say none, if it were not for
