What an outcry there’ll be—is already, in fact.’
‘Yes,’ said Anthony. ‘A blow to England and a boon to Fleet Street. Look here, don’t let me keep you. I hope Mrs—Mrs Lemesurier appreciates the beauty of her house.’
‘Charming, isn’t it? Gleason built it, you know.’ He paused, and Anthony feared his bait unswallowed.
They had arrived at the gate to the garden. Over the hedge showed lawns, flowers, and the house. Anthony had not been merely diplomatic when he had praised its beauty. It was a building in the best modern manner and in its way as good to look upon as Abbotshall.
Anthony made as if to leave.
But Sir Arthur had swallowed the bait. ‘Look here, Gethryn,’ he said; ‘why not come in with me? The inside’s more worth seeing than the out. And I’d like you to meet Lucia and her sister. They’d be glad to see you too. They were expecting another to lunch besides me—young Deacon, John’s secretary. He wouldn’t come. He’s very busy, and being young, I suppose he feels it’d be a sin to enjoy himself in any way today. Silly, but I like him for it. He don’t know the necessity yet for doing anything to keep sane.’ He laid a hand on Anthony’s arm. ‘Do come along.’
Anthony allowed himself to be persuaded. They walked through the garden and then round the house to the front door. They were shown by a cool, delightful maid to a cool, delightful drawing-room.
Through the French-window, which opened on to the garden they had approached by, there burst a girl. Anthony noticed slim ankles, a slight figure, and a pretty enough face. But he was disappointed. The hair was of a deep reddish-gold.
Sir Arthur presented Mr Anthony Gethryn—he knew of Anthony’s dislike of the ‘Colonel’—to Miss Dora Masterson.
The girl turned to the man she knew. ‘But—but where’s Archie? Isn’t he coming, too?’
Sir Arthur’s face lost its conventional smile. ‘No, my dear. I’m afraid he’s not. He—he’s very busy.’ He hesitated. ‘You will have heard—about Mr Hoode?’
The girl caught her breath. ‘Yes. But only just now. You must think it awful of me not to have asked you at once; but—but I hardly believed it. It wasn’t in any of the papers we had this morning. And I’ve only just got up; I was so tired yesterday. Travers, the parlour-maid, told me. Loo doesn’t know yet. I think she’s got up—or only just; she stayed in bed this morning too.’ The girl grew agitated. ‘Why are you looking like that? Has—is Archie in—in trouble?’
Sir Arthur laughed, and then grew grave again. ‘Lord, no, child! It’s only that he’s busy. You see, there are detectives and—and things to see to. I’m rather a deserter, I suppose, but I thought I’d better come along and bring Mr Gethryn with me. He arrived this morning, very fortunately. He’s helping the police, being—well, a most useful person to have about.’ He paused. Anthony, to conceal his annoyance at this innocent betrayal, became engrossed in examination of a watercolour of some merit.
Sir Arthur continued: ‘It is a terrible tragedy, my dear—’
‘What! What is it?’ came a cry from the doorway behind them.
The voice would have been soft, golden, save for that harsh note of terror or hysteria.
Sir Arthur and the girl Dora whipped round. Anthony turned more slowly. What he saw he will never forget.
‘A woman tall and most superbly dark,’ he said to himself later. Tall she was, though not so tall as her carriage made her seem. And dark she was, but with the splendour of a flame: dark with something of a Latin darkness. Night-black hair dressed simply, almost severely, but with art; great eyes that seemed, though they were not, even darker than the hair; a scarlet, passionate mouth in which, for all its present grimness, Anthony could discern humour and a gracious sensuality; and a body which fulfilled the promise of the face. Anthony looked his fill.
Dora was beside her. ‘Loo darling! Lucia!’ she was saying. ‘It—it’s terrible, but—but it’s nothing to do with us. What’s upset you so? What’s the matter, darling?’
Sir Arthur came forward. Simply, straightforwardly, he told of Hoode’s death. ‘It’s an awful blow for me,’ he concluded, ‘but I wouldn’t have frightened you for worlds, Lucia.’
From where he stood discreetly in the background, Anthony saw a pale half-smile flit across her face. She was seated now, the young sister hovering solicitous about her, but he noted the tension of all the muscles that preceded that smile.
‘I—I don’t know what made me so—so foolish,’ she said. And this time her voice, that golden voice, was under control. Anthony was strangely moved.
She became suddenly aware of the presence of a stranger. Anthony was presented. The touch of her hand sent a thrill up his arm and thence through his body, a thrill which first sent the blood madly to his head and then left him pale. He kept his face from the light. He reproached himself for possessing, in his thirties, the sudden emotions of sixteen.
The two sisters withdrew. Lunch, they said, would be ready in five minutes.
Sir Arthur dropped into a chair and looked across at Anthony with raised eyebrows.
‘A little overwrought,’ said Anthony.
‘Yes. She can’t be well. Most unusual for Lucia to be anything but mistress of herself. Expect she was feeling cheap and then got scared by my sepulchral voice.’ He fell silent for a moment; then a smile broke across the tired sadness of his face. ‘Well, what impression has she made on you, Gethryn?’
‘My feelings,’ Anthony said, ‘are concerned with Mr Lemesurier. I wonder is he worthy of his luck?’
Sir Arthur smiled again. ‘You’ll have a job to find out, my boy. Jack Lemesurier’s been dead for four years.’
A gong announced lunch. At the foot of the stairs Mrs Lemesurier encountered her sister.
Dora was still solicitous. ‘Feeling better, Loo darling?’ she asked.
Lucia grasped her sister’s arm. ‘Dot, who—who was that man with Sir Arthur?’ Her voice rose. ‘Who is he? Dot, tell me!’
Dora looked up in amazement. ‘What is the matter, dear? I’ve never known you behave like this before.’
Lucia leant against the balusters. ‘I—I don’t know exactly. I—I’m not feeling well. And then this—this murder—’ Again she clutched at her sister’s arm.
‘Dot, you must tell me! They say Mr Hoode was killed last night. But how? Who—who shot him?’
The door of the drawing-room opened behind her. Anthony emerged. His poker-playing is still famous; not a sign did he give of having heard the last remark of his hostess.
But he admired her courage, the way she took command of herself, almost as much as her beauty.
III
If that lunch was a success it was due to Anthony Gethryn. Until he came to the rescue there was an alternation of small-talk and silence so uncomfortable as to destroy the savour of good food and better wine. Sir Arthur was sinking deep into the toils of sorrow—one could see it—Miss Masterton was anxious about her sister and her absent lover, and the hostess was plainly discomposed.
So Anthony took command. The situation suited him well enough. He talked without stint. Against their desire he interested them. It must be believed that he had what is known as ‘a way with him’. Soon he extorted questions—questions which he turned to discussion. From discussion to smiles was an easy step. Sir Arthur’s face lost some of its gloom. Dora frankly beamed.
Only the woman at the head of the table remained aloof. Anthony took covert glances at her. He could not help it. Her pallor made him uncomfortable. He blamed himself. He saw that she was keeping herself under an iron control, and fell to wondering, as he talked to the others, how much