The Unsuspected

countenance, with its beak, its thin mouth, its black, brisk, bright and clever eyes.

'What is the matter?' asked Grandy, reacting promptly.

Francis looked up, surprised, looked down, 'I don't know how to tell you,” he mumbled. 'I'm afraid I'm—' He rubbed his hand over his face, hoping it wasn't too theatrical a gesture.

Grandy stirred. He fitted a cigarette into his longish holder and slipped the holder into the side of his thin mouth. 'Don't be tantalizing,' he said. 'What happened?'

Francis looked at him stupidly for a moment 'I don't know,' he said at last, roughly. 'Mathilda doesn't— She says—'

'D'ya mean she's. . . out of love?' Grandy inquired.

'She was never in!' he flung back. 'No. Worse. She doesn't know me.'

'What do you mean?' Grandy didn't show any shock, except that the gray hairs on his head seemed to rise quietly, and stand straighter, at attention.

'I don't know,' insisted Francis, 'I suppose its—I don't know what it is. She just plain doesn't, or can't, or won't remember me.'

'How very extraordinary,' said Grandy in a moment.

Francis was able to watch, somehow, without looking at him directly. He kept his own eyes down, and yet he knew that the expression on that face was alert and tentative. It was more plain curiosity and excitement than anything else yet

Francis said, Tm sorry. It just hits me, now. What am I going to do? I don't understand things like that'

'Do you mean you believe she is the victim of amnesia?' purred Grandy.

'Must be,' said Francis. 'Or whatever you call it. I don't know, sir. I don't know anything about anything. All I know is, I went to find her, and there she was and she didn't know me. She says she hasn't been hurt, or sick, or anything like that. I don't know what

to think. I'm not thinking.'

The hell I'm not, thought Francis. He got up and walked over to stare out of the window. It was a good thing to do, he'd found when you were trying to think while being watched.

What did it matter any more how desperate this throw was? He was close. He knew nearly enough. There was such a little way to go. And if Althea hadn't taken to her bed with a grippe and if Oliver, with his ridiculous fuss, hadn't made it so plain that Francis

was not admissible to the sickroom; if he hadn't been thwarted delayed—why, he might have been finished by now, and able to come out into the open and let things burst. And if that little mutton-headed heiress hadn't jumped down his throat at the first word about her precious guardian, if he'd had the least hope that she wouldn't go blabbing immediately, if he'd been able to talk to her, tell her what he was doing, how much he knew, explain, ask her to help—

 He saw now how foolish he'd been to think he could explain to her. To think that any perfect stranger could shake her deep-rooted faith in a man she obviously loved and adored. He might have known. Althea was the same. Bright-eyed Althea was blinded by

Grandy. He knew better than to try to approach her with such frank and open tactics.

He wondered why he'd been led to think that Mathilda might be more approachable. Just hope. Just wishful thinking. Well, he'd seen quickly enough that it wouldn't work. And he hadn't wanted things to burst.

There was Jane for one thing. He'd made a mistake to mention her name. He hoped Mathilda wouldn't begin to wonder about that. No, he couldn't have confessed the whole crazy device then and there, and risked Mathilda rushing to a phone and risked Grandy finding out that Jane was . . . Jane. Not when Jane was here alone. Not when he had been too far away to stand between. Grandy was too smart. He could put two and two together too fast.

Well it would burst now. Any minute. Unless, by this stubborn acting, he could muddle them enough. It was a nasty trick, a mean, cruel trick on the poor lad. Geoffrey had said so. Geoffrey hadn't wanted to go on with it. He'd been ready to balk. But when he saw

how close it was, how sure Francis was now, and when he was reminded of Rosaleen—

Besides, sooner or later, the silly kid was going to be in danger herself. Blindly devoted to this evil old creature, she would never see what he was up to until too late. Wasn't it up to Francis, then, who knew all about it, to guard her, even from herself? Fancy thinking, maybe. A fine, high-minded excuse. There was some truth in it, although he didn't like it, didn't like any part of it.

