THIS HOUSE TO LET
By William Le Queux
Hodder And Stoughton Limited
London
1921
PROLOGUE
|Very early on a July morning in 1919 Constable Brown was on his beat in
Kensington, in the immediate neighbourhood of Cathcart Square.
Cathcart Square was an old-fashioned backwater of this highly
respectable suburb. It had not been built on any regular lines. Small,
narrow houses nestled comfortably by the side of what might be called
mansions. At the entrance to the Square itself, a narrow-fronted
milk-shop stood next door to a palatial residence. The dairy was very
old, and the Square, with its strange agglomeration of houses, had been
built round it.
Constable Brown, a tall, strapping young fellow, took his duties easily.
He was quite contented with his lot, and not thirsting for promotion; he
had no overweening sense of his own abilities. He was friendly with all
the cooks on his beat, and from them he received very choice tit-bits.
In his case, the policeman's lot was a fairly happy one.
The morning was a very bright one, a somewhat powerful summer sun had
just risen, and flooded the streets with light.
He had no need of his lantern, early in the morning as it was. He
strolled slowly round the Square, turning observant eyes on an the
houses. In his patrol, he met nobody. The busy world of commerce was not
yet astir. Only from afar he heard the distant rumbling of market-carts
on their way to Covent Garden, market-carts laden with fruit and
vegetables.
The Square was sleeping. In a few more hours it would wake to vigorous
life. The dairy shop would take down its shutters, and show signs of
animation. And when the dairy shop took down its shutters, Constable
Brown would be relieved, and go home to enjoy his well-earned rest.
All was quiet in the Square. Brown had patrolled it several times in his
nightly vigil, and had discovered no signs of marauders.
He paused opposite No. 10, one of the few big houses. He looked
contemplatively at the board announcing in large type--THIS HOUSE TO
LET: FURNISHED-with the agent's name displayed prominently at the foot
of the bill.
"Only house to let in the Square," ruminated Brown, as he stood reading
the bill for perhaps the hundredth time. "It's been empty now for over
three months. It ought to have been snapped up long ago."
He was right. Houses in Cathcart Square did not wait long for tenants.
Mr. Brown ruminated further, and provided his own solution.
"Old Miles, the caretaker, has got too comfortable quarters, he doesn't
want to flit. When people come to view, he talks to them about damp, or
ghosts or beetles, and chokes them off. Artful old devil, Miles, and a
bit too fond of drink."
Having finished his patrol of the Square itself, he passed along the
backs, abutting on a somewhat mean street, for a rather undesirable
neighbourhood had built itself around these somewhat stately houses.
His perambulations brought him to the back of No. 10, the house to let.
His trained eye, accustomed to take in the smallest details, noticed
a broken pane of glass in the scullery window. He climbed over the low
railing which shut off the back premises from the mean street on which
they looked, and peered at the broken window-pane. From a general point
of view there was not much in it. Window-panes are broken every day. But
this was an empty house, looked after by a somewhat bibulous caretaker
of the name of Miles. A hundred chances to one that Miles had stumbled
against it, and broken it with his elbow.
But although Constable Brown was not very brilliant, he was painstaking
and methodical; his mind was slow but tenacious. He did not accept facts
at their face value.
After peering through the broken pane, he proceeded to further
experiments. He lifted the window, and it went up easily. He drew his
deductions swiftly. Somebody had entered the empty house. That somebody
had smashed the pane in order to get at the latch, had entered the
house, later emerged through the window and forgotten to fasten it.
But why enter an empty house, where there was nothing to steal except
the heavy furniture left by the late tenant, a Mr. Washington, who was
abroad? Brown knew for a fact from the caretaker that all silver and
plate had been lodged at Mr. Washington's bank. It was a puzzle.
One thing was clear: his duty lay straight before him. He must go
over that empty house. A careful examination might reveal something or
nothing.
But he was a very cautious man, and with no great belief in his own
powers. He would not make the examination alone. He blew his whistle for
further assistance.
In a few seconds, a fellow constable, a smart young fellow, hurried up
to him. Brown pointed to the broken pane, the uplifted window. The smart
young man projected himself through the open space. Brown followed,
explaining as he went.
