IT must have been her mother, then,' said Jill.
They had walked for some time in silence. They had passed the cemetery and were on the descent of the grande route among the lower ledges of the chestnut forest, and her mind had all the while been full of Marthe Ludérac.
'Whose mother?' asked Graham.
'The landlady's mother. Her name is the same. Didn't you hear?'
'The same as whose? No; I didn't.'
'As the grave's. Of course. That is it. The roses were the same and she's only been gone a few days.'
'My dear, what are you talking about?' Graham inquired, roused from his reverie and with a mild exasperation.
'I can't help feeling it all very queer. Didn't you notice—you seemed to notice everything, Dick;—I never saw you stare so;—on the mantelpiece in that dismal room?—They were the same roses, arranged in just the same way, as those on Marthe Ludérac's grave. I saw them at once and thought she must have been a friend of Madame de Lamouderie's and that Madame de Lamouderie must be rather a dear to keep flowers on her grave like that. And just now, when I realized that her landlady was young and asked her
