“My name is Philip Morton,” I answered. “I live at Rothland Wood farmhouse.”
“Son of the man who was murdered?”
I assented. He gazed at me fixedly, with the faintest possible expression of interest in his languid grey eyes.
“You were very intent upon your book,” he remarked. “What was it?”
I held it up.
“You should know it, sir,” I answered.
He glanced at the title and shrugged his shoulders slightly. There were indications of a frown upon his fine forehead.
“You should be able to employ your time better than that,” he said.
“I don’t think so. I am fond of reading—especially poetry,” I replied.
The idea seemed to amuse him, for he smiled, and the stem lines in his countenance relaxed for a moment. Directly his lips were parted his whole expression was transformed and I understood what women had meant when they talked about the fascination of his face.