Timothy, though offended with Jim for not having taken him out in the boat, never let anyone but himself criticise the paragon, so he said perfunctorily: "Oh, he can swim all right, Mother!"
"All right!" said Lady Harte with great energy. "I want my sons to do everything well! Always remember, Timothy, that mediocrity is fatal! Whatever you do, you must make up your mind to excel at it. Look at me!"
Jim came into the room at that moment and, hearing, only the last part of this invigorating speech, promptly asked: "What for, Ma?"
"Success!" answered Lady Harte. "I've always succeeded because I make it my business to do everything thoroughly. I hate half-measures. It's about your speedboat. You ought to be able to swim."
"But I can swim!"
"Not nearly well enough," said his mother sternly. "There's a tide race here too. Not that I wish to keep you tied to my apron strings, for I don't. Did you want me for anything in particular, darling? I shall be down as soon as I've sorted this collection."
"Yes," said Jim firmly. He cast an eye over the chaos reigning in the room and added: "You'd better let one of the skivvies put all this junk away."
"Look here, are you going to take me with you when you try the Seamew out properly, or aren't you?" demanded Timothy belligerently.
"I'm not. I'll take you some other time."
"Well, I call it absolutely rotten of you! I bet I can handle her as well as you can, what's more!"
"Clear out now! I want to have a chat with Mother. You've had your innings."
"I don't see why, just because you—"
Mr. James Kane interrupted this speech by advancing purposefully upon his young relative. Mr. Harte retreated in good order, promising vengeance.
Jim shut the door upon him. "Getting altogether too uppish. Can you bear a shock, Mother?"
Lady Harte looked up from the task of stowing clothes away haphazard in a large chest of drawers and stared at him with foreboding in her eyes. "You're engaged to be married!"
He laughed, his brows lifting in surprise. "How did you know? Quite right."
"Of course I'm right! What else could it be? Who is it?"
"It's Patricia Allison."
For a moment she seemed puzzled; then her brow cleared. "Do you mean Aunt Emily's secretary, or whatever she calls herself?"
"Yes."
"Oh, that's not so bad!" said Lady Harte, relieved. "I was afraid you were going to say it was that towheaded little fool Adrian and I disliked so much. Patricia Allison! From what I remember, there's no silly nonsense about her. I always like these girls who do something, even if it's only looking after Aunt Emily. What I can't stand is a parasite. I hope she won't encourage you to live a life of idleness now you've come into all this money."
"I think I'm going to take an intelligent interest in netting."
Lady Harte said despairingly: "How I could ever have given birth to a son with so little ambition passes my comprehension! When I think what you might do—"
"But, darling, I hate travel!" objected Jim. "Can I bring Patricia in to see you?"
"Very well; but you know I don't get on with modern girls," said Lady Harte gloomily.
However, when Patricia presently came into the room, looking very cool and charming in a severe linen coat and skirt, her future mother-in-law said approvingly: "That's what I call a sensible kit. I hate frills and furbelows. Jim tells me you are going to be married. I should think you'll suit one another very well. It's always been my dread that he might marry something out of a tobacconist's shop, so you can imagine what a relief it is to me to know he's had the sense to choose a really nice girl. Not that I'm a snob, but there are limits, and young men are such fools."
"I know," said Patricia. "It's nice of you to take it like that. I was afraid you might feel that he could have done a lot better for himself."
Lady Harte seemed to find this amusing. She gave her jolly laugh and said that she had no use for pampered young women who had nothing to do except lacquer their fingernails and drink too many cocktails.
While Patricia sorted and put away her scattered belongings she walked up and down the room, energetically planning a useful future for her elder son and laying her commands upon Patricia not to allow him to fritter away his time either in money grubbing or more frivolous pursuits.
By lunchtime she was on the best of terms with Patricia and had even favoured her with a brief sketch of her own (parliamentary) plans. She evinced not the smallest interest in the shocking events that had taken place at Cliff House during the preceding fortnight, and Patricia, feeling that Jim's mother was hardly the person in whom to confide fears for his safety which might, after all, be groundless, made no attempt to talk to her on the subject.
At the luncheon table Lady Harte dominated the company. She ate casually of any dish that happened to be placed in front of her and described in trenchant yet picturesque terms the adventure she had lately been through. Emily, who liked hearing about foreign lands, listened to her with a good grace, only interrupting her occasionally to say either that she had never heard of such a thing, or that she had no patience with such outlandish ways.
On Norma's proposed excursion into the realm of politics she spoke with vigour and decision, condemning it from the outset as ridiculous nonsense and announcing that she didn't know what the world was coming to. Norma then delivered a stern lecture on her responsibilities as a citizen, and the lunch party came to an end without anyone having mentioned murders, clues or policemen—a change which Miss Allison at least felt to be an advantage.
Chapter Ten
The news of Lady Harte's spectacular arrival at Cliff House reached the offices of Kane and Mansell within two hours of her taxi's return to Portlaw. The taxi driver described it, with humorous embellishments, to a man selling newspapers, who passed it on in due course to a junior clerk, who retailed it to his senior, who thought proper to mention it to Joe Mansell. Joe, surprised, told his son over the lunch table. Paul Mansell, stirring his coffee, said reflectively: "Oh!— That's funny. Dam' funny."
Joe cast a quick look at him and then averted his eyes. "She's a very unaccountable woman, Norma Harte—very. Of course, she may have heard of Silas' death."
"Wonder if she had anything to do with Clement's death?" said Paul. "Violent sort of female, what?"
Joe stirred restlessly in his chair. "Really, my boy, really!"
"Well, I don't know," pursued Paul, watching his parent's discomfort with rather a mocking expression in his eyes. "Seems to me she might well be the guilty party. Rather a good shot, isn't she?"
Joe set his coffee cup down. "Now, look here, Paul!" he said in an angry undertone; "I'll tell you something! You make a great mistake to talk like that—a very great mistake! There's nothing looks worse than trying to cast the blame onto someone else!"
"Someone else?" repeated Paul lifting his brows.
"Well, you know what I mean! The less you say, the better. This is a very nasty business. I—upon my soul, it's taken years off my life! I've never been through such a fortnight, never!"
Paul leaned back in his chair, smiling and keeping his eyes, under their drooping lids, fixed maliciously on his father's face. "I do believe you think I killed Clement!" he said softly.
"You know very well I think nothing of the sort! I wish you wouldn't talk in that silly way. It's folly, rank folly! Of course, I know you wouldn't dream—good God, the very idea is preposterous! There's no need to discuss it. All I mean is that most unfortunately you've no alibi—that is, you can't prove an alibi—for the time of poor Clement's death. The police are bound to be suspicious of you. Well, they are suspicious: no use blinking facts."