They searched the basement, the ground floor, and the floor above--with
no result.
"Now for the caretaker," said the younger and the more quick-witted of
the two policemen.
"He sleeps up at the top," answered Brown. "He generally comes home
half-seas over. If a regiment was hammering at the door he would not
wake till his sleep was done."
They went up to the caretaker's room on the top floor. The bed was
empty. Miles had evidently taken a holiday.
The young constable grunted. "Seems a reliable sort of chap, doesn't he?
I wonder how long he has been away? The house agents can tell us if
they have sent any clients to view the house during the last twenty-four
hours, and whether they have been able to get in or not. Anyway, for the
present, he seems out of this job."
Brown assented. He did not talk as much as his quicker-witted colleague,
but his rather slow mind was working at its normal speed.
"We've got to examine the other floors, you know. I've made up my mind
to one thing--whoever came in here, robbery wasn't the object."
"There I quite agree," remarked the younger man.
They made their way down from the top floor, which consisted of three
attics. On the floor beneath this, they searched every room and found
nothing.
But on the floor underneath their search was rewarded. In a small
dressing-room, leading off the bedroom which fronted the square, they
found a gruesome sight--the lifeless body of a man, comparatively young,
somewhere about thirty-five or so, a deep gash in his throat, in his
stiffened hand a razor.
The two men gazed, horrified. It was an early summer morning, the sun
was shining through the windows, the birds were twittering in the trees.
Shortly the whole world would be astir. And here, in the small room, lay
the senseless clay, oblivious of all these signs of awakening life and
vigour.
Brown was the first to speak. "Suicide!" he said hoarsely. "The poor
devil wanted to make an end of it, and crept in here, knowing it was an
empty house."
The younger man spoke less convincingly. "It looks like it. Suicide,
as you say." He paused a moment, and then spoke slowly: "I think
it's suicide, but it might be--mind you, I only say might be--a very
carefully planned murder. And now, let us overhaul his pockets, we may
find something to establish identification."
Together they bent down, and rummaged the dead man's pockets. They found
plenty of material for identification.
As they were engaged in their gruesome task, they heard the sound of a
latch-key being put in the front-door. They heard the door banged to,
and heavy footsteps ascended the staircase.
"Miles come back after his spree," whispered Constable Brown to the
younger man.
Miles, all unsuspecting of what had taken place during his absence, came
heavily up the stairs. It could not be said that he was by any means
drunk, but he was not absolutely sober. He was slowly recovering from
the previous night's debauch.
Arrived on the floor where the two policemen were conducting their
investigations, absolute sobriety came back to him. He saw the open
door of the dressing-room, two men in uniform kneeling by the side of an
inanimate object. His brain cleared as if by magic. He recognised in one
of the kneeling constables his old friend Brown.
He indulged in a little profanity, born of his emotion, which need not
be set down here. Shorn of certain expletives, natural to a man of his
class, he inquired of Brown what was the matter.
Brown on his side was cool and explicit, and instead of answering the
caretaker's questions, he preferred to put a few of his own.
"Nice sort of caretaker you are," he said in a contemptuous voice.
"You're paid to look after this house, aren't you? Where were you
all last night I should like to know? You can see what has happened.
Somebody has got in through the back, either to commit suicide, or with
a companion who brought him here to murder him. That's got to be found
out before the Coroner."
Miles pulled himself together. He was by no means a fool when sober, and
in sight of this ghastly object the fumes of last night's intoxication
had absolutely cleared.
"I can show an alibi right enough," he said doggedly.
The younger and readier-witted of the two constables looked up and spoke
sharply. "So far, my friend, we have not accused you, but you may as
well tell us the details of your alibi."
Miles's explanation, delivered in the somewhat halting way of his class,
bore the ring of truth. An old acquaintance of his, whose name and
address he gave, had looked him up the day before and asked him to spend
a day with him at Shepperton, where the said acquaintance kept a small
shop. Miles had succumbed to the temptation. .
