He Who Whispers

“They thought,” she replied, “that in Mr. Brooke's dying convulsion he—he had somehow knocked it off the parapet into the river.”

“Did they drag the river?”

“Yes. Immediately.”

“And they didn't find t?”

“Not then . . . or ever.”

Fay's head was bent forward, her eyes on the floor.

“And it wasn't for want of trying!” she cried out softly. The tips of her fingers brushed across books and left streaks in the dust. “That affair was the sensation of France during the first winter of the war. Poor Mrs. Brooke died during that winter; they say she died of grief. Harry, as I told you, was killed in the retreat to Dunkirk.

“Then the Germans came. They were always glad of any excuse to give publicity to a sensational murder case, especially one that had—that had a woman's immorality concerned in it, because they believed it kept the French public amused and out of mischief. Oh, they saw to it that popular curiosity didn't lapse!”

“I gather,” said Miles, “that you were caught in the invasion? You didn't come back to England before then?”

“No,” answered Fay. “I was ashamed.”

Miles turned away from her, turned his back to her, and fiercely struck his fist on the window-sill.

“We've talked about this long enough,” he declared.

“Please! It's perfectly all right.”

“It's not all right!” Miles stared grimly out of the window. “I hereby give you my solemn promise that this subject is finished; tat I will never refer to it again; that I will never ask you another ques—” He stopped. “You didn't marry Harry Brooke, then?”

Reflected in the little panes of the windows, black illuminated glass, he saw her begin to laugh before he heard a sound. He saw Fay throw back her head and shoulders, he saw the white throat working, the closed eyes and the tensely out-thrown arms, before her almost hysterical laughter choked and sobbed and rang in the quiet library, dazing him with its violence from so passive a girl.

Miles swung round. Over him, penetrating to his inner heart, flowed such a wave of sympathy and protectiveness—dangerously near love—that it unstrung his nerves. He blundered towards her, putting out his hand. He knocked over a toppling heap of books, with a crash and drift of dust which floated up against the dim light, just as Marion Hammond opened the door and came in.

“Do you two,” inquired Marion's common-sense voice, cutting off emotion as a string is snapped, “do you two have any idea what time it is?”

Miles stood still, breathing rapidly. Fay Seton also stood still, as placid-faced now as she had ever been. That outburst might have been an illusion seen in glass or heard in a dream.

Yet there was a sense of strain even about the bright-eyed, brisk-looking Marion.

“It's nearly half-past eleven,” she went on. “Even if Miles wants to stay up for most of the night, as he generally does, I've got to see to it that all of us don't lose our sleep.”

“Marion, for the love of . . .!”

Marion cooed at him.

“Now don't be snappish, Miles. Can you imagine,” she appealed to Fay, “can you imagine how he can be almost too sympathetic towards everyone else in the world, and yet an absolute beast to me?”

“I expect most brothers are like that, really.”

“Yes. Maybe you're right.” Wearing a house-apron, trim and sturdy and black-haired, Marion wormed with dislike and distrust through the morass of books. With a firm managing gesture she picked up Fay's lamp and pressed it into her guest's hand.

“I like my lovely present so much,” she told Fay cryptically, “that I'm going to give you something in return. Yes, I am! A box of something! It's upstairs in my room now. You run along up and see it, and I'll join you in just one moment; and afterwards I'm going to send you straight downstairs to bed. You—you know your way?”

Holding up the lamp, Fay smiled back at her.

“Oh, yes! I think I could find my way anywhere in the house. It's awfully kind of you to . . . to . . .”

“Nor at all, my dear! Run along!”

“Good night, Mr. Hammond.”

Giving Miles a backward glance, Fay closed the door as she went out. With only one lamp left, it was a little difficult to see Marion's face as she stood over there in the gloom. Yet, even an outsider would have realized that a state of emotion, a dangerous state of emotion, was already gathering in this house. Marion spoke gently.

“Miles, old boy!”

“Yes?”

“It was frightfully overdone, you know.”

“What was?”

“You know what I mean.”

“On the contrary, me dear Marion, I haven't the remotest idea what you're talking about,” said Miles. He roared this out in what he recognized to be a pompous and stuffed-shirt manner; he knew this, he knew that Marion knew it, and it was beginning to make him angry. “Unless it by any chance means you've been listening at the door?”

“Miles, don't be so childish!”

“Would you mind explaining that rather offensive remark?” He strode towards her, sending books flying. “What is actually means, I suppose, is that you don't like Fay Seton?”

“That's where you're wrong. I do like her! Only . . .”

“Go on, please.”

Marion looked rather helpless, lifting her hands and then dropping them against the house-apron.

“You get angry with me, Miles, because I'm practical and you're not. I can't help being practical. That's how I'm made.”

“I don't criticize you. Why should you criticize me?”

“It's for your own good, Miles! Even Steve—and heaven knows, Miles, I love Steve a very great deal—!”

“Steve ought to be practical enough for you.”

“Under that moustache and that slowness, Miles, he's nervy and romantic and a bit like you. Maybe all men are; don't know. But Steve rather likes being bossed, whereas you won't be bossed in any circumstances . . .”

“No, by God I won't!”

“. . . or even take a word of advice, which you must admit is silly of you. Anyway, let's not quarrel! I'm sorry brought the subject up.”

“Listen, Marion.” He had himself under control. He spoke slowly, and thoroughly believed every word he was saying. “I've got no deep personal interest in Fay Seton, if that's what you think. I'm academically interested in a murder case. A man was killed on top of a tower where nobody, NOBODY, could possibly have come near him —”

“All right, Miles. Don't forget to lock up before you go to bed, dear. Good night.”

There was a strained silence between them as Marion moved towards the door. It irked Miles; it chafed his conscience.

“Marion!”

“Yes, my dear?”

“No offense, old girl?”

Her eye twinkled. “Of course not, stupid! And I do like your Fay Seton, in a way. Only, Miles: as for your floating murderers and things that can walk on air—I only wish I could meet one of them, that's all!”

“As a matter of scientific interest, Marion, what would you do if that did happen?”

“Oh, I don't know. Shoot at it with a revolver, I suppose. Be sure to lock up, Miles,