“But even so, that’s surely no reason why she should murder one of Ethel’s guests?”
“Blockhead,” she laughed, “she was jealous. And I’m not so sure that she hadn’t good reason to be too, or why did Mr. Allport ask Ethel about it in the way he did?”
“But, my dear Miss Hunter, the girl is only just engaged to another man, you heard her tell us so yourself.”
“And, my dear Mr. Jeffcock,” she mocked, “it’s quite, quite possible to be engaged to one man and in love with another all the time—even quite, quite nice girls may find themselves in that position. If you doubt it I can give you a case near at hand, can’t I now?”
I had to admit to myself that she could, but our conversation was interrupted by the cathedral clock which boomed out the hour of four. Margaret seemed absurdly—I was going to say put out, but I think alarmed is more the word—that it should be so late.
“Why, that’s four o’clock,” she whispered. “Mr. Allport expected to be here by then, didn’t he? I must go, I must really go. I had no idea it was so late.”
We hurried off down the garden together. A subtle change seemed to have come over Margaret—in the rose garden and behind the garage, friendly and anxious to exchange her ideas and confidences with mine—now suddenly reticent and disturbed. I could hear her whispering to herself as we hurried along the path, “How late it is, how late it is, I had no idea it was so late!” It somehow brought a picture of the White Rabbit hurrying off to the duchess’s tea party before my mind.
“I say, they’re going to have tea in the garden, and it’s ready now; Mr. Allport may be here before we finish,” she said aloud in an agitated voice.
“Well, and why not?” I voiced my surprise.
“But I wanted to see Mrs. Kenley before he came, to show her the paper I found in the attic, you know, and now I shall have to wait until after tea and he may be here before we finish.”