"It drives a man fair off his blooming chump to be tied by the leg in a
hole like this," he interpolated in the midst of his narrative, "waiting
for would-be tenants who never call. I daresay you chaps do your eight
or ten hours a day, but you're out in the open air, not looking on four
walls. You see a bit of life, I don't."
Constable Brown cut across his narrative swiftly.
"Never mind your grievances, Miles. If you could get a better job, I
guess you would take it. Where did you spend the night?"
"At the same old show, down at Shepperton," replied the unabashed Miles.
"My old pal's a sport, I can tell you. When he shut up his shop, he plied
me with some of the best. I wasn't backward, I admit. I missed the
last train back, and slept on the sofa in the back room. When I woke, I
remembered things a bit, and got an early train home. Here I am. My old
pal Jack will tell you I'm speaking gospel truth."
Neither of the two men listening to him had any doubt that his narrative
was a true one. He was a poor, weak, bibulous creature, but by no
stretch of the imagination could he be an accessory to the gruesome
happenings at No. 10.
Even had he been at his post, as he should have been on this particular
night, he would have been sunk in a stertorous sleep, and have heard
nothing.
But to make everything sure, Constable Brown pulled him along and forced
him to look at the dead man.
"You have never seen him before, Miles? I mean he has not called to look
over the house or anything?"
"No." Miles, looking shudderingly at the ghastly sight, was ready to
swear he had never seen him before.
He turned his frightened gaze away. "It will be all over the town
to-night," he said ruefully. "We shall never let the house after this."
"It will still be a soft job for you, Miles," retorted Brown, a little
spitefully. "You won't have to play up the damp and the beetles. You are
here for life, old man."
"I know," said Miles in a gloomy tone. "But I shall see him staring at
me every minute of the day and night."
The body was removed to the mortuary. The evening newspapers had
flaring headlines: "Gruesome Discovery in No. 10 Cathcart Square." An
enterprising journalist had got hold of Miles, and speedily discovering
his weakness, had taken him to the nearest public-house, and plied him
plentifully with liquor, with a view to a sensational article.
The enterprising reporter made the best of his material, but it did not
amount to much.
The caretaker knew nothing about the dead man, he was armed at all
points with his alibi. As regards the house itself, invested with
so much tragedy, the present tenant was a Mr. Washington, a man of
considerable means, now abroad. Mr. Washington was prepared to let it
furnished. The furniture was very valuable.
To a public greedily anxious for the smallest details, the astute
journalist served up a nice little article, describing the expensive
furniture, and adding a short life-history of Mr. Washington, as
supplied by the reminiscent Miles. The public swallowed this article
eagerly and awaited further developments.
These came with the inquest, and there was a somewhat tame ending to
what had promised to be a very sensational case.
Some three months previously, a certain man named Reginald Davis had
been suspected of committing a murder while driving a motor-car
in Cornwall. The evidence, although circumstantial, had been very
convincing. The police had been on his track, but not quickly enough.
The man had eluded their vigilance, and run to earth somewhere.
On the body of the dead man in Cathcart Square, the two constables had
found three letters addressed to Reginald Davis. Also a letter,
signed Reginald Davis, addressed to the Coroner in which he avowed his
intention of committing suicide at the earliest opportunity.
It was fairly evident from this that the wretched man, hunted by the
police, and recognising that capture was imminent in the course of a few
days, had resolved upon the fatal step, had effected his entrance into
the lonely house in Cathcart Square, had found it even more deserted
than he imagined, and in that little dressing-room cheated the law.
But, in addition to this overpowering evidence, there was added the fact
of identification.
A tall, handsome young woman, giving the name of Caroline Masters, had
been to the mortuary, and identified the body as that of her brother,
Reginald Davis.
She gave her evidence before the Coroner with commendable composure,
broken now and again with a little natural grief. Her disclosures were
briefly as follows.
Reginald had always been the black sheep of the family, not naturally
vicious, but impetuous, fiery-tempered and ungovernable. If he was
guilty of the murder in Cornwall, it had been due to no natural criminal
instinct, but to a fit of unbridled passion. Her theory was that remorse
had weighed upon him for this unpremeditated crime, and that, through
remorse and the fear of justice overtaking him, he had crept into this
lonely house and passed sentence on himself.
