“What in blazes!” he shouted, then his voice died down as Herman drew back the portières and stepped inside the library.
The butler bowed deferentially. “Luncheon is served,” he announced. “Miss Anne and Doctor Curtis are already at the table, and Miss Lucille is waiting for you in the hall.”
Flinging a word over his shoulder, which Mitchell failed to distinguish, Armstrong hurried into the reception hall as the Inspector, with a quiet nod to Herman, opened the French window on the veranda and, followed by his faithful henchman, Sergeant Brown, strode across the lawn in the direction of the lodge.
Luncheon, judged by Curtis’ feelings, was a long and trying ordeal. No one except Lucille felt inclined for conversation. When dessert was served she shot an aggrieved look at her cousin, which Anne missed entirely, and finally lapsed into silence. The scene in the hall and the finding of the discolored scalpel was ever present in Curtis’ mind, and his anxiety was not relieved by Anne’s absent-minded replies and unresponsive manner. As far as possible he bore the brunt of Lucille’s efforts to force conversation. Gerald Armstrong, on the contrary, contented himself with eating a remarkably good luncheon and confined himself to monosyllables, if he troubled to speak at all.
As they left the table, Armstrong edged his way to Anne’s side and motioned to her to wait. She cast a quick glance at Lucille and Curtis, who had preceded her toward the hall, then turned with marked reluctance to face her companion.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Why are you avoiding me?” with blunt directness.
Anne flushed. “I was under the impression that I went for a motor ride with you this morning—”
“With Lucille along,” he broke in, making no attempt to modify his aggressive manner. “You have avoided me.”
“I have not.” Anne’s eyes sparkled with anger. “Nor,” with quiet significance, “have I run away.” It was Armstrong’s turn to flush. “I must see you alone,” he insisted, raising his voice.