But he had to make this desperate try. And at the back of his mind was the thought of the trap it set, the temptation. Grandy just might-just might pretend to be taken in long enough— After all, it would be very convenient for Grandy, in many ways, if there turned out to be something a little wrong with Mathilda's mind.

Grandy was being rather unnaturally silent. Francis turned around. He said, 'What do you think? Ought I to fade out of the picture? Just to go away somewhere?'

Grandy was gnawing thoughtfully on his holder. His eyes were veiled. Francis thought, He must be pretty sure I'm a fraud.

Grandy said gently, 'We certainly must do nothing at all in a hurry.'

Francis felt a faint ripple of relief.

'She doesn't remember? She really doesn't remember?' Grandy crooned in his wondering way. 'It's all gone out of her mind, you say? She feels she never saw you?'

Francis shook his head. He hoped he looked miserable.

'How very extraordinary,' said Grandy again. 'Poor duckling. Poor Tyl. You must have frightened her this morning. She's timid, you know, and shy, the little thing.'

Francis thought, Nonsense. He'd fallen into the habit of checking this man's statements against his own evidence. It was very easy to let yourself go along with Grandy. You had to resist him. He thought, I saw her spit fire. She's got plenty of guts. That yarn I told

was well told. She might have gone to pieces. She isn't even little. She's a good-sized young woman. Even so, the picture of Tyl, forlorn, pitiable, lingered in his mind.

He said aloud, 'I tried not to frighten her. I will do exactly what you say, sir. Believe me, whatever you want me to do for Tyl's sake will be done, sir. Anything. Divorce?'

Grandy flicked him with a glance. Then he began to speak in his mellow, rich, butter-smooth voice: 'How curiously we are made. Is it possible? The needle writes in the wax. The needle of life writes in the wax of the brain, and the record is our memories, Does the needle lift from the wax and leave no record? Or does a fog come down? What can we say? Do you know, I think the miracle is not that we sometimes can forget, but that we remember so much, so well.'

Francis thought, And I've got to get the record out of Althea's brain and play it back. He shook himself away from the hypnosis of Grandy's image. What is this? Is the old bird nibbling?

'I do think,' murmured Grandy, and Francis braced himself for the verdict—'I do think, dear boy, the wisest thing—' The soundproof room had a dead atmosphere. Sound behaved queerly. Silence closed in fast here. Grandy let a little hunk of silence fall. '—wisest thing to do is wait,' he said.

Francis sighed. He couldn't help it He hoped it would pass in character.

'Yes,” said Grandy. 'Let time pass. Let us wait and see. We will not inundate her with proofs or with evidence.'

O.K. We wont, thought Francis. But will you be checking on me some more? He knew there had been some checking, Jane had been sent; Oliver had gone. Maybe others. Would Grandy check the story further or was he already sure that the whole fantastic untruth that Francis was telling was untrue? Francis thought, I'm not fooling him. Can't be. Why does he bide his time, then? Because he doesn't know my motive? He wants to find out? The one thing he can't know is that I care about Rosaleen. He thought, Never mind why. Time is what I want. He hardened his heart. Mathilda would have to suffer.

'Yes, let her rest,' said Grandy. 'Let her realize that she is safe at home.'

Francis stood up. Safety wasn't a thing for him to think about. 'Right,' he said.

Grandy called him back with a motion of the cigarette holder. 'Your marriage, as I understand it, was merely, . . legal?'

Francis said, 'That's quite true, sir.'

'You will stay on . . . in the guest house?'

'Naturally,' said Francis.

Chapter Eleven

Grandy s house stood on its own acre. It faced the westernmost street of the small city, a street that was almost like a country road, and its gardens spilled down a slope back of the house. Grandy said he had managed to have all the advantages of open country and yet escaped the need to do without city services. He claimed that his house was poised on the exact hairline of geographical wisdom. Grandy was full of theories about everything.

The house was not large. It was adapted to him. To the left of the hall ran his long living room, where he held court. On the south wall, a blister of glass was used for plants and porch furniture, and continued to the