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“Oh, of course.”
“In fact,” said Miss Milray, “I don’t know what to do.”
She flushed a little before Egg’s look of astonishment.
“I’d like to write to Mrs. Babbington,” she said quickly. “Only it doesn’t seem quite—well, quite…I don’t know what I had better do about it.”
Somehow, to Egg, the explanation was not quite satisfying.
Eight
ANGELA SUTCLIFFE
“Now, are you a friend or are you a sleuth? I simply must know.”
Miss Sutcliffe flashed a pair of mocking eyes as she spoke. She was sitting in a straight-backed chair, her grey hair becomingly arranged, her legs were crossed and Mr. Satterthwaite admired the perfection of her beautifully shod feet and her slender ankles. Miss Sutcliffe was a very fascinating woman, mainly owing to the fact that she seldom took anything seriously.
“Is that quite fair?” asked Mr. Satterthwaite.
“My dear man, of course it’s fair. Have you come here for the sake of my beautiful eyes, as the French say so charmingly, or have you, you nasty man, come just to pump me about murders?”
“Can you doubt that your first alternative is the correct one?” asked Mr. Satterthwaite with a little bow.
“I can and I do,” said the actress with energy. “You are one of those people who look so mild, and really wallow in blood.”
“No, no.”
“Yes, yes. The only thing I can’t make up my mind about is whether it is an insult or a compliment to be considered a potential murderess. On the whole, I think it’s a compliment.”
She cocked her head a little on one side and smiled that slow bewitching smile that never failed.
Mr. Satterthwaite thought to himself:
“Adorable creature.”
Aloud he said, “I will admit, dear lady, that the death of Sir Bartholomew Strange has interested me considerably. I have, as you perhaps know, dabbled in such doings before….”
He paused modestly, perhaps hoping that Miss Sutcliffe would show some knowledge of his activities. However, she merely asked:
“Tell me one thing—is there anything in what that girl said?”
“Which girl, and what did she say?”
“The Lytton Gore girl. The one who is so fascinated by Charles. (What a wretch Charles is—he will do it!) She thinks that that nice old man down in Cornwall was murdered, too.”
“What do you think?”
“Well, it certainly happened just the same way…She’s an intelligent girl, you know. Tell me—is Charles serious?”
“I expect your views on the subject are likely to be much more valuable than mine,” said Mr. Satterthwaite.
“What a tiresomely discreet man you are,” cried Miss Sutcliffe. “Now I”—she sighed—“am appallingly indiscreet….”
She fluttered an eyelash at him.
“I know Charles pretty well. I know men pretty well. He seems to me to display all the signs of settling down. There’s an air of virtue about him. He’ll be handing round the plate and founding a family in record time—that’s my view. How dull men are when they decide to settle down! They lose all their charm.”
“I’ve often wondered why Sir Charles has never married,” said Mr. Satterthwaite.
