Personally, I am one of those who pay no tribute of grateful admiration
to those who have oppressed mankind with the dubious blessings of the
penny post. Just as no household, which is adorned with the presence of
pen-propelling young ladies, is ever without its due quantity of morning
letters, so no breakfast table is quite complete if the post-bag has
been drawn blank. The urn may hiss, eggs may be boiled to the precise
degree of solidity, frizzling strips of "home-cured" may smile upon you
from dish of silver, or golden marmalade may strive to allure you with
the richness of its hue, but if the morning letters are not present the
picture is incomplete. They are the crowning glory of the British
breakfast table.
For a good many days my correspondents had happily left me in the lurch,
but as I sank into my seat I saw upon my plate a single letter, and took
it up mechanically. As a rule the handwriting of the envelope betrayed
the writer, but this possessed the additional attraction of unfamiliar
penmanship. It had been addressed to Rowan Road, and Bob had forwarded
it.
The communication was upon paper of pale straw-colour, headed
"Metropolitan Police, T. Division, Brentford," and signed "J. Rowling,
sub-divisional inspector." There were only two or three lines, asking
whether I could make it convenient to appoint an hour when he could call
upon me, as he wished to consult me upon "a matter of extreme
importance." The matter referred to was, of course, the tragedy at
Whitton. Truth to tell, I was sick at heart of all this ever-increasing
maze of circumstances, and placed the letter in my pocket with a resolve
to allow the affair to rest until I returned to London on the conclusion
of my visit.
The receipt of it, however, had served one purpose admirably: it had
given me an opportunity to recover my surprise at discovering Beryl
sitting there opposite me, bright and vivacious, as though nothing
unusual had occurred. The letter which I had seen her writing in the
study on the previous evening had been, I now felt convinced, to make an
appointment which she had kept.
But with whom?
I glanced at my hostess, who was busily arranging with those near her at
table for a driving party to visit the Haywards at Dodington Park, and
wondered whether she could be aware of the strange midnight visitant. I
contrived to have a brief chat with her after breakfast was finished,
but she appeared in entire ignorance of what had transpired during the
night. I lit a cigarette, and as usual strolled around for a morning
visit to the kennels with Sir Henry. On returning I saw my well-beloved
seated beneath one of the great trees near the house, reading a novel.
The morning was hot, but in the shade it was delightful. As I crossed
the grass to her she raised her head, and then, smiling gladly,
exclaimed--
"Why, I thought you'd gone to Dodington with the others, Doctor
Colkirk?"
"No," I answered, taking a chair near her; "I'm really very lazy this
hot weather."
How charming she looked in her fresh cotton gown and large flop-hat of
Leghorn straw trimmed with poppies.
"And I prefer quiet and an interesting book to driving in this sun. I
wonder they didn't start about three, and come home in the sunset. But
Nora's always so wilful."
Though as merry as was her wont, I detected a tired look in her eyes.
Where had she been during the long night--and with whom? The silence
was only disturbed by the hum of the insects about us and the songs of
the birds above. The morning was a perfect one.
"I found it very oppressive last night," I said, carefully approaching
the subject upon which I wanted to talk to her. "I couldn't sleep, so I
came out here into the park."
"Into the park?" she echoed quickly, and I saw by her look that she was
apprehensive.
"Yes. It was a beautiful night--cool, refreshing, and starlit."
"You were alone?"