Mary blushed again—then appealed to me to help her out.
“I forgot for the moment that you haven’t been here lately, Mr. Bathurst—tell him for me, Bill—will you, please?”
“Mary swore a fearful oath a few years ago,” I explained, “that she would marry no man that couldn’t beat her at cricket—single wicket and also over eighteen holes at golf—so that if she goes so far in the matter as to play the two matches it’s a kind of half acceptance of his proposal. For if she loses the two games—she pays forfeit. See? Neat plan, I say.”
Anthony grinned. “And Prescott was too good a man with whom to take liberties—eh?”
“I wasn’t sure,” she said, blushing furiously. “I wanted time to think.”
Anthony paced the room with swift steps. He came to her again. “This proposal was made, you say, the day preceding the murder?”
“Yes! To be exact, about twelve hours before.”
“You say your sister, Mrs. Arkwright, was in your confidence regarding Mr. Prescott’s proposal. When did you confide in her?”
Mary looked at him—surprised. “To-day,” she answered. “Not before!”
“So that not a soul knew of it before Prescott’s death?”