The Inspector had not exaggerated the spirit of unrest brooding over the house in Charles Street. In defiance of her mother's wishes, Cynthia had spent the previous evening with Lord Guisborough, at a night-club; and, returning home in the small hours of the morning, had flung herself into bed without troubling even to remove the make-up from her face. Her mother, coming out of her own bedroom in a trailing velvet dressing-gown, met her on the landing, and exclaimed reproachfully. Cynthia, declaring with far from perfect diction that she refused to be spied upon, went into her room, and slammed the door.
She was awakened at nine o'clock by the underhousemaid who carried a breakfast-tray into her room, and thus provoked a fit of mild hysterics. "Leave me alone!" she commanded. "Take that filthy tray away! I don't want it!"
"Cynthia darling, at least drink some coffee!" said Mrs. Haddington, who had followed the maid into the room. "You'll feel better, and you know you must get up! Miss Spennymoor is coming to fit that frock on you. Put the tray down on the table, Mary! That will do!"
"Oh, blast Miss Spennymoor!" said Cynthia. "And if it's that old frock of yours, I won't wear it, Mummy!"
Mrs. Haddington poured out a cup of coffee, added sugar, and held it out. "Sit up, and drink this!" she said. "Come, childie! To please me!"
Cynthia hoisted herself up reluctantly. "Oh, all right! Where's the milk?"
"You don't want milk," replied Mrs. Haddington, a trifle grimly. "What did you drink last night, Cynthia?"
"Champagne, of course. Lance took me to -"
"Cynthia, I told you not to go out with him, and now I see how right I was! You had far too much to drink, my darling. That shows me what sort of a young man he is! It isn't you I blame, but you know, pet, nothing puts the right kind of man off more quickly than a girl who takes too much to drink! Besides, if people like the Petworths ever saw you - well, you may take it from me that you wouldn't be invited to their parties any more! I want you to drop Lance. Titles aren't everything, and even if they were -"
Cynthia hunched a shoulder. "Good God, as though I cared two hoots about his silly title! I happen to like him! He isn't always trying to improve me - except about his idiotic Communism, of course, and I can always shut him up about that! He'd do simply anything to please me! Why, he even took me to Frinton's last night, and he isn't a member!" She giggled suddenly. "Really, I do think it was lamb-like of him, Mummy, because he shied off it badly, when I said I wanted to go there! He carried it off with a superbly high hand! And those lethal Kenelm Guisboroughs were there, with a stuffy party, and Lance made Kenelm OK him. Kenelm loathed having to do it, too! It was screamingly funny! Lance and I laughed for hours!"
This ingenuous exposition of what afforded her cherished daughter amusement appeared to daunt Mrs. Haddington. She said nothing; so Cynthia added: "If you can get Lance to forget the starving millions, and you easily can, he's too sweet for words! Of course, he isn't half as good-looking as Timothy, but Timothy wouldn't have the guts to muscle into a club he didn't belong to, and, anyway, it isn't me Timothy's after!"
Mrs. Haddington was a hardheaded woman, but she had her blind spot. It was inconceivable to her that any man, beholding her daughter, could look twice at any other female. She said sharply: "Nonsense! If he isn't after you, why does he come here? You seem to forget that I found you practically in his arms yesterday afternoon!"
"Yes, wasn't it dear and cherishing of him?" agreed Cynthia, nibbling a slice of thin toast. "Darling Mummy, you're too dim! Timothy's mad cats on Beulah Birtley! I don't say I couldn't have had him, if I'd wanted him, because honestly I do think I could cut the Birtley girl out, don't you? - but I'm practically certain Lance is far more my type!"
Uncomfortable recollections chased one another through Mrs. Haddington's memory. She said angrily: "That gaol-bird! Designing little bitch! I'll soon settle her hash! But it's rubbish, my pet! No man would look at her while you were present! I've no doubt she's trying her best to catch him, but I'll soon put a stop to that!"
"Oh, hell, who cares?" said Cynthia, relaxing into her enormous, lace-edged pillows. "I don't want him! I'd sooner have Lance! Besides, you won't stop it. She had dinner with him last night, at Armand's. Moira was there, and she saw them."
