Half his mind applauded her and reviled himself.
But the other half, ruthless, urged him on. “Have another try; you must,” it whispered. “Get to the bottom of this business. Don’t behave like a schoolboy!”
“I’m afraid I was so interested that I had to examine those cups and their inscriptions,” he murmured. “Very rude of me. But to have won all those! You must be a wonderful swimmer, Mrs. Lemesurier.”
The little pulse in her throat beat heavily. “I have given it up—long ago,” she said simply. Her eyes—those eyes—looked at him steadily.
Anthony spurred himself. “Of course,” he said, smiling, “there’s no opportunity for pleasure swimming about here, is there? Except the Marle. And one would hardly tackle that for pleasure, what? The motive would have to be sterner than that.”
The blood surged to the pale face, and then as suddenly left it. Anthony was seized with remorse. His mind hunted wildly for words to ease the strain, but he could find none. The sandal in his pocket seemed to be scorching his flesh.
She rose slowly to her feet, crossed to where her sister sat with Sir Arthur some yards away, said something in a low voice, and walked slowly across the grass towards the house. Though Anthony could see that she only attained movement by a great effort of will, the grace of her carriage gave him a swift sensation—half pleasure, half pain—which was like a clutch at his throat. The clinging yellow gown she wore seemed a golden mist about her.
He turned to join the other two, deep in conversation. A little cry came to their ears. They swung round to see a limp body sink huddled to the gravel of the path before the windows of the drawing-room.
Anthony reached her side before the girl or the elder man had moved. As they came up,
“Dead faint,” he said. “Nothing to be frightened about, Miss Masterson. Shall I carry her in?” He waved a hand towards the open French-windows.
“Oh, please do.” Dora picked nervously at her dress. “It—it is only a faint, isn’t it?”
She was reassured. Anthony gathered the still body in his arms and bore it into the room.
He withdrew to the background while Sir Arthur and the girl ministered. Had he wished he could not have helped them. He had held Her in his arms. His heart hammered at his ribs. He felt—though he would not have acknowledged it—actually giddy. Only by an effort did he manage to mask his face with its usual impassivity. His one desire for the moment was to get away and think; to leave this house before he did more harm. Reason; thought; his sense of justice—all deserted him.
Sir Arthur stepped back from the couch. Colour had come back to the cheeks of the woman. The lids of the eyes had flickered. Sir Arthur turned.
Anthony touched him on the arm. “I think we’re superfluous, you know,” he said.
The other nodded. “You’re right. I’ve told Dora I’d send a doctor, but she doesn’t seem to think it’s necessary. Come on.”
They slipped from the room, and in two minutes were walking back along the riverbank towards the bridge.
VI
Secretary and the Sister
I
They had walked for perhaps two hundred yards before the elder man broke the silence.
“I hope Lucia will be all right,” he said. “Probably it was the heat. It’s a scorcher today.”
Anthony nodded. He was in no mood for talk.
“Dora was telling me,” continued Sir Arthur, “that Lucia had been feeling queer since last night. They hardly saw her after dinner. She vanished to her room and locked herself in. But apparently she’d been all right this morning until lunchtime.”
Anthony began to take notice. Here was more confirmation—though it was hardly needed.
They were drawing near the bridge now. Another silence fell. Again it was Sir Arthur who broke it.
“You’re very silent, my boy,” he said. “Perhaps you’ve got something to think about, though. Something definite, I mean.” His tone changed. “God! What I would give to get my hands on the—the animal that killed John! I shan’t sleep till he’s caught. It’s torture he needs! Torture!” The kindly face was distorted.
Anthony looked at him curiously. “The great difficulty so far,” he said, “is failure to find any indication of motive. I mean, you can’t do anything in a complicated case unless you can do some work from that end. A motiveless murder’s like a child without a father—damn hard to bring home to anyone. Suppose I suddenly felt that life wouldn’t be worth living any longer unless I stabbed a fat man in the stomach; and I accordingly went to Wanstead and assuaged that craving on the darkest part of the Flats, and after that took the first train home and went to bed. They’d never find me out. The fat man and I would have no connection in the minds of the police. No, motive’s the key, and so far it’s hidden. Whether the lock can be picked remains to discover.”
Sir Arthur smiled. “You’re a curious feller, Gethryn. You amuse while you expound.” He grew grave again. “I quite see what you mean: it’s difficult, very difficult. And I can’t imagine anyone having a grudge against John.”
Anthony went on: “Another thing; the messiness of the business indicates madness on the part of the murderer. With homicidal mania there might be no motive other than to kill. Myself, I don’t think the murderer was as mad as all that. Look at the care he took, for all his untidiness. No, the murderer was no more mad than the rest of the affair. It’s all mad if you look at it—in a way. Mad as a Hatter on the first of April. And so am I, by God!” His voice trailed off into silence.
They had crossed the bridge now. Sir Arthur, instead of turning directly to his right to return to Abbotshall by the riverside path, chose the way which led to
