But the other half, ruthless, urged him on. “Have another try; you must,” it whispered. “Get to the bottom of this business. Don’t behave like a schoolboy!”
“I’m afraid I was so interested that I had to examine those cups and their inscriptions,” he murmured. “Very rude of me. But to have won all those! You must be a wonderful swimmer, Mrs. Lemesurier.”
The little pulse in her throat beat heavily. “I have given it up—long ago,” she said simply. Her eyes—those eyes—looked at him steadily.
Anthony spurred himself. “Of course,” he said, smiling, “there’s no opportunity for pleasure swimming about here, is there? Except the Marle. And one would hardly tackle that for pleasure, what? The motive would have to be sterner than that.”
The blood surged to the pale face, and then as suddenly left it. Anthony was seized with remorse. His mind hunted wildly for words to ease the strain, but he could find none. The sandal in his pocket seemed to be scorching his flesh.
She rose slowly to her feet, crossed to where her sister sat with Sir Arthur some yards away, said something in a low voice, and walked slowly across the grass towards the house. Though Anthony could see that she only attained movement by a great effort of will, the grace of her carriage gave him a swift sensation—half pleasure, half pain—which was like a clutch at his throat. The clinging yellow gown she wore seemed a golden mist about her.
He turned to join the other two, deep in conversation. A little cry came to their ears. They swung round to see a limp body sink huddled to the gravel of the path before the windows of the drawing-room.
Anthony reached her side before the girl or the elder man had moved. As they came up,
“Dead faint,” he said. “Nothing to be frightened about, Miss Masterson. Shall I carry her in?” He waved a hand towards the open French-windows.
“Oh, please do.” Dora picked nervously at her dress. “It—it is only a faint, isn’t it?”