"Did she?" said Mrs. Haddington. Her thin lips were close-gripped for a moment. She glanced down at her daughter, hesitated, and then said lightly: "Never mind that! I want you to get up now, my pet, and come down to my boudoir for Miss Spennymoor to fit that dress on you."
This mildly-worded request precipitated a minor crisis. Cynthia, whose fancy had prompted her to spray herself idly with scent from a cut-glass flagon, was goaded into hurling this expensive toy into the tiled grate, where it was shattered. However, this ebullition of temper had the happy effect of inducing her to get up, because not even she could remain in an atmosphere so redolent with the perfumes of Araby as to make her head swim. In a mood of sulky tearfulness, she presently descended the stairs to the boudoir, where Miss Spennymoor was patiently awaiting her.
She allowed herself to be divested of her frock, and to have her mother's old Good Black Wool cast over her head, merely saying fretfully: "I look hellish in black, and it doesn't fit me anywhere!"
"It's only for the funeral, my pet!" Mrs. Haddington soothed her. Just stand still and let Miss Spennymoor see what has to be done! Darling child, don't stand on one leg!"
"Oh, Mummy, I haven't got to go to the funeral, have I?" wailed Cynthia. "I simply won't! It's too dreary for words, and I know Dan would say I needn't! 0 God, I feel too septic in this frightful thing! Take it off me!"
Miss Spennymoor, clucking amiably, said: "Oh, dear, fancy you saying that, Miss Haddington, when I was only thinking how sweet you look! They do say a blonde always looks her best in black, don't they? Of course, it'll be very different when I've taken it in the wee-est bit. Distinguished, I should call it! Let me just slip a few pins in, and you'll be surprised! Now, I'm quite partial to a funeral myself. Well, it takes all sorts to make a world, doesn't it? Weddings, now! I don't know how it is, but if ever I want a good cry I go and watch one of those grand weddings they have at St Margaret's! But funerals are different! - Oh, quite different they are! Of course, it makes anyone think, when they lower the coffin into the ground, but you want to look on the bright side, and ten to one it was a happy release, like it was for my poor mother, when Dad died, and once the coffin's out of the house it's surprising the difference it makes. More like a beanfeast than a funeral, my Dad's funeral was. Such a jollification as we had! No one wouldn't have guessed Mother had been up half the night, boiling the ham! Not, of course, that it's the same here, you not having the coffin in the house, but I'm sure the gentleman will have a lovely funeral, all the same!"
Ignoring this well-meant consolation, Cynthia said: "Mummy, if Lance saw me in this thing, he'd have a fit!"
"Dear child, if I were you I wouldn't be guided by that young man's ideas of what is proper!"
"Goodness, no!" said Miss Spennymoor, a trifle thickly. She removed several pins from her mouth. "You'll excuse me, but naturally I know who you are alluding to. I knew his mother very well, as I told you, Mrs. Haddington, only the other day. Oh, very well I knew poor Maudie Stratton! If ever there was a One - ! Quite set on calling her baby Lancelot, she was! She'd read a poem about some Lancelot or other, which that Hilary of hers gave her, and it quite took her fancy, though why it should of is more than I can tell you, because all the fellow could find to say when he saw the girl in the poem, all stiff and stark in a boat, was that she'd got a lovely face. Well, that's all very well, and, of course I daresay he looked ever so nice himself, in a helmet and all, and riding on a horse - because a horse does give a man tone, doesn't it? I always think so if ever I get the time to go into Hyde Park, which I do sometimes. Still, looks aren't everything, and I call it highly unnatural for anyone to go barmy about a fellow that went round singing Tirra-lirra, which is all this Lancelot did, by what I could made out. Laughable, I call it! But there it was! Nothing would do for Maudie but she must call her baby Lancelot! Never doubted it would be a boy, which I said to her was downright tempting providence, and so it was, because what must she do but go and have split twins! Laugh! I thought I should have died! If you'd turn round, Miss Cynthia, I could see if it's hanging straight!"
Mrs. Haddington, who had listened in stony silence to these recollections, caught her eye at this point, and gave her what the little dressmaker afterwards described as A Look. Miss Spennymoor, covered in confusion, coughed, said hastily: "But I mustn't run on, must I?" and, in her agitation, stuck a pin into Cynthia's tender flesh. By the time that sensitive damsel had been soothed into sullen quiescence, all thought of Lord Guisborough and his romantically-minded parent had been banished from Miss Spennymoor's mind, and she continued her task in chastened silence.
