Margaret racked them obediently and for some minutes there was silence, broken only by the cries of the swooping gulls and the splash of the waves against the rocks at the bottom of the cliffs.
“There’s only one person I can think of who had cause for hating Elsie,” she said slowly at last. “Or rather, did hate her, I’m quite certain—whether with cause or without, I don’t know. Mrs. Russell!”
Roger popped up on his elbow. “Mrs. Russell?” he repeated eagerly. “Why did she hate Mrs. Vane?”
“She had an idea that Elsie and Mr. Russell were a little too friendly. A good deal too friendly, not to mince matters!”
“Oho! The plot thickens. And were they?”
“I don’t know. They were very friendly, certainly. Whether they were too friendly, I can’t say.”
“But it’s possible?”
“Quite—as far as Elsie is concerned. She had neither morals nor scruples.”
“And Mr. Russell? What sort of a man is he?”
“Oh, jolly and red-faced and beefy, you know. The sort of man you see in those old hunting prints.”