Sir Arthur arrived out of breath. “Hallo, my boy, hallo,” he gasped. “What are you doing here? Calling on Lucia? Didn’t know you knew her.”
“I don’t. Lucia who?”
“Mrs. Lemesurier. That’s her house there. Just going there myself.”
“I’ll walk along to the gate with you,” said Anthony. He saw a possible invitation. He began to make talk. “I wasn’t going anywhere; just strolling. I wanted to get away from Abbotshall and think. After I left the study, I drifted through the garden and crossed the river without knowing I’d done it.” Not even to Sir Arthur was he saying anything yet of his discoveries.
The elder man picked his remarks up eagerly. “You’ve hit on something to think about, then? That’s more than I’ve done, though I’ve been racking my brains since midnight. That detective fellow don’t seem much better off either.”
“Oh, Boyd’s a very good man,” Anthony said. “He generally gets somewhere.”
“Well, I hope so.” Sir Arthur sighed. “This is a terrible business, Gethryn. Terrible! I can’t talk much about it yet—poor old John. Did you know him at all?”
“No. Shook hands with him once at some feed, that’s all.”
“You’d have liked him, Gethryn. He—we’d best not talk about it. God! 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 noted 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 parlourmaid, 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