Miss Spennymoor had scarcely withdrawn to the seclusion of the sewing-room on the second floor when Beulah came into the boudoir, to lay before her employer the sum total of the weekly bills. Mrs. Haddington's eyes narrowed; she said: "I'll check it against the books."
Beulah flushed. "Certainly! I have them here!"
"Trot along, darling!" Mrs. Haddington told her daughter, in quite another voice. "I shouldn't racket about today, if I were you. Why don't you ring up Betty, and see if she'd like to go for a walk in the Park with you, and come back here to luncheon? Wouldn't that be rather nice?"
"No, hellish!" responded Cynthia frankly. "I'm going to lie down! I feel bloody!"
With these elegant words, she walked out of the room neglecting to shut the door behind her.
Mrs. Haddington seated herself at her desk, and held out her hand for the weekly accounts. In silence, Beulah laid a pile of books and bills before her, together with her own epitome.
"Your total appears to be correct," Mrs. Haddington said, after a pause.
"No, is it really?" retorted Beulah. "I quite thought I was getting away with a halfpenny!"
"I advise you not to be impertinent, my good girl. You won't find that it pays in this house!" Mrs. Haddington took out her cheque-book from a drawer, and dipped a pen in the silver inkpot. "There is something else I wish to say to you. I understand that you were dining with Mr.. Harte last night, at Armand's?"
"Well?" Beulah shot at her.
The pen travelled slowly across the cheque-form. "I need hardly ask, I suppose, whether Mr.. Harte is aware of your somewhat unusual history?" said Mrs. Haddington bitingly.
The flush had faded from Beulah's cheeks, leaving them very white. "I don't know what business that is of yours!" she said.
"It is very much my business. Mr.. Harte met you under my roof, and I could not reconcile it with my conscience not to drop a word of timely warning in his ear."
Beulah put out a hand to grip the edge of the mantelshelf. "I see the idea, of course!" she said breathlessly. "Recoiling in disgust from me, Timothy is to fall into your daughter's arms! I'm afraid he won't do it: his taste doesn't run to brainless blondes!" She stopped, and added quickly: "I'm sorry! I oughtn't to have said that!"
Mrs. Haddington blotted the cheque, and turned in her chair to survey Beulah from her heels to her head. "So you actually imagine that you're going to entrap that young man into marriage, do you?" she said. "How very amusing! But something tells me that the Hartes don't go to Holloway for their brides. We shall see!"
Beulah released the mantelshelf, and took a hasty step towards her employer. "Whatever you do, he won't marry Cynthia!" she said.
"Miss Cynthia!" corrected Mrs. Haddington blandly.
"Oh, don't be such a fool! My family is a damned sight better-born than yours, for what that's worth! You're trying to make me lose my temper, but, I warn you, you'd better not! I didn't cut your daughter out with Timothy Harte: he never for one moment thought of her seriously! It can't matter to you if I marry him! There are dozens of men only too anxious to marry her: why can't you let me have just one who prefers me? I'm going to marry him, not because he's well-off, and well-born, and heir to a baronetcy, but because I love him! If you think you can stop me, you were never more mistaken in your life! I'm not a dewy innocent any longer, so don't think it! I've put up with your foul tongue all these months because it suited me to stay in this job, but I won't put up with any interference in my private life! There's very little I won't do, if you goad me to it! If I can't have Timothy, I don't care what becomes of me! So now you know!"
From the doorway Thrimby coughed with extreme deliberation. "I beg your pardon, madam, but I thought Miss Cynthia was here. Lord Guisborough wishes to speak to her on the telephone."
Beulah glared at him, her full lip caught between her teeth. Mrs. Haddington said coolly: "Here is the cheque, Miss Birtley. You will pay the bills tomorrow morning, if you please, before you come to work. Kindly go down to Mrs. Foston and find out from her what shopping has to be done today! Miss Cynthia is resting, Thrimby, I will speak to Lord Guisborough."
