“There it is, sir, and an ugly business,” said Bell with a certain satisfaction. “These stage folk, they’re not wholesome.”
“My dear old Bell,” Reggie chuckled.
“Good Gad!” said Lomas, and burst out laughing. “But it’s preposterous. It’s a novelette. The two leading ladies quarrel—and they meet by moonlight alone on the banks of the murmuring stream—and pull caps—and what happened next? Did Rose pitch Sylvia into the dark and deadly water or Sylvia commit suicide in her anguish? Damme, Bell, you’d better make a film of it.”
“I don’t know what you make of it, sir,” said Bell with stolid indignation. “But I’ve advised the local people to drag the river. And I suggest it’s time we had a man or two looking after this Miss Darcourt.”
“Good Gad!” said Lomas again. “And what do you suggest, Fortune? Do you want to arrest her and put her on the rack? Or will it be enough to examine her body for Sylvia’s finger-prints? If we are to make fools of ourselves, let’s do it handsomely.”
“It seems to me we look fools enough as it is,” Bell growled.
“This is a very painful scene,” Reggie said gently. “Your little hands were never made to scratch each other’s eyes.”
“What do you want to do?” Lomas turned on him.
“Well, it’s not much in my way. I like a corpse and you haven’t a corpse for me. And I don’t feel that I know these good people. They seem muddled to me. It’s all muddled. I fancy they don’t know where they are. And there’s something we haven’t got, Lomas old thing. I should look about.”
“I’m going to look about,” said Lomas with decision. “But I’m going to look for Sylvia Sheridan’s friends—not her wicked rivals. I resent being used as an actress’s advertisement.”