Through the French-window, which opened on to the garden they had approached by, there burst a girl. Anthony noted slim ankles, a slight figure, and a pretty enough face. But he was disappointed. The hair was of a deep reddish-gold.
Sir Arthur presented Mr. Anthony Gethryn—he knew of Anthony’s dislike of the “Colonel”—to Miss Dora Masterson.
The girl turned to the man she knew. “But—but where’s Archie? Isn’t he coming, too?”
Sir Arthur’s face lost its conventional smile. “No, my dear. I’m afraid he’s not. He—he’s very busy.” He hesitated. “You will have heard—about Mr. Hoode?”
The girl caught her breath. “Yes. But only just now. You must think it awful of me not to have asked you at once; but—but I hardly believed it. It wasn’t in any of the papers we had this morning. And I’ve only just got up; I was so tired yesterday. Travers, the parlour-maid, told me. Loo doesn’t know yet. I think she’s got up—or only just; she stayed in bed this morning too.” The girl grew agitated. “Why are you looking like that? Has—is Archie in—in trouble?”
Sir Arthur laughed, and then grew grave again. “Lord, no, child! It’s only that he’s busy. You see, there are detectives and—and things to see to. I’m rather a deserter, I suppose, but I thought I’d better come along and bring Mr. Gethryn with me. He arrived this morning, very fortunately. He’s helping the police, being—well, a most useful person to have about.” He paused. Anthony, to conceal his annoyance at this innocent betrayal, became engrossed in examination of a water-colour of some merit.
Sir Arthur continued: “It is a terrible tragedy, my dear——”
“What! What is it?” came a cry from the doorway behind them.
The voice would have been soft, golden, save for that harsh note of terror or hysteria.
Sir Arthur and the girl Dora whipped round. Anthony turned more slowly. What he saw he will never forget.