"I think I know. She was entertaining somebody."
They walked on. "The obvious question," Willard went on heavily, "is one I can't ask, even of a friend. But I am afraid the police will. Do you understand me, John?"
"Scandal?" inquired the other. To Bennett's surprise, Bohun did not in the least flare out. He seemed to be weighing something in his mind, and finding it puzzling; there was almost a sardonic expression on his lean face, but it vanished immediately. "Possibly. By God, there would be scandal about Marcia Tait if she died in a nunnery. Bound to be. It's a queer thing to say, Willard, but that side of it doesn't bother me at all. She was never jealous of her reputation; neither am I"
Jervis Willard nodded. He seemed to be talking to himself.
"Yes," he said. "And I think l know why. You knew she was in love with you, and you knew that if you knew nothing else in this world." As he turned to look at Bohun, he saw Bennett as though for the first time, and straightened up. The presence of a stranger closed his mouth instantly. "Sorry, John. You-you must excuse us, Mr. Bennett. Neither of us is at our best this morning."
They reached the house in silence. Bohun led them up the steps to the side-entrance, where Bennett's car still stood in the drive. At the top of the steps, just drawn back from peering out through the door, they found Thompson: not a stately specimen among butlers, but efficient as a genie. He was small, bald, and wrinkled, with the tolerant eye of one who has known the family too long. His utter respectability masked even the fact that his eyes were red-rimmed and his jaw swollen.
Bohun said, "Library," and stopped for a conference with him while Willard led the way. Bennett found himself in a maze of narrow passages, dark and smelling of old wood, with coconut matting underfoot. There were unexpected steps, and diamond-paned windows in deep embrasures. He did not remember that he was chilled through until Willard took him to a big room where one wall was built of these windows after the Tudor fashion, and the other three walls built of books. It was austere enough, with its stone floor and its iron book-gallery circling the walls; but there were electric lights in the twisted-iron chandelier, and the tapestry of upholstered furniture before the fireplace. Books crowded even over this fireplace; but there was a roaring blaze of wood. It dazzled Bennett's eyes, it made him shudder with a removal of the chill and remember how tired he was. He lay back in an overstuffed chair and stared at the groined roof with the red firelight flickering on it. The warmth seeped into him; he wanted to close his eyes. By moving his head slightly he could see the motionless gray clouds outside the windows, and the brown slopes of the Downs rutted with snow. The house was very quiet.
"You saw her?" asked Jervis Willard's voice. Bennett roused himself.
"Yes."
Willard was standing with his back to the fire, his hands folded behind him. The fire threw a burnished gray gleam on his hair.