"Where
could she turn for refuge next?" he said, not to his son, but
to himself. "What, in Heaven's name, could she do?"
"Judging by my experience of women," remarked Bashwood the
younger, overhearing him, "I should say she probably tried
to drown herself. But that's only guess-work again: it's all
guess-work at this part of her story. You catch me at the end
of my evidence, dad, when you come to Miss Gwilt's proceedings
in the spring and summer of the present year. She might, or
she might not, have been desperate enough to attempt suicide;
and she might, or she might not, have been at the bottom of those
inquiries that I made for Mrs. Oldershaw. I dare say you'll see
her this morning; and perhaps, if you use your influence, you may
he able to make her finish her own story herself."
Mr. Bashwood, still looking out of the cab window, suddenly laid
his hand on his son's arm.
"Hush! hush!" he exclaimed, in violent agitation. "We have got
there at last. Oh, Jemmy, feel how my heart beats! Here is the
hotel."
"Bother your heart," said Bashwood the younger. "Wait here while
I make the inquiries."
"I'll come with you!" cried his father.
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