“You think of everything!” she said, smiling back at him prettily.
He pushed up the window and she crumbled the bread for the birds. He rested one hand on her shoulder.
“He thought of everything, too,” was his comment, “even down to the birds. It’s extraordinary! No detail was too small for him!...”
“He was remarkable, Robin,” answered the girl soberly; “there was something magnetic about his personality that made people like him. Even now that he is dead, even in spite of what we know, I can feel his attraction still. And the whole house is impregnated with his personality. Particularly this room. Don’t you feel it? I don’t mind being here with you, Robin, but I shouldn’t like to be here alone. I was dreadfully frightened on Sunday evening when I came here. And when I saw the curtains move ... oh! I thought my heart would stop beating! Dear, I’m glad we are giving this place up. I don’t feel that I could ever be happy here ... even with you!”
“Poor devil!” said Robin. And then again he said: “Poor devil!”
“It was terrible ... to die like that!” replied Mary.
“It was terrible for him to lose you!” answered the young man.
She gave his hand a little, tender squeeze, but relinquished it quickly as the door opened.
Mr. Manderton was there, broad-shouldered and burly. Behind came Dr. Romain with a purple nose and eyes watering with the cold, Horace Trevert in plain clothes, Mr. Bardy, the solicitor, plump, middle-aged, and prim, with a broad, smooth-shaven face and an eyeglass on a black silk riband. In the background loomed the large form of Inspector Humphries, ruddy of cheek as of hair. Lady Margaret did not appear.
Mr. Manderton slapped his bowler hat briskly on a side table and with a little bow to Mary walked to the desk.