“Mother is out,” she said. “I’m so awfully sorry, as I wanted to introduce you. She’s gone over to Riverdene, and I, too, was just about to follow her. If you’d been five minutes later I should have left.”
“I’m lucky then to have just caught you,” I remarked. “But if you’re going to Riverdene, may I not accompany you?”
“Most certainly,” she answered. “Of course I shall be delighted,” and the light in her clear blue eyes told me that she was not averse to my company. She ordered a glass of port for me, and then said, “It’s a whole week since you’ve been down there. Mary has several times mentioned you, and wondered whether you’d grown sick of boating.”
“I’ve been rather busy,” I said apologetically.
“Busy with murders and all sorts of horribles, I suppose,” she observed with a smile.
“Yes,” I answered, regarding her closely. “Of late there have been one or two sensational mysteries brought to light!”
“Mysteries!” she exclaimed, starting slightly. “Oh, do tell me about them. I’m always interested in mysteries.”
“The facts are in the papers,” I answered, disinclined to repeat stories which had already grown stale. “The mysteries to which I referred were very ordinary ones, containing no features of particular interest.”
“I’m always interested in those kind of things,” she said. “You may think me awfully foolish, but I always read them. Mother grows so annoyed.”
“It’s only natural!” I answered. “We who are engaged on newspapers, however, soon cease to be interested in the facts we print, but of course, if they didn’t interest the public our papers wouldn’t have any circulation.”