She made a very great impression on the Court by the calm and dignified
way in which she gave her evidence. The Coroner put to her a few
questions. She was quite certain that the body was that of her brother,
Reginald Davis? Were there any other members of the family who could
support her in her identification?
No, there were no other members of the family alive. There was another
brother dead, and a sister of whose whereabouts she knew nothing. Her
father had been a strange man, he had quarrelled with all the members
of his family, and she had never known one of them. Her mother had died
some years ago. Her voice broke a little as she related these touching
circumstances of her domestic life, more especially when she added she
was a widow, her husband having been killed in the Great War.
There seemed but one possible verdict. The dead man, it was clearly
established, was Reginald Davis, first by the letters found upon him,
secondly by his sister's identification.
It was also clear that Reginald Davis, hunted by the police, and knowing
that it was only a question of days or weeks before he would be run to
earth, had considered the two alternatives of self-destruction or the
extreme penalty of the law--and that he had chosen the former.
The verdict was recorded. Mrs. Masters was complimented on the way
in which she had given her evidence. The Coroner assured her that the
sympathy of the Court was with her. The tears Welled into her eyes
as she listened to the Coroner's well-chosen phrases. She bowed her
grateful thanks.
Constable Brown was waiting in the corridor as she came out. Beside
him stood the younger policeman who had assisted him on that very
well-remembered night in Cathcart Square.
Brown touched his helmet. "A very trying time for you, ma'am," he said,
"a very trying time. You went through it bravely."
She smiled Wanly. "My poor brother! He had so many good points. But it
is better as it is. I shudder to think of what might have been, if he
had not done this dreadful thing."
"Much the best way, ma'am, much the best way," corroborated Brown.
She went out, a graceful figure, and Brown turned to his younger
colleague.
"A remarkable case, old chap. As we said all along, suicide."
The younger man paused a little before he replied. It may be mentioned
that a few months later he was promoted to the detective force in
consequence of some rather clever work connected with a gang of coiners
in an obscure corner of the West End.
"It looks like it, but I'm not quite as sure as you are," he said
laconically.
Brown stared, but made no comment. A verdict was a verdict. His young
colleague had the inexperience and the vanity of youth, and thought he
was more clever than other people, perhaps!
But on one thing the young constable had made up his mind, and that was
that Miles, the bibulous caretaker, had not told the truth when in the
witness-box. He came to this conclusion from his demeanour. Miles swore
that he had no knowledge of the dead man, but the constable believed
this to be a lie.
And with the tame ending of the Coroner's inquest, the mystery of No.
10 Cathcart Square ceased to hold the public interest. Plenty of other
things came on to attract their attention.
CHAPTER I
|In the year before the Great War, when to all appearance there was not
a cloud upon the horizon, when only a few statesmen felt "profoundly
uneasy," the secret of that uneasiness being carefully locked away in
their own breasts, and hidden from the general public--in that year of
1913, in the month of March, the Twenty-fifth Lancers were quartered at
the town of Blankfield, in Yorkshire.
The Twenty-fifth was a crack regiment. Most of the officers were
members of the aristocracy, a few of the plutocracy, that portion of
the plutocracy which on account of its wealth had been adopted into a
superior world by marriage with its aristocratic daughters.
They were a fine set of clean-minded, healthy living, sporting young
fellows. They rode to hounds, they played polo when there was any going,
they shot over the coverts of their friends, they made love to all the
pretty girls they came across in a gallant and desultory fashion, loving
and riding away.
It cannot be said that they took their professional duties in too
serious a fashion. But they were brave as lions, and when the time came
to prove their mettle, none of their relatives had cause to blush for
their record.
The memories of most of them were enshrined deeply in the hearts of
wailing mothers and weeping sweethearts, when the great holocaust came.
Foremost amongst this band of gay spirits and resolute sportsmen was
a certain Captain Murchison, "Hughie," as he was always called by his
intimates.
