She had never imagined life was half so sinister as it looked to her in the beginning of these investigations. There was no keeping Sheila from the truth, and it was better that anyone who lived under her roof knew it. The night had swallowed him up, but his work on her was done. She had known that Remenham House would be deserted, for Martha—released, as she had carefully explained to her charge, by her vows to God from servitude and obedience to Nicholas Charvill, a mere mortal—had begun a correspondence with a friend of her youth, Mrs Joan Ibstock, née Pottiswick.
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