“My feelings,” Anthony said, “are concerned with Mr. Lemesurier. I wonder is he worthy of his luck?”
Sir Arthur smiled again. “You’ll have a job to find out, my boy. Jack Lemesurier’s been dead for four years.”
A gong announced lunch. At the foot of the stairs Mrs. Lemesurier encountered her sister.
Dora was still solicitous. “Feeling better, Loo darling?” she asked.
Lucia grasped her sister’s arm. “Dot, who—who was that man with Sir Arthur?” Her voice rose. “Who is he? Dot, tell me!”
Dora looked up in amazement. “What is the matter, dear? I’ve never known you behave like this before.”
Lucia leant against the balusters. “I—I don’t know exactly. I—I’m not feeling well. And then this—this murder——” Again she clutched at her sister’s arm. “Dot, you must tell me! They say Mr. Hoode was killed last night. But how? Who—who shot him?”
The door of the drawing-room opened behind her. Anthony emerged. His poker-playing is still famous; not a sign did he give of having heard the last remark of his hostess.
But he admired her courage, the way she took command of herself, almost as much as her beauty.