"Hughie" was not a pure aristocrat. His father, a man of fabulous
wealth, was the head of the great brewing firm of Murchison, Delaroyd &
Co., the fourth in succession, for the big brewery had been founded over
a hundred years ago.
It is supposed, in the case of self-made men, that it requires three
generations to make a gentleman. Anyway, the present Sir Hugh had won
his spurs by the fact of belonging to the fourth. And he had further
firmly established his position by marrying Lady Gertrude Marchmont,
a daughter of the Earl of Mounthaven. The Marchmonts had blue blood in
profusion, they ere one of the oldest families in the Kingdom, only just
being beaten by such superior people as the Howards, the Talbots, and
the Nevilles.
Captain Murchison was, therefore, plutocrat on the father's side,
aristocrat of aristocrat on the mother's. But he did not owe his
popularity to these adventitious circumstances. The fact that he was the
most popular man in his regiment was due to his own sterling qualities.
In the first place, he was a man of the most unbounded generosity and
the most serene good-humour. He had captained the Eleven at Eton, and
he was one of the best shots, also one of the best polo-players, in
England. Needless to say that he was a man's man. The fact that he was
also equally a woman's man can be easily explained. He boasted more than
ordinary good looks, and he had a charming, deferential way with women
that captivated them at once.
The Twenty-fifth had a very good time at Blankfield, on the whole. The
houses of the "county" were, of course, open to such a distinguished
regiment, but perhaps they had a rather jollier time amongst the rather
limited circle of rich townsfolk whom they condescended to visit:
the people who, at the best, had only a nodding acquaintance with the
"county."
Murchison was a born sportsman. Hunting, polo, shooting, cricket,
occupied nearly all his waking thoughts, except those few that were
claimed by his professional duties. Popular as he was with women, not
a single member of the weaker and more charming sex had made any real
impression on him up to the present.
He had had several flirtations with charming girls, of course: he might
have indulged in a few sentimental passages with certain more or less
detached, or semi-detached, married women. The latter very rarely, for
although by no means a saint he was a very clean-minded young man, and
held rather rigid notions as to what might be done, and what ought not
to be done.
Anyway at this particular moment he was quite heart-whole.
And then, one day, in this rather sleepy town of Blankfield, an
adventure befell him. It was not strictly a common or garden adventure,
for more than one reason.
The woman, or rather girl, who was concerned in it, for looking at her
in a severe light she did not appeal to be more than twenty, bore upon
her no marks of the shameless adventuress. It was easy to see that she
was not a member of his own world, the world of plutocracy mingled
into aristocracy by judicious intermarriage. The "county" would not,
of course, open their doors to her. According to her own account, the
respectable "villadom" of the sleepy old town had not called upon her,
on account of the absence of convincing credentials.
The meeting happened in this way. Hugh found himself with a blank
afternoon, an afternoon that had not been filled up. He could call
at lots of houses and get tea. But, at this period, he was becoming a
little fed-up with the Blankfield teas, the simpering girls, the astute
mothers who wanted to take the heir of the Murchison millions off his
guard, and hook him for a son-in-law.
Coming from a long line of successful tradesmen, Hugh had rather less
brains than he ought to have acquired by heredity. Still, he was no
fool. As long as a proposition was not too complex, he could size it
up pretty accurately. And he sized up the Blankfield hospitality at its
true worth.
He walked down the High Street, and turned into the first tea-shop.
It was a well-known establishment, and the dashing members of the
Twenty-fifth were wont to invite hither for tea some of the Blankfield
maidens who Were not too particular as to chaperonage.
He expected to find here a good few of his brother officers. To his
surprise, he did not see one. But the room was very full. To a casual
observer, every table seemed occupied. He was about to turn away, when a
waitress, who knew him well, touched him on the arm.
"It's quite all right, Captain Murchison,"--Hugh had arrived at
seniority very early: "there's a table up there at the far end. There's
only a young lady there, and she has very nearly finished her tea."
The young lady in question was quite young; Hugh decided from the first
swift glance at her that she could not be more than twenty. She was
exceedingly pretty, with wavy light hair and soft brown eyes. She wore
an air of composure remarkable in one so youthful.
