“Dear,” she said, “you are not the only foolish woman in the world.”...
Conversation amongst the younger members of the house-party at Devenham Castle was a little disjointed that evening. Perhaps Penelope, who came down in a wonderful black velveteen gown, with a bunch of scarlet roses in her corsage, was the only one who seemed successfully to ignore the passage of arms which had taken place so short a while ago. She talked pleasantly to Somerfield, who tried to be dignified and succeeded only in remaining sulky. Chance had placed her at some distance from the Prince, to whom Lady Grace was talking with a subdued softness in her manner which puzzled Captain Wilmot, her neighbor on the other side.
“I saw you with all the evening papers as usual, Bransome,” the Prime Minister remarked during the service of dinner. “Was there any news?”
“Nothing much,” the Foreign Secretary replied. “Consuls are down another point and the Daily Comet says that you are like a drowning man clinging to the raft of your majority. Excellent cartoon of you, by the bye. You shall see it after dinner.”
“Thank you,” the Prime Minister said. “Was there anything about you in the same paper by any chance?”
“Nothing particularly abusive,” Sir Edward answered blandly. “By the bye, the police declare that they have a definite clue this time, and are going to arrest the murderer of Hamilton Fynes and poor dicky Vanderpole tonight or tomorrow.”
“Excellent!” the Duke declared. “It would have been a perfect disgrace to our police system to have left two such crimes undetected. Our respected friend at the Home Office will have a little peace now.”
“How about me?” Bransome grumbled. “Haven’t I been worried to death, too?”
The Prince, who had just finished describing to Lady Grace a typical landscape of his country, turned toward Bransome.
“I think that I heard you say something about a discovery in connection with those wonderful murder cases,” he said. “Has any one actually been arrested?”