CHAPTER IX
Maud said that she would die if left alone that night, and her maid would be worse than no one as a companion; Josephine was a coward, and had such bloodcurdling ideas. Terry must come and lie in the bed by Maud's side—not to sleep, of course, because it would be impossible for either to sleep; but to talk—to talk of poor Milly Hereward, and of what to write to Ian in the morning, when they had heard more details, and could tell better what to say.
They did talk: or rather Maud talked, and Terry answered, a night-light making gray twilight in the curtained room, because Maud could not bear the dark. But soon after one, silence began to punctuate straggling sentences; silence at first short, then long; and presently slow, regular breathing told Terry that she was left to watch alone.
At least she was free to think, to ask herself questions and to try and answer them. Lying by Maud's side, tensely alert in mind, she reviewed each minute of the afternoon, from that of her arrival at Friars' Moat, to that when she had bidden Ian Hereward good-bye.
Only—it was difficult to think clearly. One thought would rush in upon another before the first
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