"Then———" began Wedgwood. "She———"
"I told you that she said her own child died! That's been a lie—it must have been Philip Mortover that died! She had both of them, you remember, in her care. And now it's plain to me—she made out that this lad, her own son, was Philip and brought him up as Philip! But—there it is!"
She pointed again to the birthmark and drawing the sheet over the dead man, left the other women to complete their task. Outside the room she turned on Wedgwood.
"What made her do that?" she asked, almost fiercely. "That deception—all these years! Not a suspicion of it on anybody's part!"
"I think it's plain to see, Mrs. Patello," said Wedgwood. "She wanted the Mortover Estate for her own son. Well—Walter Clagne or Philip Mortover—and I've no doubt whatever about what you say—he's gone! But—what about her?"
"You've heard nothing?" she asked anxiously.
"They were at Malcolmson's house, up the hillside across the valley, at seven o'clock night before last," replied Wedgwood. "The storm was beginning to get bad when they left there. And a man saw them at some point in the district that same night, after they'd left Malcolm-
