A stately footman, who looked like a disguised bishop, admitted the doctor into a large and lofty hall paved with black and white tiles, and surrounded with marble copies of celebrated statues. Directly before the visitor, on entering the door, rose the antique staircase, wide and with shallow steps, splendidly carpeted. On the first landing was a huge window of stained glass blazing with crests, resplendent,--to use Keats' gorgeous image,--as the wings of a tiger-moth. The light filtering through this made a kind of coloured ecclesiastical twilight, and accentuated the severe beauty of the architecture. But Browne did not linger here long as he knew the place well and was more anxious to see the daughter of the house than the house itself. The stately footman conducted him to the drawing-room, a long, wide, lofty apartment, crowded with expensive furniture, and here he remained, while the man went to tell his mistress that her visitor was waiting. As the servant was departing, Browne stopped him with a word.
"Parker," he said, looking directly at the man, "I suppose Miss Tedder knows of this terrible affair."
"Meaning Sir Simon's murder? Yes, sir, she does, sir, and has been taking on awful. I doubt if she'll see you, sir."
"Tell her that it is absolutely necessary that I should see her."
Parker bowed his powdered head in a Jovian manner, and made his exit, while Browne walked up and down the magnificent room, wondering how he could begin a very difficult conversation. He could scarcely put the theory of blackmail as crudely as Kind had done, and it was not probable that the girl herself would suggest such a motive for the murder. Maud Tedder, as Browne knew, was not a thoughtful young lady, and he was quite prepared for a scene. He half regretted that he had not asked to see Mrs. Mountford, the girl's former governess and present chaperon, who was a gloomy, self-possessed female given to pessimism, but always perfect mistress of her emotions. However, he had no time to consider what should be his first move in this,--so to speak,--game of chess, for almost at once, the door flew open impetuously, and Maud Tedder ran into the room with outstretched hands.
"Oh! doctor, doctor," she cried, emotionally, "I am so glad you have come. I do want someone to talk to about poor papa's death. If you hadn't come, I should have sent for you,--I should indeed but now that you are here," she dragged him to a Louis Quinze sofa, all carving and brocade, "we can talk over everything, freely."
"Hasn't Mrs. Mountford----?"
"No, Mrs. Mountford hasn't," interrupted the girl, producing a flimsy lace handkerchief, which was more for show than for use. "She does nothing but groan. Poor papa dead, oh," she shuddered, "isn't it too awful for words? Inspector Trent,--a horrid stiff thing, I think,--came last night and told me. I wondered that papa hadn't come home, and I fancied that something might have happened, but I never, never, never," she was emphatic, "never dreamt that anything so terrible as murder had taken place."
So she ran on, not allowing Browne to get a word in edgeways. He sat looking at her while she chattered, and acknowledged that although this feminine butterfly was extremely pretty, she was scarcely the girl to gain the love of a serious-minded young fellow such as he knew his old school-friend to be. Maud Tedder was slight and fair-haired and delicate, and resembled nothing so much as one of those Dresden-china shepherdess ornaments, which are dear to china-maniacs. Her complexion was pink and white, her features insignificant, her hair insipidly golden, and her eyes pale blue. A very pretty doll to come out of a bonbon box, but scarcely the daughter for stern-faced, grasping, bullying Sir Simon Tedder, who had won his wealth and knighthood by sheer brain-strength.
"What is to be done?" asked Browne, when she gave him a chance of asking a question.