“Miss Hoode?” Anthony bowed. “My name is Gethryn. I believe that Sir Arthur Digby-Coates has explained my presence.”
“Yes.” The woman’s tones were flat, lifeless as her face. She essayed cordiality. “Yes, indeed. I told him I was glad, very glad, to have your help. I need to apologise for not having spoken to you before, but—I—but——”
Anthony raised a hand. “Believe me, madam, I quite understand. I would like, if it is not an impertinence, to express my condolence.”
The woman bowed her head. “Thank you,” she said; pressing a hand to her heart. “I—I must leave you. Give orders for anything you may want.”
Anthony watched her mount the stairs and disappear. “My good woman—if you really are a woman—what’s your trouble? Sorrow? Or fear? Or both?” he thought. “And why were you in the study? And why were you so secret about it? And above all, what did you hide in your flat bosom when you saw me? Two whats and two whys.”
He stood filling his pipe. Assuredly this fresh mystery must be investigated. And so must that of the lady that swam rivers in the night and blinded her pursuer’s eyes and assaulted his heart in the morning. If it had not been for Her all this would have been great fun; but now—well, it was anything but amusing. She must know something, and since Boyd had seen fit to suspect the one obviously innocent person, it was Anthony Ruthven Gethryn’s business to find out what she knew. What was so disturbing was the unreasonableness of the affair. Nothing seemed to have motive behind it. Of course, there was reason for everything—the Lady of the Sandal’s swim over the river, the secret ravishing of the study by the bosomless, sexless sister of the corpse, even the appearance of an innocent man’s finger-prints on the murderer’s weapon—but were they sane reasons? At present it seemed as if they could not be, and what could be more hopeless than the search of a sane man for the motives of lunatics!
Anthony shook himself, chided and took himself in hand. “Gethryn,” he murmured, “do something, man! Don’t stand here saying how difficult everything is. Well, what shall I do? Have a look at the study? All right.”
He still had the hall to himself. Quietly, he entered the study and closed the door behind him.
He surveyed the room. He strove for memory of the sounds he had heard just now when Laura Hoode had been there and he outside.
There had been a fumbling, a click, a pause and then the rustling of paper. The writing-table was the most likely place. The drawers, he knew, were all locked, but perhaps the gaunt sister had duplicate keys. The originals were in Boyd’s official possession.