“Now, I liked that piece,” he declared, genially. “It’s got some swing to it, some go—yes, rather! Best thing you’ve played, if anybody asks me.”
“Nobody did,” Roy retorted, sourly.
As a matter of fact, Billy Walker, though totally tone-deaf, had been granted a considerable capacity for the enjoyment of rhythm. The composition that distressed May Thurston by its ghastliness had cheered him with the steady drumming of its chords; the law of compensation works in curious ways.
CHAPTER VI
THE SIXTH SENSE
“WHAT I don’t like about women,” exclaimed Roy Morton, with an inflection of disgust, “is the kind of men they like.”
It was the morning of another day, and the exhaustive search commanded by Billy Walker as the mouthpiece of inexorable logic had begun. The voice of the oracle could at this moment be heard from the porch, where he was engaged in pleasant conversation with Mrs. West, while his three friends were busy with the actual work of investigation. They were in the small room opening off the hall, on the ground floor, which had been used by the late owner of the cottage as a sort of office. There, he had kept all of his business papers—at least as far as the knowledge of his secretary went. A flat-top desk in the center of the room contained a number of drawers, and in one corner stood a small iron safe. Under the terms of the will, every freedom was accorded to the searchers, and now safe and drawers had been opened for their convenience by May Thurston, who thus followed the instructions she had received from the lawyer. At the moment when Roy made his rather bitter remark concerning the nature of womankind, he had just observed, through a window that looked out to the south, a trio strolling along the lake shore. The three were Margaret, May and the ubiquitous Masters. It was the presence of the engineer that had aroused the indignation of Roy, and had caused him thus cynically to stigmatize feminine indiscretion in friendship. Himself a devotee of the fair sex, though shockingly irresponsible as an eligible bachelor, it irked him mightily that the requirements of his present relation to Saxe were such as to hold him there, poring over a motley of sordid bills, receipts, and other financial memoranda, the while a scoundrelly nincompoop (so he secretly termed the engineer) strutted abroad with two charming girls.
David laughed at the disgust in his friend’s voice, for he, too, had observed the passing of the three, and he understood perfectly the jealousy that underlay Roy’s displeasure in the situation. He paused in his task of conning the year’s milk bills of one Eleazer Sneddy, lighted a cigarette, and inhaled the fumes with a sigh of deep gratification.
“I wouldn’t mind being in his place myself, Roy,” he said, placidly.