"The mistake you made was in rescuing the thing at all," said Hemingway. "It just serves you right. You go and give it back to Mrs. Herriard, and don't let me have any backchat about it either!"
The Sergeant sighed, and went off to find Maud. She had by this time escaped from Mrs. Dean's toils, and was knitting in the library, exchanging desultory remarks with Mathilda. Joseph was seated on the broad windowseat with Paula, trying to amuse her with anecdotes of his career on the stage. Paula, who was far too profound an egotist to see anything pathetic in his reminiscences, did not even pretend to be interested. Beyond saying Oh! once or twice in an abstracted voice, she paid no heed to him. Her face wore its most brooding look, and it was obvious that her mind was solely occupied with her own stage-career.
The Sergeant coughed to draw attention to himself, and trod over to Maud's chair. "Beg pardon, madam, but I think you said you'd lost a book?"
"Yes, indeed I have," said Maud. "I told the Inspector about it, and he promised to keep a look-out for it."
Feeling absurdly guilty, the Sergeant proffered the wreck he was holding. "Would this be it, madam?"
For almost the first time in their acquaintanceship, Mathilda watched Maud's face register emotion. Her pale eyes stared at the book, and her jaw sagged. It was a moment before she could find her voice. "That?" she said. "Oh no!"
"I'm afraid it's got a bit damaged," said the Sergeant apologetically.
This tactful understatement made Mathilda choke. Almost shrinkingly Maud took the book, and looked at it.
"oh dear!" she said distressfully. "Oh dear, dear, dear! It is my book! Joseph, look what has happened! I cannot understand it!"
Joseph, who had already crossed the room to her side, said tut-tut, in a shocked voice, and asked the Sergeant where he had found it.