As soon as the door was closed and locked on the inside, Thorndyke
glanced curiously round the bare, whitewashed building. A stream of
sunlight poured in through the skylight, and fell upon the silent form
that lay so still under its covering-sheet, and one stray beam glanced
into a corner by the door, where, on a row of pegs and a deal table, the
dead woman's clothing was displayed.
"There is something unspeakably sad in these poor relics, Jervis," said
Thorndyke, as we stood before them. "To me they are more tragic, more
full of pathetic suggestion, than the corpse itself. See the smart,
jaunty hat, and the costly skirts hanging there, so desolate and
forlorn; the dainty _lingerie_ on the table, neatly folded--by the
mortuary-man's wife, I hope--the little French shoes and open-work silk
stockings. How pathetically eloquent they are of harmless, womanly
vanity, and the gay, careless life, snapped short in the twinkling of an
eye. But we must not give way to sentiment. There is another life
threatened, and it is in our keeping."
He lifted the hat from its peg, and turned it over in his hand.
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