“She’s in the house, oh, yes,” said George with sudden cunning. “But I don’t know whether she’s at home, you know.” George knew all about that sort of thing. Women were often in a house, but that did not mean they were at home; not a bit of it. When is a woman in a house not at home? When George Howard called on her. Yes, George knew quite a lot about that sort of thing.
“I see,” said the Chief Constable coldly. “She’s in the house, but you don’t know whether she’s at home. Is she dressed?”
“Good Lord, yes,” cried George, much shocked. Dash it all, he’d only been with her two minutes ago himself. Wouldn’t have been with Cynthia if she hadn’t been dressed, would he? Dash this fellow!
“Then will you kindly present my compliments to Mrs. Nesbitt, and ask her if I may see her?” said the Colonel, speaking slowly and distinctly, as to one of mediocre receptive powers. “If Colonel Ratcliffe, the Chief Constable, may see her,” he added, making the business perfectly plain.
“You want to see me?” said a cool voice from inside the hall.
George stood aside with a sigh of relief. Thank goodness, Cynthia had taken the thing into her own hands.
Cynthia and Colonel confronted one another. Cynthia smiled.
Now Cynthia’s smile has been mentioned before, cursorily. This time it must have the attention paid to it which it really deserves. For Cynthia’s smile plays a very important part in this story from now onwards; its effects were singularly far-reaching. Cynthia’s smile then, was very sweet, very infectious, very disturbing, and at the same time very soothing. A cross bull in full charge coming suddenly within the rays of Cynthia’s smile would probably pull up short, bow politely and offer to die for the Prime Minister. Cynthia, it may be said, was perfectly aware of the value of her smile, and she employed it quite unscrupulously; whenever she wanted her own way, for instance, or to put a nervous person at his ease, or to persuade somebody into a course of action which was totally repugnant to him. The number of hats Cynthia had cozened out of her husband simply by smiling for them was remarkable.
Cynthia did not feel like a schoolboy in the presence of the Chief Constable. She just went on smiling at him, and in thirty seconds that austere man was, metaphorically speaking, frisking playfully about her feet.
“Oh, so sorry to bother you, Mrs. Nesbitt,” he said almost genially, “but I wanted to see if you can throw any light on this extraordinary affair here last night. If you would——”