He communed with himself. “Lord, I’m wet! How is it that I can be melodramatic as well? I must curb this passion for effect. Still, it kept her off any expressions of gratitude and the like. Good God! Gratitude! It’s not that I want. And what do I want? All. Yes, all! But I must go softly. One must wait.” He shook himself. “And anyhow, you blasted idiot, what chance can you have?” He grew depressed.
The door burst open. There was a flurry of skirts. Dora, transfigured, rushed at him as he rose, words pouring from her. Anthony was dazed.
He waved hands to stem the flood. Arms were thrown about his neck. Warm lips were pressed to his cheek. Another flurry—and she was gone.
Anthony looked after. “If you were your sister, my dear,” said he to himself, “escape would’ve been more difficult.”
The door opened again. This time it is Lucia, composed now and more mistress of herself than for days past. With relief, her sense of humour had returned in full strength; there is nothing more steadying than one’s sense of humour.
Anthony was still on his feet. She looked first at him and then at the damp pages of the Telegraph covering the chair. She began to laugh. He was well content; the most seductive, the most pleasant sound within his experience.
He stood smiling at her. The laughter grew. Then, with an effort, she controlled it.
“I’m sorry. Only I couldn’t help it. Really I couldn’t!” Her tone was contrite.
“And why should you?” Anthony asked. “But I hope you appreciate my tender care of your cushions.”
She seated herself, waving him back to his chair. “Oh, I do! I think it was wonderful of you to—to think about my furniture at a time like this. But then you’re by way of being rather a wonderful person, aren’t you?”
“You deceive yourself if you mean that,” said Anthony. “A matter of common sense plus imagination; that’s all. The mixture’s rare, I admit, but there’s no food for wonder in it.” He hardly heard his own words. He found clear thought an effort. He wanted only to be left in peace to look at her and look and look again. He found himself glad, somehow, that tonight she was not in an evening gown. The simplicity of her clothes, perfect though they were, seemed to make her, paradoxically, less remote.
She smiled at him. “Now, please, you must tell me all about everything.”
Anthony groaned.
“Pleeease.”
“Must I?” He raised feeble hands.
“Of course, you silly person, I don’t really mean ‘everything.’ How could I when you’re so tired, so awfully tired! But you come here all strange and mysterious and dramatic and simply tell us that Archie’s all right. How can one help being curious? Why is he all right? Have you only persuaded them that he didn’t do it? Or have you shown them the person that really did?”
“The second,” Anthony said, covertly feasting his eyes.
“Who? Who?” She had risen in her excitement.
Anthony looked up at her, and looking, forgot the question.
She stamped her foot. “Oh, you irritating man!” she cried, and shook him by the shoulder. “Tell me at once!”
“It was—Digby-Coates,” said Anthony slowly, fearing the news might affect her deeply.
She took that in silence. Whether astonishment or other emotions had affected her he could not at the moment discern. Her next words told him.
“I suppose”—her tone was thoughtful—“that I ought to be surprised. And horrified. But somehow I’m not. I don’t mean, you know, that I ever suspected him or anything like that. But I’m just not awfully surprised, that’s all.”
It dawned upon Anthony that if he were not to seem a boor he must make an effort at intelligence. He strove to quiet the exuberant agility his heart had exhibited since her hand had touched his shoulder.
He did his best. “You didn’t like him, I gather,” he said.
She shook her head. “No. Not that I really disliked him. I just wasn’t quite comfortable whenever he was with me. You know. I always had to be nice, of course. Before my husband died they were always together. You see, they had the same tastes. They were about the same age, too.” She relapsed into silence.
“So they were much of an age, were they?” Anthony said to himself. “Now, that’s illuminating. Coates is over fifty.” He was about to speak aloud, but was forestalled.
“What on earth must you think of me?” Lucia cried. “Here are you, that’ve done all these miracles for us, all tired and wet, and I’m sitting here as if this was afternoon tea at the Vicar’s.” She ran to the bell. “First, you must have a drink. Whisky? That’s the second time I’ve forgotten my hospitality when you’ve been here.”
Anthony got his drink. When he had finished the second,
“You,” she said, “must go back to your inn. And you’ll have to walk, poor thing. My little car’s been out of action for a fortnight and I’ve sent away the one we hired for today. But the walk may do you good. You’ll get warm.”
Anthony set down his tumbler. “Exit Fairy Godmother.”
The great eyes burned him with their reproach.
“That’s not fair,” she said, and Anthony could have kicked himself. “You know it isn’t! What I want to do is to offer you a bed here. Well, there’s a bed, but nothing else. No razor. No pyjamas even. You’d be uncomfortable. And you’ve simply got to take care of yourself tonight!”
Anthony rose. “Forgive me. It seems my fate always to be rude to you. And you’re quite right.” He moved towards the door.
She followed him. With his fingers on the handle, he paused. “Damn it!” he thought. “She’s hard enough to resist when one’s in full command of oneself. But now! Oh, Jupiter, aid me!”
He prepared to make his adieux. She touched him on the arm.
“One more question before you go.” She smiled at him, and Anthony caught his breath. “Was I—am I—oh! I mean, is my evidence part of your case? You know,
