“How did you meet Miss — er — Mary?” asked Miss Phipps.
“Her name is Mary Fletcher Arne-son,” supplied Tarrant. “I met her when she was with a convalescent patient in Brittlesea. Luckily for me, a case took me to the hotel where they were staying.”
“Was that patient the testator?” asked Miss Phipps hopefully.
“No, no! That patient was a young girl with a broken leg,” said Tarrant impatiently. “She has nothing to do with this case at all.”
“Go on,” said Miss Phipps.
“Mary, as I said, was walking down the Strand in the rush hour. Just in front of her she noticed an old man with a middle-aged one. The fiftyish one was just the ordinary stockbroking kind, but the old man was rather striking. He was tall, rather stooping, with curly gray hair sticking out beneath his hat, and a very strong, fierce old face. Like a hawk, Mary said. He was well dressed, she said, in a handsome coat of very fine cloth with an astrakhan collar. He had dark gray gloves and a new-looking dark gray felt hat, and a rather elegant silk scarf. Altogether an imposing old chap. He leaned quite heavily on his stick, an old-fashioned affair, Mary said, black with something white, carved, for a handle.”
“What was the carving?” inquired Miss Phipps.
“Mary didn’t see at the time,” said Tarrant, “but later she found it represented a dog.”
“What kind of dog?”
“An Airedale,” said Tarrant with a touch of exasperation. “But really, Miss Phipps, such a detail is of no importance.”
Miss Phipps snorted. “I don’t agree,” she said. “But how did Miss Arneson come to notice any of these details, as you call them, at all?”
“Because she was held up by the old man and his companion,” explained Tarrant. “You know what the traffic is like in the Strand, both on and off the pavement. The old chap was tottering along slowly. Mary tried to pass him first on one side and then on the other, but he doddered about, and the crowd streamed by, and Mary couldn’t pass without pushing him aside rather rudely.”
“What is she like, your Mary?” asked Miss Phipps in a warmer tone.
“She’s tall and dark and strong,” said Tarrant, “but slender. Her hair has no waves in it, thank goodness; it’s smooth and thick and done tight against her head, always very neat. She has dark eyes, large and bright; and thick eyebrows and thick eyelashes. She’s been to Columbia University; she’s very intelligent. And she’s very candid, and very energetic, and always dressed just right; she always looks fresh and neat and easy on the eye, whether in uniform or in mufti,” finished Tarrant hurriedly.
“She’s better than you deserve, young man,” said Miss Phipps with enthusiasm.
“I know that,” mumbled Tarrant. “She has a warm, jolly sort of voice,” he added, “and just enough American in her accent to make it — er — attractive.”
“Very good,” said Miss Phipps cheerfully. “All that is highly satisfactory. So she followed the old man down the Strand, and did not push him. Then what happened?”
“He stepped to the edge of the pavement,” said Tarrant, “and held up his stick to wave for a taxi. The middle-aged fellow hung back, looking bored. Well, you know what taxis are, and you know what the traffic is, and you know old men; the taxis buzzed past, and the old man grew cross and waved his stick more frantically, and he took a step forward in his excitement—”
“Ah!” exclaimed Miss Phipps distressfully.
“Exactly,” said Tarrant. “All in a moment a bus bore down on him, and the driver put his brakes on hard, and Mary snatched the old chap by the collar, and the next moment Mary and the old man and the middle-aged one and several other pedestrians were all lying in a heap on the pavement, with fragments of the black stick, and glass from the bus’s broken lamp, flying about them.”
Miss Phipps drew a deep breath. “He wasn’t hurt?” she said.
“Not a mark on him anywhere,” replied Tarrant cheerfully. “But of course it was a shock to him, being so old. Mary and the other man picked him up and carried him off into a chemist’s shop nearby and gave him brandy and sal volatile and so on, and presently a constable came in and took their statements. But it was before that the old man looked at Mary so strangely.”
“Ah!” said Miss Phipps. “He looked at her strangely, you say.”
“Yes. It was like this,” explained the detective. “At first he was so dazed, he seemed almost unconscious; he clung to her arm as old people do, not releasing her even when she got him seated in the chair at the chemist’s. She had one arm round him supporting him; and when the brandy was brought, she offered it to him with her other hand. Well, as she brought the glass to his lips he gave a tremendous start. His whole body seemed to quiver, and he looked at her hand as if his eyes would fall out of his head. And then he moved his eyes to her cuff, and then slowly upwards till they rested on her face. It was a most extraordinary look he gave her, Mary said; she was very much struck by it, and somehow very sorry for him.”
“But can’t you define the look more clearly?” pressed Miss Phipps. “Was it fear, or hate, or horror, or love — or what?”
“A bit of all of them, Mary said,” replied Tarrant.
“And what did he say to her?” asked Miss Phipps eagerly.
“Nothing,” said Tarrant, “for the constable arrived just then. And as soon as she had given her account of the affair and explained that she thought the old man was not hurt, Mary had to hurry away. It was time for her to go on duty, and the old chap had the other man to take him home.”
“Yes?” said Miss Phipps as the detective paused. “Go on.”
“There isn’t any more,” said Tarrant confusedly. “That is the difficulty, you see.”
Miss Phipps stared at him. “What do you mean?” she said.
“I mean,” said Tarrant, “that the incident occurred in September. Mary heard no more of the matter — for the police did nothing, as no one was hurt and the bus driver was plainly exonerated — until October. And at the end of October, Mary received a letter from a firm of lawyers in Gray’s Inn, saying that she was one of the legatees under the will of the late Sir John Kebroyd, and would site come to see them. She went, and found that Sir John Kebroyd had left her twenty thousand pounds. ‘But who is Sir John Kebroyd?’ asked Mary. Well, at that the lawyers hummed and ha’d, and said they ought to warn her that their client intended to contest the will. ‘But who is your client?’ asked Mary. ‘If you would like to meet Mr. John William Kebroyd,’ said the lawyers, ‘we should be happy to arrange it; but we respectfully suggest that the meeting take place in the presence of your solicitor.’ Well, of course Mary had no solicitor; but the way those lawyers looked down their noses at her got her back up — after all, she’s an American, and American women are used to having their own way; so she consulted me, and I found her a good solicitor, and I went with her to the interview. And Mr. John William Kebroyd—”
“Was the fiftyish man who accompanied the old man in the Strand,” concluded Miss Phipps.
“That’s right,” said Tarrant. “The old man’s son.”
“And on what grounds was the son about to contest the will?” inquired Miss Phipps sardonically. “He could hardly call it undue influence on Mary’s part.”