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side?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œThat’s the one. Funny how names go out of your head. Wait a minute. St. Catherine’s—that’s what it used to be called.”
    â€œAnd I did live there, didn’t I?” Gwenda said.
    â€œYes, of course you did.” He stared at her, amused. “Why did you want to come back there? You can’t remember much about it, surely?”
    â€œNo. But somehow—it felt like home.”
    â€œIt felt like home,” the doctor repeated. There was no expression in the words, but Giles wondered what he was thinking about.
    â€œSo you see,” said Gwenda, “I hoped you’d tell me about it all—about my father and Helen and—” she ended lamely—“and everything….”
    He looked at her reflectively.
    â€œI suppose they didn’t know very much—out in New Zealand. Why should they? Well, there isn’t much to tell. Helen—my sister—was coming back from India on the same boat with your father. He was a widower with a small daughter. Helen was sorry for him or fell in love with him. He was lonely, or fell in love with her. Difficult to knowjust the way things happen. They were married in London on arrival, and came down to Dillmouth to me. I was in practice there, then. Kelvin Halliday seemed a nice chap, rather nervy and run-down—but they seemed happy enough together—then.”
    He was silent for a moment before he said, “However, in less than a year, she ran away with someone else. You probably know that?”
    â€œWho did she run away with?” asked Gwenda.
    He bent his shrewd eyes upon her.
    â€œShe didn’t tell me,” he said. “I wasn’t in her confidence. I’d seen—couldn’t help seeing—that there was friction between her and Kelvin. I didn’t know why. I was always a strait-laced sort of fellow—a believer in marital fidelity. Helen wouldn’t have wanted me to know what was going on. I’d heard rumours—one does—but there was no mention of any particular name. They often had guests staying with them who came from London, or from other parts of England. I imagined it was one of them.”
    â€œThere wasn’t a divorce, then?”
    â€œHelen didn’t want a divorce. Kelvin told me that. That’s why I imagined, perhaps wrongly, that it was a case of some married man. Someone whose wife was an RC perhaps.”
    â€œAnd my father?”
    â€œHe didn’t want a divorce, either.”
    Dr. Kennedy spoke rather shortly.
    â€œTell me about my father,” said Gwenda. “Why did he decide suddenly to send me out to New Zealand?”
    Kennedy paused a moment before saying, “I gather your people out there had been pressing him. After the breakup of his second marriage, he probably thought it was the best thing.”
    â€œWhy didn’t he take me out there himself?”
    Dr. Kennedy looked along the mantelpiece searching vaguely for a pipe cleaner.
    â€œOh, I don’t know … He was in rather poor health.”
    â€œWhat was the matter with him? What did he die of?”
    The door opened and the scornful housekeeper appeared with a laden tray.
    There was buttered toast and some jam, but no cake. With a vague gesture Dr. Kennedy motioned Gwenda to pour out. She did so. When the cups were filled and handed round and Gwenda had taken a piece of toast, Dr. Kennedy said with rather forced cheerfulness: “Tell me what you’ve done to the house? I don’t suppose I’d recognize it now—after you two have finished with it.”
    â€œWe’re having a little fun with bathrooms,” admitted Giles.
    Gwenda, her eyes on the doctor, said: “What did my father die of?”
    â€œI couldn’t really tell, my dear. As I say, he was in rather poor health for a while, and he finally went into a Sanatorium—somewhere on the east coast. He died about two years