“Don’t you worry, Mary,” I replied. “It’s only the usual official formality carried out by the Police.”
She turned to Anthony.
“Who could have killed him, Mr. Bathurst? I can’t realize it—yesterday alive and in such ... good spirits ... and now to-day....” She broke off and shook her head helplessly.
“You’re upset,” said Anthony, sympathetically. “Very naturally. It has been a shock to you. How is Lady Considine?”
“Wonderful, considering. I think the murder has to some extent mitigated the loss of her pearls ... can you understand?” She looked up at him and then half smiled towards me. Her pallor only seemed to accentuate her loveliness. I have never seen eyes like Mary’s—and I found myself dreaming dreams.
“Jack has sent word to poor Mrs. Prescott—I don’t know what I shall say to her.” The violet eyes fringed with tears. “It would have been difficult,” she went on, “with someone you knew ... it will be infinitely more difficult with a stranger.”
Anthony conveyed more sympathy with a slight gesture.
“I am sure it will be in able hands. Can you help me now? I want to turn up an old copy of The Prattler. Bill tells me your father has taken it for years. Do you keep them?”
“How long ago is the copy you want?”
“Just over five years,” he replied.