“How perfectly wonderful!” said Jean. “Aren’t you glad?”
“Glad is no word for it.”
“Jack,” put in Edith, “I never knew before you were such a business man.” She paused and glanced at him suspiciously. “Just when have you committed us to that move?”
“A month from today. I thought it over carefully and decided that ought to suit everyone.”
“What!”
Derrick’s eyes grew soft. He leaned over to Mrs. Millicent and took both her hands in his.
“May I have Jean a month from today?” he said very gently.
XIV
A Broken Tile
Almost exactly four months after he had completed his second inventory of the contents of Beech Lodge, Mr. Jarrad, again accompanied by Mr. Dawkins, stood once more in the paneled study. He had come to the house with his admirable manner, in which was blended this time a rather full knowledge of what had recently happened. Mr. Dawkins, who also read the papers, and was, as well, impressed by the air of the older man, seemed rather taciturn. There had been opportunity to say a good deal on the way down from London, and he was distinctly thrilled when they turned in at the white gate. Now the inventory book was opened and laid on Millicent’s desk. Mr. Jarrad then took out a large handkerchief and blew his nose with a trumpet-like sound as though he enjoyed it. He had ascertained that the Derricks were in the garden, and both servants back in the kitchen. The morning was fine and clear.
“I don’t know,” he said with a touch of unction, “when I’ve heard of a case just exactly like this. Here we are, paid to do precisely the same thing over again simply because a foolish woman killed herself. We’ve both seen houses that were enough to make any really sensitive person commit suicide, but”—he glanced round with open approval—“they were not houses like this. It all brings back to me the great truth that the foundation of our business is the undeniable suspicion that well-bred people have of each other. There’s practically no inventory connection with the lower and lower middle classes. Do you happen to remember a remark I made about ‘things’ when we were here last?”
“I do,” replied Dawkins; “and, what’s more, I’ve been thinking about it ever since.”
“Well, these are not the kind of things to make one tired of life. There’s another point. I expressed my conclusions about the manner in which ‘things’ occupy the greater part of the time of so many women.”
“You did,” said Dawkins soberly, “and I said it wasn’t that way with us because we hadn’t any. But my young woman has started since then.”
Mr. Jarrad smiled. “Quite so; that was inevitable; and now that Mrs. Millicent has disposed of hers to Mr. Thursby, Miss Millicent, who will marry Mr. Derrick next week, is already starting another collection. I hope she may do as well as this. She can’t do better. I don’t know when I’ve seen a room I like more. Her mother’s work, of course, all of it.”
“Why do you suppose that woman killed Mr. Millicent?” asked Dawkins thoughtfully. “I read it all several times over in several papers, but it always struck me there was a good deal that didn’t meet the eye.”
Mr. Jarrad smiled again. “Why, do you suppose, does a woman do anything?”
“I don’t know yet. I’ve only been married a year.”
“Then you know more now than you will in ten. The appearance of Perkins suggested that she might do anything at any moment, if you remember. If the cause was what it usually is with a woman—jealousy, or, in other words, love that has grown the wrong way—I can only wonder why she waited so many years. There are a good many queer things about the case; for instance, that foreigner who shammed dead when he was under arrest, then slid out of the station.”
“I wonder what he was doing here?”
“Might as well ask why Mr. Millicent’s old gardener came back as though he wanted to stick his head into the noose,” said Mr. Jarrad sententiously. “Might as well ask why my client is willing to pay through the nose to get this house back just after letting it for a term of years—though I suspect there’s a woman in that, too. Might as well ask why your client began by trying to hunt out Mr. Millicent’s murderer and finished by finding his daughter. Might as well ask a heap of things that will never be answered, and perhaps in the long run it’s just as well they’re not. We know as much as is good for us as it is, and what we don’t know can’t hurt us much as long as we keep on not knowing it. Now what about the contents of this room?”
“The stuff seems the same with a few additions, but a little differently arranged; that’s all.”
Mr. Jarrad strolled about, his sharp eyes very active, returned to the desk, leaned over, then adjusted his glasses. He peered for a moment and frowned.
“That’s really very odd.”
“What is?”
“You remember we didn’t agree about a stain here, and returned so that I could satisfy you on the point? It was a little difficult to detect.”
Dawkins wetted his thumb and turned a few leaves in the big book.
“Yes, here it is, a post entry, and initialed by both of us. ‘Large, irregular stain on near left-hand corner of leather-desk
