She faltered but a second. “Quint!” she cried.
“Quint?”
“Peter Quint—his own man, his valet, when he was here!”
“When the master was?”
Gaping still, but meeting me, she pieced it all together. “He never
wore his hat, but he did wear—well, there were waistcoats missed. They
were both here—last year. Then the master went, and Quint was alone.”