XXXIIJim Fancourt walked into Miss Silver’s sitting-room. He could hardly wait for Emma Meadows to shut the door behind him, or for Miss Silver to shake hands, before he said,
“I’ve been thinking—”
Miss Silver gave a faint reproving cough.
“Will you not sit down?”
“Thank you, I’d rather stand.”
Miss Silver seated herself. She took her knitting-bag from the small table beside her chair and began to knit. Jim Fancourt stood before the hearth. When she had knitted about a row and a half, he came out with something between a groan and a cough.
“You haven’t heard any more?”
Miss Silver was not prepared to tell an untruth. She said,
“I have heard something, but not from Anne herself.”
He had been turned half away from her, looking down into the fire. He was round in a flash.
“What do y
