He brought me a tall tumbler of whiskey and soda, with ice clinking deliciously in it; and I drank it and felt better.
“That’s good,” I remarked. “I haven’t had anything since I breakfasted with you,—forgot all about it till now. You see I happened to find the poor chap—Cassavetti—when I ran up to say good-bye to him.”
“Cassavetti!” cried Jim and Mary simultaneously, and Mary added: “Why, that was the man who sat next us—next Anne—at dinner last night, wasn’t it? The man the old Russian you told us about came to see?”
I nodded.
“The police are after him now; though the old chap seemed harmless enough, and didn’t look as if he’d the physical strength to murder any one,” I said, and related my story to a running accompaniment of exclamations from the feminine portion of my audience, especially Mrs. Vereker, who evinced an unholy desire to hear all the most gruesome details.
Jim sat smoking and listening almost in silence, his jolly face unusually grave.
“This stops your journey, of course, Maurice?” he said at length; and I thought he looked at me curiously. Certainly as I met his eyes he avoided my gaze as if in embarrassment; and I felt hot and cold by turns, wondering if he had divined the suspicion that was torturing me—suspicion that was all but certainty—that Anne Pendennis was intimately involved in the grim affair. He had always distrusted her.
“For a day or two only. Even if the inquest is adjourned, I don’t suppose I’ll have to stop for the further hearing,” I answered, affecting an indifference I was very far from feeling.
“Then you won’t be seeing Anne as soon as you anticipated,” Mary remarked. “I must write to her to-morrow. She’ll be so shocked.”
“Did Miss Pendennis know this Mr. Cassavetti?” inquired Mrs. Vereker.