I was glad to have somebody to talk to, some one who by no possible juggling with keys and time and facts, could have had anything to do with Stella’s death. I was amazed at the ease with which she grasped the whole situation and at the pertinent questions she asked. At the end of an hour’s talk she knew all that I could tell her of the murder. Of other matters—of how charming I thought her—of how beautiful I thought the curved arch of her penciled brows over those wide gray eyes, of the adorable little trick she had of pushing out her dainty but determined chin when she wished to emphasize a point I could not tell her in so many words, and whether she guessed anything of my feelings I do not know, but I think that even then we both of us realized that the foundations of friendship had been well and truly laid.
We sat talking together until nearly four o’clock when Ralph and Kenneth, the former arrayed in a very grubby tennis shirt and ancient flannel trousers, dusters and a tin of polish in his hands, interrupted our tête-à-tête. “Going to polish up the bus,” Ralph explained, “and there are one or two little matters I want to look into as well. Are you interested in motoring, Mrs. Kenley?”
“Yes, I am. I used to drive for the Woman’s Legion during the war.”
“Really, and were you in France at all?” Kenneth asked.
“Not for very long. I drove an ambulance for a few months, and then I was drafted to London and drove for the War Office.”
I could see that Mrs. Kenley was not over-anxious to talk about herself, and she made a move toward the garage, as though to close the conversation. But the boys were interested and pressed for details, asking whom she had driven, and whether she had had any interesting experiences.
“No, nothing exciting at all—except just once, and then”—she paused and smiled reminiscently—“and then I hit a certain well-known general in the face.”
“Did you really, though? And why weren’t you shot at dawn?” Ralph laughed. “Please tell us about it, what did happen?”
“Oh, there’s really nothing to tell. I wish I hadn’t mentioned it. He was a little drunk, and—well, I suppose he took me for some one else. I was in an awful fright next morning, because I couldn’t afford to lose my job. But nothing happened all day, and at night when I took the car home, I found a big bunch of roses tucked away inside, with a note of apology. He was a sportsman, after all.”
“What was his name?” Ralph asked.