Mr. Fortune reproved him. “You’re so susceptible, Lomas. Control yourself. Think of my reputation. I am known in these parts.”
“Who is she? Lady Macbeth?”
“My dear fellow! Oh, my dear fellow! I thought you were a student of the drama. She’s not tragic. She’s comedy and domestic pathos. Tea and tears. It was Rose Darcourt.”
“Good Gad!” said Lomas once more. “She looked like Lady Macbeth after the murder.”
Reggie glanced over his shoulder. From the shade of the veranda of the boat-house a white face stared at him. It seemed to become aware of him and fled. “Indigestion perhaps,” he said. “It does feel like remorse. Or have you been trifling with her affections, Lomas?”
“I wouldn’t dare. Do you know her? She looks a nice young woman for a quiet tea-party. Passion and poison for two.”
“It’s the physique, you know,” said Mr. Fortune sadly. “When they’re long and sinuous and dark they will be intense. That’s the etiquette of the profession. But it’s spoiling her comedy. She takes everything in spasms now and she used to be quite restful.”
“Some silly fool probably told her she was a great actress,” Lomas suggested.
Mr. Fortune did not answer. He was steering the punt to the bank. As it slid by the rushes he stooped and picked out of the water a large silk bag. This he put down at Lomas’s feet, and saying, “Who’s the owner of this pretty thing?” once more drove the punt on at the rate of knots.
Lomas produced from the bag a powder-puff, three gold hair-pins and two handkerchiefs. “The police have evidence of great importance,” he announced, “and immediate developments are expected. S. Sheridan is the culprit, Fortune.”