“I’m so psychic, you know,” sighed Anthony. “I always know when spirits are about.”
She laughed; and the sound gave him more pleasure even that he had anticipated. Like her voice, it was low and soft and golden.
She lifted the decanter again. “Say when,” she said, and when he had said it: “Soda?”
“Please—a little.” He took the glass from her hand and tasted. “Mrs. Lemesurier, I have spent my day in ever-increasing admiration of you. But now you surpass yourself. This whisky—prewar, I think?”
“Yes.” She nodded absently, then burst out: “Tell me, why are you doing all this for me—taking all this trouble? Tell me!”
To-night Anthony’s mind was running in a Latin groove. “Veni, vidi, vicisti!” he said, and drained his glass.
Chapter VIII.
The Inefficiency of Margaret
1
Miss Margaret Warren, severely exquisite as to dress, golden hair as sleek as if she were about to begin rather than finish the day’s work, sat at her table in Hastings’s room.
Before her was the pad on which, ten minutes ago, she had written Anthony’s message. She knew it by heart. As the minutes passed she grew more troubled at her employer’s absence. Here—it was obvious—was something which ought to be done without waste of time; and time had already been wasted. She knew Colonel Gethryn well enough to be sure that the talk about a “great joke” had been camouflage. No, this was all something to do with the murder. Had he not said with emphasis that Ja—Mr. Hastings was to ring him up as soon as he had found this man Masterson? He had, and all had to know, it seemed, where this man Masterson had been on Thursday night, the night Hoode had been killed.…