Thrimby, recounting this interesting passage later to his colleague, the housekeeper, said impressively: "Mark my words, Mrs. Foston, there's more to that young woman than meets the eye! Well, I've always had my suspicions, right from the start!"
"Well," said Mrs. Foston, who was as goodhumoured as she was stout, "be that as it may, I'm downright sorry for the girl, and that's a fact, Mr.. Thrimby! I've never had any words with her, but, then, Do as you would be done by, is my motto! I shall stay here till the end of the Season, because that's what I promised Mrs. H., but not another moment! Well, it isn't what I've been accustomed to, and that's the truth! Only, in these days, with the best people cutting down their staffs -" She stopped, and sighed. "Well, you know what it is, Mr.. Thrimby!"
"I know," he agreed, echoing her sigh. "Sometimes one wonders what the world is coming to!"
"All this talk about the Workers!" said Mrs. Foston, shaking out a tea-cloth, subjecting it to a minute inspection, and refolding it. "Anyone 'ud think the only people to do a job of work was in factories, or dockyards, or plate-laying! No one bothers about people like you and me, and my brother, who's doing a jobbinggardener's work, because no one can't afford to keep a head-gardener like him, that was always used to have four under him! It makes me tired, Mr.. Thrimby!"
"Ah, well, it's Progress, Mrs. Foston!" said the butler vaguely.
"Yes, and I suppose it's progress that makes any little chit that hasn't had any more training than that canary of mine waltz in here asking as much money as a decent housemaid that's worked her way up from betweenmaid!" said Mrs. Foston tartly. "Something for nothing! That's what people want nowadays. And it's what they get, too, more's the pity! I've no patience with it!"
At this point, Thrimby, well-knowing that his colleague was fairly mounted upon her favourite hobbyhorse, thought it prudent to withdraw, so that Mrs. Foston was left to address the rest of her pithy monologue to the ambient air.
With the exception of Mrs. Foston, who stated that she preferred to say nothing; and of M. Gaston, the chef, who professed a sublime indifference to anything that occurred beyond the confines of the realm over which he reigned, Mrs. Haddington's servants were at one in declaring that murders were not what they had been accustomed to, or could put up with. The head housemaid, recruiting her strength with a cup of Bovril, informed her subordinate, who had brought this sustaining beverage up to her sick-bed, that strangled corpses were not what she would call nice; and the parlourmaid, tendering her notice to her employer, said that Mr.. Seaton-Carew's murder had unsettled her. The kitchenmaid, who was an orphan, said that her auntie didn't want her to stay no longer in a house where there were such unnatural goings-on; and would no doubt have followed the parlourmaid's example had she not been too much frightened of M. Gaston to give notice without his consent. This, since she was the least stupid scullion who had been allotted to him, was withheld, M. Gaston maintaining with Gallic fervour that what took place abovestairs was no concern of his or hers. Margie, a biddable girl, was quite cowed by his eloquence; and the rest of the staff, while deprecating the laxity of M. Gaston's outlook, said that anyone had to remember that he was French.
Notwithstanding the outrage to their finer feelings, it could not be denied that the servants derived no small degree of excitement, and even enjoyment, from the murder. Not only did it afford them an endless topic for discussion; but it rendered them interesting in the eyes of less experienced friends and relations, and it provided them with a series of not wholly disagreeable thrills. It even furnished the under-housemaid with an excuse for smashing Mrs. Haddington's early-morning teapot, and for forgetting to draw the curtains in her bathroom. Elsie, arising shakily from her sick-bed, might declare that Inspector Grant's desire to interrogate her had materially prejudiced her chances of recovery from influenza, but his visit made her instantly important, and not for the world would she have forgone it. Thrimby, listening-in, in the pantry, to a brief conversation on the telephone between his mistress and Lord Guisborough, was able to depress these pretensions by assuming the air of an informed person, and by throwing out such doubtful phrases as Hamlet warned his friends never to utter.
