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 Masterson 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 more beautiful she would be were this fear or anxiety lifted from her shoulders.
But was she beautiful? He stole another look, purely analytical. No, she was not: not, at least, if beauty were merely perfection of feature. The eyes were too far apart. The mouth was too big. No, she was better than beautiful. She was herself, and therefore—
Anthony reproved himself for the recurrence of these adolescent emotions. His thoughts took a grimmer turn. He thought of that spongelike mess that had been a man’s head. It was time he got to work.
He slid into another story. The silence which fell was flattering. It was a good story. Whether it was true is no matter.
It was a tale of Constantinople, which Anthony knew as his listeners knew London. He had, it seemed, been there, almost penniless, in nineteen hundred and twelve. It was a tale of A Prosperous Merchant, A Secret Service Man, A Flower of the Harem, and A Globetrotter. Its ramifications were amusing, thrilling, pathetic, and it was at all times enthralling. Its conclusion was sad, for the Flower of the Harem was drowned. She could not swim the distance she had set herself. And the Secret Service Man went back to his Secret Service Duties.
Sir Arthur cleared his throat. Dora Masterson’s eyes held tears. At the head of the table her sister sat rigid, her white hands gripping the arms of her chair. Anthony noted her attitude with quickened pulse: she had shown no interest until the end of the story.
“Of course,” he said, “she was a little fool to try it. Think of the distance. And the tide was strong. It’d be impossible even for an athletic Englishwoman.” He is to be congratulated upon making so ridiculous a statement in so natural a tone.
“Oh! Mr. Gethryn, surely not,” cried Dora excitedly. “Why Loo—”
A spurt of flame and a crash of breaking china interrupted her sentence. Mrs. Lemesurier had overturned spirit-lamp and coffeepot. Much damage had resulted to cups and saucers. The tablecloth was burning.
“Not bad at all,” thought Anthony, as he rose to help. “But you won’t get off quite so easily.”
Order was restored; fresh coffee made and drunk. The party moved to the drawing-room and thence to garden.
Anthony lingered in the pleasant room before joining the others on the lawn.
At last he took a seat beside his hostess. The deck-chairs were in the shade of one of the three great cedars.
“A delightful room, your drawing-room, if I may say so.” His tone was harmlessly affable.
The reply was icy. “I am glad it pleases you, Mr.—Mr. Gethryn.”
Anthony beamed. “Yes, charming, charming. It has an air, a grace only too rare nowadays. I admired that sideboard thing immensely; Chippendale, I think. And how the silver of those cups shows up the polish of the wood!”
With this speech he did not get the effect for which he had wished. Beyond a pulse in the white throat that leapt into startled throbbing, there was no sign
