Alexia read the note, restored it to its envelope and put it, address downwards, on the table. Her visitor threw aside the Graphic, and for a few moments there was a constrained silence, a pause of mental self-consciousness, almost awkward, considering how intimate the two were. But both of them, young though they might be, were too experienced players in that everyday game of social diplomacy to let an embarrassment become manifest. Yet there will assert itself, in spite of tact and artifice, a certain instinct which tells us our companions are reading our thoughts and gauging our dilemmas.
“I wonder what the next development of the Vaux House mystery will be,” Miss Riverdale observed, quoting the headline of the Daily Comet.
The affair had, as was natural, been the subject of animated discussion at luncheon, and it seemed scarcely worth while to reopen it.
The Countess gave a shrug. “We must wait and see,” she answered mechanically. “The poor Duchess! One almost feels one ought to leave cards of enquiry.”
“The poor Duke,” laughed her friend. “They will get more fun out of him than ever. Not but what this is a serious matter.”
“You really think so?” The talk was being sustained by an effort on both sides, and Alexia’s question sounded suspiciously like covering a yawn.
“Don’t you?” the other returned, in languid surprise.
“Oh, yes, I suppose so. If it is all true.”
“Of course if it isn’t true we shall have a disclaimer from the Lancashires to-morrow.”
“I mean the connection between the broken ornament, the little sword, or whatever it is, and poor Captain Martindale’s death. You knew him, Mary?”