Altogether, it was a rewarding day for the staff, even the visit of Dr Westruther being invested with a sinister significance. It was vain for the prosaic housekeeper to point out that the doctor's visit was not unprecedented; the fact that he was closeted with Mrs. Haddington for nearly an hour was enough to give rise to speculation; for, as Miss Mapperley so sapiently observed, it stood to reason that if all the old girl wanted was a sedative for her lacerated nerves it wouldn't have taken about twenty minutes to have given her a prescription. Hard upon the heels of the doctor came the Inspector, and although his descent into the basement caused the kitchenmaid to come over ever so queer in the scullery, it afforded everyone else considerable gratification, for, while his visit conferred distinction upon the servants' hall, he was not found to be above his company, accepting cups of tea with compliments and thanks, and chatting in the easiest way with even such lowly persons as the charwoman, who came in to help the kitchenmaid with the Rough Work. In fact, so agreeable did he make himself that even his lilting speech, at first considered peculiarly laughable, was finally adjudged to enhance his charm; and when the tea-cloth was spread in the servants' hall Mrs. Foston was moved to produce from the store-cupboard a jar of honey, which she felt to be a peculiarly Scotch conserve. If anything was needed to insure the Inspector's popularity by this time, it was supplied by the tact with which he leaped into the breach caused by the underhousemaid's social lapse in reading aloud the inscription on the jar, which declared the contents to be Finest Flower Honey, the product of unequivocally English bees. Elsie, who had tottered downstairs with the firm intention of coming over faint, emerged triumphant from her interview with him, and was able to inform her fellows that she had ascertained from him that the Inquest on poor Mr.. Seaton-Carew would be held on the following day. No one else had quite liked to ask him this vital question, but although everyone was grateful to Elsie for discovering the date and the locality, not even the precarious state of her health saved her from being recommended by Miss Mapperley not to carry on as though she thought she was Mata Hari.
Hardly had the Inspector departed, than a mild sensation was caused by the arrival of Mr.. Sydney Butter-wick. This, in itself, was not a matter of great moment, but piquancy was added to his visit by the fact, reported by the parlourmaid, that he had demanded speech with Mrs. Haddington on the telephone, earlier in the day, and, upon being asked if he would leave a message, had replied hotly that he would not leave a message, and had rung off abruptly. Having had no instructions to exclude Mr.. Butterwick, Thrimby showed him upstairs into the drawing-room, where Mrs. Haddington, having finished tea half an hour earlier, was attempting to convince her daughter that it would be both inadvisable and improper for her to put in an appearance at a cocktailparty that evening. Cynthia had just informed her that if the slightest restraint were placed upon her she would go mad, when Mr.. Butterwick stalked into the room, also in a febrile condition. Disregarding the conventions, he burst into speech even before Thrimby had announced his name, uttering in trembling accents: "I want a word with you, Mrs. Haddington!"
Never before had Thrimby longed so much for an excuse to linger! He could find none. The tea-table had been removed; on this bleak February afternoon he had drawn the curtains in all the sitting-rooms at four o'clock; the fire was burning brightly in the hearth; there did not seem even to be an ashtray that needed emptying. He was forced to withdraw to the landing, and even, two minutes later, to his own domain, because Cynthia, seizing the opportunity to escape from her mother's authority, came out of the drawing-room, and very nearly surprised him on the stairs. All he was able to report to Mrs. Foston was that Mr.. Butterwick had demanded of Mrs. Haddington what the devil she had meant by telling the police lies about him; and that when she had replied in freezing accents that she was at a loss to understand what he meant, he had exclaimed: "You know damned well what I mean! And what I should like to know is why you're so anxious to cast suspicion on me for Dan's death!"
A quarter of an hour later, while Mr.. Butterwick was still closeted with Mrs. Haddington, Thrimby opened the front door to another visitor. This was Lord Guisborough, and since Thrimby had listened to his conversation on the telephone with Mrs. Haddington that morning, he had been expecting him. Lord Guisborough had rung up to suggest to Cynthia that they should spend another evening together, to which Mrs. Haddington had replied that she was anxious to have a little chat with him, and would be glad if he could make it convenient to call on her at some time during the course of the afternoon. An assignation had been arranged for a quarter-to-six. Mrs. Foston, nodding darkly, said that Madam was going to bring his lordship to the point, and not before it was time; but Miss Mapperley maintained that the old so-and-so was more likely to tick him off for keeping Miss Cynthia out until all hours.
