Oh, yes! he remembered her readily enough now, playing innocently about some forgotten tombstones in a deserted graveyard on a wild grey coast, while her father wrested savagely with the dead for his heritage.

Strange that he should have met her again at the moment of her flight, when he was setting out for Cornwall in response to her dead father's letter! Life had such ironical mischances.
He said nothing of this chance encounter, or of Robert Turold's letter, to the dead man's sister who was now pouring out her fears and suspicions to him.

He was a receptacle into which confidences might be emptied, but he gave nothing in return.

Mrs.Pendleton did not need that.

Her state of mind compelled her to speak, and her impulsiveness hurried her along on the high tide of a flood of words.