"Is she alive?" "She is not," replied Trenchard, overcome by conflicting emotions, and unable to endure the boy's agonized look. Her aunt was blandly amiable above a certain tremulous undertow, and talked as if to a caller about the alarming spread of marigolds that summer at the end of the garden, a sort of Yellow Peril to all the smaller hardy annuals, while her father brought some papers to table and presented himself as preoccupied with them. “And where are YOU going?” he said. ‘But how do you come here?’ ‘Down on a routine patrol, unluckily for you,’ he answered grimly. “We’re here to take your foster daughter down to the station to ask her a few questions sir. ” Annabel pulled down her veil to hide the tears.
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