Since his lordship wore no hat, his black locks were tossed into more than ordinary confusion, a fact that seemed to trouble him no more than his lack of gloves or walking-stick. He refused to allow Thrimby to help him to take off his overcoat, favouring him instead with a short dissertation on the Equality of Men, which made Thrimby despise him more than ever. He was even misguided enough to say that Thrimby need not trouble to announce him to his hostess, but this revolting suggestion Thrimby was able to ignore, merely by preceding his lordship to the staircase.
At this moment, a door opened on the landing above, and Mr.. Butterwick's voice was heard assuring Mrs. Haddington that nothing would induce him ever again to enter her house. He came charging down the stairs, and almost collided with Thrimby on the half-landing. After swearing at him, he perceived Lord Guisborough, mounting the first flight in his wake, flushed, muttered a confused greeting, and brushed past him on his way down to the hall. Thrimby, only hesitating for a moment, proceeded on his stately way, threw open the door into the drawing-room, and announced his lordship.
"Ah, Lord Guisborough! So glad you were able to spare me a few minutes!" said Mrs. Haddington, rising from the sofa, and holding out her hand.
Plainly, no drama was to be looked for during this visit. Thrimby withdrew, prepared, if necessary, to assist Mr.. Butterwick to put on his coat. However, by the time he reached the ground-floor, there was no other sign of Mr.. Butterwick than his malacca walking-cane, which, in his agitation, he appeared to have left behind him. Thrimby went back to the basement, and disposed himself comfortably in his pantry to peruse the evening paper. He was startled hardly more than half an hour later by hearing the front door slammed with sufficient violence almost to shake the house. An instant later, the drawing-room bell rang insistently. Thrimby pulled himself out of his chair, straightened his hair and his tie, and climbed the stairs to the ground-floor. He did not hurry, because he was a man of portly habit and he had, besides, his dignity to consider. He was hailed-from the half-landing by his employer, who demanded whether it took him all day to answer the bell. Without giving him time to reply, she said, in her most cutting tone: "Lord Guisborough has let himself out. Kindly remember that I am not, in future, at home to his lordship! If he should ring up at any time you will say that neither I nor Miss Cynthia can come to the telephone. Do you clearly understand me?"
"1 hrimby was far from understanding what could have been the cause of so sudden a change of face, but he merely bowed, and said: "Certainly, madam."
"And tell Miss Birtley I wish to see her before she leaves!"
"Miss Birtley, madam, left a quarter of an hour ago, at six o'clock," said Thrimby.
"Oh! Union rules, I suppose!" said Mrs. Haddington, with a disagreeable little laugh. "Very well, never mind! You can bring cocktails up to the drawing-room now!"
Thrimby bowed again, contriving to convey the information that he had had every intention of bringing cocktails up to the drawing-room, and that if his mistress wished for drinks half an hour in advance of the usual hour she should not only have them, but he would keep his inevitable reflections to himself. "And," said Mrs. Haddington, in the sharp tone that never failed to infuriate her servants, "I have lost my emerald brooch!"
Thrimby stiffened. "Indeed, madam? I am exceedingly sorry to hear it, and I can assure you -"
"I'm not accusing you of having stolen it! The safetycatch is loose, and it must have come undone. I am merely telling you that it is somewhere in the house, and must be found, when the rooms are swept in the morning."
"Certainly, madam. I will myself inform the maids," said Thrimby, preparing to descend again into the basement.
The drawing-room was empty when he presently brought up the cocktail-tray, but while he was still straightening cushions, and tidying the hearth, Mrs. Haddington came down from the second floor. There was a frown between her brows; she said: "Do you know if Miss Cynthia went out, Thrimby?"
"I couldn't say, madam."
"She didn't ask you to call her a taxi, or anything?"
"No, madam. I haven't seen Miss Cynthia."
"Oh, well, perhaps she's sitting in the boudoir!" said Mrs. Haddington, with more hope than conviction. She had found abundant signs in her daughter's bedroom of a rapid change of costume, and although it was possible that Cynthia had changed into a dinner-dress suitable for an evening to be spent at home, it seemed more likely that she had sallied forth in her new and daring cocktailfrock to attend the forbidden party.
The boudoir was in darkness. Mrs. Haddington closed the door, found that Thrimby had followed her down the stairs, and said: "I think Miss Cynthia must have gone out. Tell Gaston I won't wait dinner for her, if she isn't back by eight o'clock. Oh, good God, who can this be?"
