“Yes—as a matter of fact,” said George, and his florid face clouded over, “—as a matter of fact, I’ve got rather bad news about my brother.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, sir.”

“B-bad news?” stammered Aunt Effie, with a glance at Sabrina who was staring at him dumbly and holding to the back of a chair.

“He was killed out in India, a few days ago.”

“I’m very sorry, sir—”

“It came as a bit of a shock, though we hadn’t heard from him for some time, and my mother had begun to be anxious. We thought—that is, we thought I had better come down here and see about his things, you know. The room can be cleared now, that is, so that you can have the use of it.”

“Oh, but we don’t need it, really—!” protested Aunt Effie automatically.

“My mother is still a bit upset, or she would have come down herself,” George explained. “I told her Mrs. Pilton and I could manage. Not a very pleasant job for her, you know—”

“Yes, of course—I mean—but you really must sit down comfortably and have some tea first, now that it’s here,” groped Aunt Effie.

“Thanks. I am a bit parched after the drive,” he admitted, and his eyes were drawn back greedily to the tempting tea-table.

“Mrs. Pilton will go up to the room with you later on, and help you to—to do whatever is necessary, I’m sure,” Aunt Effie assured him kindly.

“Yes, as I remember it he buzzed off to Town in something of a hurry, and then ordered the room to be locked up. Very cagey about his things, always—I used to tell him it looked like a guilty conscience to me—” The old jest lay unhappily on a silence.