Anthony fell from heaven with a crash. Good God! “Father!” So he had aroused an emotion akin to filial, had he? Unfortunately for him, to drive a car a man must keep his eyes on the road: he had not seen the little half-smile of joyous mockery that had accompanied that last thrust.
He drove on in silence, unbroken until Guildford was reached. Here he had to slow to a crawl.
“Were you at Abbotshall this morning?” came in a small meek voice from beside him.
He nodded.
“How did the inquest go? You see, I’ve heard nothing, nothing! Was it—was it as bad as you said it might be?”
“I wasn’t there myself,” said Anthony, keeping his eyes on the road ahead, “but from what I’ve been told, I’m afraid it was.”
“But you said you were there.”
“At the house, yes. At the inquest, no.”
The small voice mocked him. “You do so love being mysterious, don’t you?”
“Touché! I believe I do, you know. I’ve been discovering a lot of youthful traits lately very ill in accord with my age.” Something in his tone made her look up at him from under the rakish brim of the little hat. His profile showed grim; it seemed leaner than ever.