"Shall I say that you are not at home, madam?" Thrimby asked, preparing to descend to the hall, to answer the door-bell.
"Yes - no! If it should be Lady Nest, or Sir Roderick, or Mr.. Harte, or someone like that, I'll see them," she replied, drawing back out of the direct line of vision from the front door.
It was nonee of these persons. Mrs. Haddington, listening on the half-landing, heard the level voice of Godfrey Poulton requesting to be announced. She stepped forward to the head of the stairs, saying in her most social tone: "Mr.. Poulton! What a pleasant surprise! I was just telling my butler to deny me, but of course you are always a welcome guest! But isn't dearest Nest with you?"
Poulton handed his gloves and his scarf to Thrimby, and glanced up the stairs. "Good-evening, Mrs. I-Iaddington. No, I fear my wife is not with me. I should be most grateful if you would spare me a few moments."
"But of course!" she said, still smiling, but with a suggestion of rigidity about her mouth. "I hope you haven't brought bad news of Nest?"
He went up the stairs towards her. He did not answer this question, but said: "May I see you in private? I shall not keep you long, I trust."
She opened the door into the boudoir. "Really, you are quite alarming me, Mr.. Poulton! Come into my room! We shall be quite undisturbed. Do you know, I have been feeling uneasy about Nest all day? So unlike her not to have given me a ring!"
He followed her into the room, and closed the door; Thrimby went back to the basement, where, encountering Miss Mapperley, he disclosed that Something was undoubtedly Up.
"For it is not Mr.. Poulton's habit to drop in at this house," he said, "and from the look of him he hadn't come just to pass the time of day."
"It wouldn't surprise me," said Miss Mapperley, pleasurably thrilled, "if he'd come to tell Madam that he won't have her ladyship visiting here any more, not after what's happened! I saw him at the party, and he looked ever such a masterful man. A bit like Cary Grant, only older, of course, and not as handsome. I said so to Elsie, at the time. I'd give something to know what he's saying to the old hag!"
However, neither she nor Thrimby was destined to know what was said in the boudoir. The interview did not last long, the bell summoning Thrimby to show the visitor out after little more than twenty minutes.
He reached the hall to find Godfrey Poulton descending the stairs in a leisurely way. That impassive countenance betrayed no emotion whatsoever. Poulton thanked him briefly for helping him on with his coat, received his gloves and hat from him, and went out to where his car awaited him. Thee chauffeur sprang out to open the door for him; he got in, and as Thrimby closed the front door, the car drove away.
Miss . Mapperley, eagerly awaiting Thrimby's report, was disappointed, but reflected that she would probably be able to gather from Mrs. Haddington's manner, when she went up to help her change for dinner, whether or not the visit had afforded her gratification. "You can always tell when anything's happened to annoy her," she observed. "I wouldn't mind betting I can't do right tonight!"
Mrs. Haddington's bedroom-bell was late in ringing. No summons had reached Miss Mapperley by the time Thrimby went up to the dining-room to lay the table. He was engaged in folding a napkin into the shape of a water-lily when a soft footfall in the hall took him to the door. Beulah Birtley was just about to let herself out of the house.
".I thought you had gone home, miss!" Thrimby said.
She was startled, and turned quickly, colouring. "Oh! I didn't know you were there! Yes, I had, but I left Mrs. Haddington's cheque behind, and had to come back for it. For heaven's sake, don't tell her!"
Thrimby was aware, of course, that Miss Birtley had been granted a latch-key, for this had been bestowed upon her to save him the trouble of answering the door to her every time her employer sent her forth on an errand, but he chose to assume an air of deep disapproval, and to say: "Madam wished to see you before you left, miss, so it is quite fortunate that you have returned. I fancy you will find her in the boudoir."
"I haven't any desire to find her, thank you!" said Beulah. "I went off duty at six, and I'm going home, and there's not the slightest need for you to tell her I ever came back!"
"If you will wait for a moment, miss," said Thrimby implacably, "I will just ascertain whether Madam has any message for you."
He observed, not without satisfaction, that his words had brought a scowl to Miss Birtley's brow, and went in his stately way up to the boudoir.