CHAPTER LXIV

"Mr. Bellamy is Dead" The grey woman! She had been in the neighbourhood all the time. She was there still, perhaps, in hiding, within the reach of his hand. It was she; he had recognised the dress by the description. The grey woman would never accept clothes from him, and although he had brought to her the most wonderful creations of a French modiste, she had kept to the silk grey gown she had worn the day she had arrived at the castle. He did not go to bed that night, and in the morning, closing his library from i…