“I seldom read newspaper horrors,” he replied, puffing at his familiar pipe. “I saw something in the head-lines of the paper, but I did not read the details. I’ve been writing some articles for the Guardian lately, and my time has been so fully occupied.”
Was this the truth? Or was he merely evading the necessity of discussing the matter?
He had inquired after Sylvia, and I had been compelled to admit that she was away. But I did so in such a manner that I implied she was visiting friends.
Outside, the lawn, so bright and pleasant in summer, now looked damp and dreary, littered by the brown drifting leaves of autumn.
Somehow I read in his grey face a strange expression, and detected an eagerness to get rid of me. For the first time I found myself an unwelcome visitor at the rectory.
“Have you seen Mr. Pennington of late?” I asked presently.
“No, not for some time. He wrote me from Brussels about a month ago, and said that business was calling him to Spain. Have you seen him?” he asked.
“Not very recently,” I replied vaguely.
Then again I referred to the great robbery, whereat he said—
“Why, Mr. Biddulph, you appear as though you can’t resist the fascination that mysterious crime has for you! I suppose you are an ardent novel-reader—eh? People fond of novels always devour newspaper mysteries.”