“Really? It’s quite simple. Had anything happened lately to make Miss Sheridan annoyed with anybody?”
“I’m bound to say, sir,” Eagle broke out, “there was a—a question about her part. She was to play lead in Mr. Woodcote’s new comedy. Well—er—I can’t deny—er—Miss Darcourt’s been with me before. Miss Darcourt—she was—well, I had—er—representations from her the part ought to be hers. I—er—I’m afraid Miss Sheridan did come to hear of this.”
“Rose Darcourt couldn’t play it,” said the author fiercely. “She couldn’t touch it.”
“No, no. I don’t suggest she could—er—not at all—but it was an unpleasant situation. Miss Sheridan was annoyed——”
“Miss Sheridan was annoyed with Miss Darcourt and Miss Darcourt was annoyed with Miss Sheridan. And Miss Sheridan goes out alone at night by the river and in the river we find her bag. That’s the case, then. Well, well.”
“Do you mean that Rose Darcourt murdered her?” Woodcote frowned at him.
“My dear fellow, you are in such a hurry. I mean that I could bear to know a little more about Miss Darcourt’s emotions. Do you think you could find out if she still wants to play this great part?”
“She may want,” said Woodcote bitterly. “She can go on wanting.”
“In point of fact,” said Eagle. “I—er—I had a letter this morning. She tells me—er—she wouldn’t consider acting in—er—in Mr. Woodcote’s play. She—er—says I misunderstood her. She never thought of it—er—doesn’t care for Mr. Woodcote’s work.”
Mr. Woodcote flushed. “That does worry me,” said he.