"When?"
"Only yesterday.
She said some one had reported that a stranger answering to the description of her daughter had been seen in our neighbourhood.
No such report has reached us here, and no such report was known in the village, when I sent to make inquiries there on Mrs. Catherick's account.
She certainly brought this poor little dog with her when she came, and I saw it trot out after her when she went away.
I suppose the creature strayed into the plantations, and got shot.
Where did you find it, Miss Halcombe?"
"In the old shed that looks out on the lake."
"Ah, yes, that is the plantation side, and the poor thing dragged itself, I suppose, to the nearest shelter, as dogs will, to die.
If you can moisten its lips with the milk, Miss Halcombe, I will wash the clotted hair from the wound.
I am very much afraid it is too late to do any good.
However, we can but try."
Mrs. Catherick!
The name still rang in my ears, as if the housekeeper had only that moment surprised me by uttering it.
While we were attending to the dog, the words of Walter Hartright's caution to me returned to my memory:
"If ever Anne Catherick crosses your path, make better use of the opportunity, Miss Halcombe, than I made of it."
The finding of the wounded spaniel had led me already to the discovery of Mrs. Catherick's visit to Blackwater Park, and that event might lead in its turn, to something more.
I determined to make the most of the chance which was now offered to me, and to gain as much information as I could.
"Did you say that Mrs. Catherick lived anywhere in this neighbourhood?" I asked.
"Oh dear, no," said the housekeeper.
"She lives at Welmingham, quite at the other end of the county—five-and-twenty miles off, at least."
"I suppose you have known Mrs. Catherick for some years?"
"On the contrary, Miss Halcombe, I never saw her before she came here yesterday.
I had heard of her, of course, because I had heard of Sir Percival's kindness in putting her daughter under medical care.
Mrs. Catherick is rather a strange person in her manners, but extremely respectable-looking.
She seemed sorely put out when she found that there was no foundation—none, at least, that any of us could discover—for the report of her daughter having been seen in this neighbourhood."
"I am rather interested about Mrs. Catherick," I went on, continuing the conversation as long as possible.
"I wish I had arrived here soon enough to see her yesterday.
Did she stay for any length of time?"
"Yes," said the housekeeper, "she stayed for some time; and I think she would have remained longer, if I had not been called away to speak to a strange gentleman—a gentleman who came to ask when Sir Percival was expected back.
Mrs. Catherick got up and left at once, when she heard the maid tell me what the visitor's errand was.
She said to me, at parting, that there was no need to tell Sir Percival of her coming here.
I thought that rather an odd remark to make, especially to a person in my responsible situation."
I thought it an odd remark too.
Sir Percival had certainly led me to believe, at Limmeridge, that the most perfect confidence existed between himself and Mrs. Catherick.
If that was the case, why should she be anxious to have her visit at Blackwater Park kept a secret from him?
"Probably," I said, seeing that the housekeeper expected me to give my opinion on Mrs. Catherick's parting words, "probably she thought the announcement of her visit might vex Sir Percival to no purpose, by reminding him that her lost daughter was not found yet.
Did she talk much on that subject?"
"Very little," replied the housekeeper.
"She talked principally of Sir Percival, and asked a great many questions about where he had been travelling, and what sort of lady his new wife was.
She seemed to be more soured and put out than distressed, by failing to find any traces of her daughter in these parts.
'I give her up,' were the last words she said that I can remember;
'I give her up, ma'am, for lost.'
And from that she passed at once to her questions about Lady Glyde, wanting to know if she was a handsome, amiable lady, comely and healthy and young——Ah, dear!
I thought how it would end.
Look, Miss Halcombe, the poor thing is out of its misery at last!"
The dog was dead.
It had given a faint, sobbing cry, it had suffered an instant's convulsion of the limbs, just as those last words, "comely and healthy and young," dropped from the housekeeper's lips.
The change had happened with startling suddenness—in one moment the creature lay lifeless under our hands.
Eight o'clock.