Marion and Stephen exchanged a glance. Marion laughed.
“Well, I don't know,” she observed, in the musing tone of a woman not altogether displeased. “It might be rather fun, in a way.”
“Fun?” exclaimed Stephen.
“Did you tell her, Miles, to be sure to bring her ration-book?”
“No.” His tone was bitter. “I'm afraid that detail escaped me.”
“Never mind, dear. We can always ...” Abruptly Marion sat up, a flash of consternation in her hazel eyes under the sensible straight brows. “Miles! Wait! This woman didn't poison anybody?” “My dear Marion,” said Stephen, “will you please tell me what difference it makes whether she poisoned anybody or shot anybody or beat in some old man's head with a poker? The point is―
“Just a minute,” interposed Miles quietly. He tried to be very quiet, very measured, and to control the thumping of his pulses. “I didn't say this girl was a murderess. On the contrary, if I have any judgment of human character, she certainly isn't anything of the kind.”
“Yes, dear,” Marion said indulgently, and leaned across the tea-service to pat his hand. “I'm sure you're quite convinced of that.”
“God damn it, Marion, will you stop misjudging my motives in this thing?”
“Miles! Please!” Marion clucked her tongue, more from force of habit than anything else. “We're in a public place.”
“Yes,” agreed Stephen. “Better lower your voice, old boy.”
“All right, all right! Only ...”
“Here!” soothed Marion, and poured tea with deftness. “Take this, and try on of the cakes. There! Isn't that better? This interesting lady of yours, Miles: how old did you say she was?”
“In her early thirties, I should think.”
“And going out as a librarian? How is it the Labour Exchange hasn't got her?”
“She's only just been repatriated from Frances.”
“From France? Really? I wonder if she's brought over any French perfume with her?”
“Come to think of it,” said Miles, who in fact could remember it quite well, “she was wearing some kind of perfume this morning. I happened to notice.”
“We want to hear all about her past history, Miles. There's plenty of time, and we can save an extra cup of tea for her in case she turns up soon. It wasn't poison? You're sure of that ? Steven, darling!―you're not having any tea!”
“Listen!” said Stephen, at last in the authoritative voice of one who calls for the floor.
Picking up his pipe from the table, he twisted at it and thrust it bowl-upwards into his breast-pocket.
“What can't understand,” he complained, “is how all this came about. Do they keep murderers at the Murder Club, or what? All right, Miles! Don't get on your high horse! I like to get my facts in order, that's all. How long will it take Miss What-is-it to put the books in order? A week or so?”
Miles grinned at him.
“Properly to catalogue that library, Steve, with all the cross-referencing of the old books, will take between two and three months.”
Even Marion looked startled.
“Well,” murmured Stephen, after a pause. “Miles will always do exactly what he wants to do. So that's all right. But I can't go back to Greywood with you this evening ...”
“You can't go back this evening?” cried Marion.
“My darling,” sad Steve, “I kept trying to tell you in the taxi―only you haven't the gift of worshipful silence―that there's a crisis on again at the office. It's only until tomorrow morning.” He hesitated. “I suppose it's all right to send you two down there alone with this interesting female?”
There was a brief silence.
Then Marion chortled with mirth.
“Steve! You are an idiot!”
“Am I? Yes. I suppose I am.”
“What can Fay Seton do to us?”
“Not being acquainted with the lady, I can't say. Nothing, actually.” Stephen smoothed at his cropped moustache. “It's only―
“Drink up your tea, Steve, and don't be so old-fashioned. I shall be glad of her help about the house. When Miles said he was going to employ a librarian I rather imagined an old man with a long white beard. What's more, I shall put her in my room, and that will give me an excuse to move into that glorious ground-floor room even if it does still smell of paint. It's tiresome about the Ministry of Information; but I don't think the woman will frighten us to death in one night even if you're not there. What train are you taking tomorrow morning?”
“Nine-thirty. And mind you don't mess around with that kitchen boiler unless I'm there to help. Let it alone, do you hear?”
“I'm a dutiful bride-to-be, Steve.”
“Dutiful my foot,” said Stephen, without stress or resentment; he simply stated a fact. At the same time, obviously soothed and shaken back to normal by this time, he dismissed the subject of Fay Seton. “By George, Miles, you must have me to a meeting of this Murder Club! What do they do there?”
“It's a dinner club.”
“You mean you pretend the salt is poison? That sort of thing? And score a point if you can shove it into somebody's coffee without being detected? All right, old man: don't be offended! I must be pushing off now.”
“Steve!” Marion spoke in a voice whose inflection her brother knew only too well. “I forgot something. May I have a word with you? You will excuse us for a moment, Miles!”
Talking about him, eh?
Miles glowered at the table, trying to pretend he was unconscious of this, as Marion moved with Stephen towards the door. Marion was speaking in an animated undertone, Stephen shrugging his shoulders and smiling as he put on his hat. Miles took a drink of tea that had begun to grow cold.
He had an uncomfortable suspicion that he was somehow making a fool of himself, certainly that he was losing his sense of humour. But why? The true answer to that occurred to him a moment later. It was because he wondered whether he might not be loosing in his own household certain forces over which he had no control.
A cash-register rang: outside the windows rose the chug of a train; the burring voice of the loud-speaker recalled him to Waterloo Station. Miles told himself that this fleeting idea―the momentary intense chill which touched his heart―was all nonsense. He repeated it, summoning up a laugh, and felt his spirits improved when Marion returned.
“Sorry if I sounded bad-tempered, Marion.”
“My dear boy!” She dismissed this with a gesture. Then she eyed him persuasively. “But now that we're alone, Miles, tell you little sister all about it.”
“There isn't anything to tell! I met this girl, I liked her manners, I was convinced she'd been slandered....”
“But you didn't tell her you knew anything about her?”
“Not a word. She didn't mention t, either.”
“She gave you references, of course?”
“I didn't ask for them. Why should you be so interested?”
“Miles, Miles!” Marion shook her head. “Practically every woman falls for that sauntering Charles-the-Second air of yours, the more so as you're superbly unconscious of it yourself. Now don't draw yourself up and look stuffy! You hate it when I take any interest in you welfare!”
“I only meant that these constant sisterly character analyses―
“And when I hear of a woman who seems to have impressed you so much, naturally I'm interested!” Marion's eyes remained steady. “What was the trouble she was mixed up in?”
Mile's gaze wandered out of the window.
“Six years ago she went over to Chartres as private secretary to a wealthy leather manufacturer named Brooke. She became engaged to be married to the son of the house....”