SIXTEENMr. Stokes started his milk round at seven in the morning. He reached Melling House at twenty past, and found what he afterwards described as a very horrid state of things. The back door stood open. Nothing unusual about that. All in the day’s work that he should take the milk through to the kitchen and say ‘I don’t mind if I do’ when Mrs. Mayhew offered him a cup of tea. But this morning there wasn’t any tea—only Mrs. Mayhew sitting up straight in a kitchen chair with her hands gripping the seat on either side. Looked as if she was afraid she’d fall off if she was to let go. She sat up straight, and looked at Mr. Stokes, but he wouldn’t like to say she saw him—face all white like wet curds, and her eyes set in her head. Mr. Stokes didn’t know when he’d had such a turn.
‘Why, Mrs.
