“Thank goodness for some peace and quietness at last! What a day it has been, with everything going wrong from beginning to end; and then this awful affair about poor Lady Rawson coming on the top of all the other happenings. I shall hate the very thought of a wedding in future!”
Winnie Winston shivered and spread her hands to the cheerful blaze in the cosy drawing-room of the flat in Chelsea which she shared with her brother George, who sprawled luxuriously in the easy chair opposite her, while between them was Austin Starr, also very much at his ease. He had found time to come round to apologize for his absence at the wedding, and to discuss the startling and mysterious tragedy of Lady Rawson’s death. There were very few days when he did not manage to see or converse with Winnie Winston, even if their intercourse was limited to a few sentences hurriedly exchanged over the telephone. He loved her; from the first moment that he met her he had decided that she was the one woman in the world for him. But he would not ask her to marry, or even to become engaged to him, until he had an assured position to offer her. Meanwhile, though he secretly hoped that she loved him, he could not be certain of that, for her attitude towards him was one of frank camaraderie that reminded him of his own countrywomen. In many ways she was much more like an American than an English girl.
“Don’t say that, Miss Winnie. I guess the next wedding will be all right,” he responded cheerfully.
“This one wasn’t,” she declared. “I’m not a bit superstitious—not as a rule—but really I’ve never known such a succession of misfortunes. First, the fog, and then Roger being so late, and the Rawsons not turning up. Mrs. Armitage was so sniffy about that; and of course she never imagined what the reason was. Who could imagine anything so horrible? And everything seemed so forlorn after Roger and Grace had gone; it always does somehow, but it was worse than usual to-day. Some of the people were staying—Mrs. Armitage had arranged a theatre party for us all to-night—I wonder if they’ve gone. I expect so! And she made me sing—you know how fussy she is—and I broke down utterly. Awfully silly of me, I know, but really I couldn’t help it. I can’t think what ‘the maestro’ would say if he knew it! So I came away: I simply felt I couldn’t stay in the house another minute; and there wasn’t a cab to be had, so I had to walk to the train; and the rain came on and ruined my new frock, which I meant to wear to-morrow—I’m singing at Æolian Hall in the afternoon.”
“Never mind, wear that one you’ve got on now. You look just lovely in it!” counselled Austin, regarding her with tender admiration.
“That’s just like a man!” she laughed, glancing down at her gown; but the laugh had an uncertain ring, with a suggestion of tears in it. “Why, this is ever such an old thing that I only wear at home. But it’s not the frock really that I mind. I—I can’t help thinking about the horror of it all; poor Lady Rawson being murdered like that, so near to the church, too; she must have been actually on her way to the wedding!”
“I don’t think she was,” said Austin reflectively, remembering how the murdered woman had been attired when he saw and identified her. “It’s a big mystery that will take a lot of unravelling.”
“But they’ve got the chap already,” interposed George Winston, reaching for a late edition of an evening paper that he had just thrown aside—“that taxicab driver. It’s as clear as daylight so far. He must have seen Lady Rawson’s bag, thought she had something valuable in it, followed and stabbed her, and then made off through the back door, bag and all.”
“Queer sort of impulse to seize a highly respectable ex-service man,” remarked Starr dryly. “And what was in the bag anyhow, for the contents haven’t been found up to now.”