The young man knew her well by sight, as did his brother officers. She
was frequently to be seen in the High Street, flitting in and out
shops, sometimes alone, sometimes accompanied by a rather common-looking
person, some ten years her senior. It was said they were brother and
sister and their name was Burton.
They had arrived in Blankfield about a couple of months ago, and taken a
moderate sized house on the London Road, a little in the outskirts of
the town. But though they had been here for these two months, they knew
nobody. Not a soul had called upon them: for the villadom of Blankfield
was very select, and had to know something about newcomers before it
stretched out a welcoming hand. About the Burtons nothing seemed to be
known, and until some reliable information was forthcoming, they would
be ostracised.
The shop was very crowded, and most girls of her age might have felt
embarrassed by her loneliness. But, although many admiring glances
were levelled at her from the few masculine occupants, she seemed quite
unperturbed and unconscious, looking neither to the right nor the
left, but taking in everything that was going on, under lowered eyelids
veiling those pretty brown eyes.
She gave him one swift glance as he sat down, and then went on
composedly with her tea. There was nothing in the glance that was either
provocative or inviting. Of the two, Hugh felt much more embarrassed
than she did. He wondered if she was as stand-offish as she looked. If
he addressed a remark to her, would she snub him?
Anyway he determined to put it to the proof. "I do hope I am not
intruding, but it was Hobson's choice, you know; this is the only vacant
table."
No, she was not going to snub him. On the contrary, she gave him a very
pleasant smile, and he noted with satisfaction that her voice was a
refined and pleasant one.
"There is hardly any question of intruding in a public place like this.
I cannot expect them to turn customers away in order that I may sit by
myself."
It was not a bad beginning, thought Hugh. It was evident she was not
disinclined to enter into a little desultory conversation with a man who
she knew was a gentleman, and not likely to take undue advantage of her
absence of conventionality.
Hugh went on with growing boldness. He had often said to his great chum
Jack Pomfret that it was a thousand pities this pretty girl was not in
Blankfield Society, she seemed so much more attractive than the other
girls who were in it.
"We haven't been introduced, of course, but I know you very well by
sight. There is hardly a day that I do not meet you about here. And I
know your name, too. You are Miss Burton, are you not? And you live with
your brother at that nice little house on the London Road."
"Quite right." Miss Burton nodded her pretty head. She added with a
little silvery laugh: "we can't be introduced, unless the waitress took
the kind office upon herself, for I don't know a soul in the place.
we have been here two months, and we have been let severely alone. I
suppose if we stayed here for twenty years it would be the same. Of
course, we didn't expect to get into 'county' Society, but we must be
quite as good as heaps of people in the town and outskirts."
Hugh was a little embarrassed by these very frank remarks. He observed
lamely that it was a shame, and indulged in some rather inane remarks on
the snobbishness of provincial towns.
"You must find it awfully dull," he ventured after a brief pause. During
the short silence, Miss Burton had ordered herself some more tea. It was
evident that she was not desirous of abruptly terminating this pleasant
_tête-à-tête_. The waitress drew her own conclusions from the further
order, and smiled a little as she turned away.
"I should be a hypocrite if I pretended the contrary. Of course,
housekeeping takes up a good bit of my time, and I read a good deal, and
do a lot of fancy-work. But all the same, it is a state of isolation,
not an outside person to speak to from one week-end to the other. Of
course I hear all that is going on from the tradespeople, and I know
the names of the principal persons here whom I constantly meet and never
speak to. I know, for instance, that you are Captain Murchison. I think
I know the names of all your brother officers."
"What made you come here, if it is not a rude question?" asked Hugh
bluntly. "It was surely a risky experiment, landing yourself in a town
like this, without any introductions."
"I told my brother so when he first proposed it," replied Miss Burton
calmly. "But, although he is one of the best fellows in the world, he
is frightfully obstinate. He had stayed at an hotel here for a few days
some years ago, and he had taken a violent fancy to the place. He was
quite sure everybody would make a rush for us, the moment we arrived."
Miss Burton proceeded to draw on her gloves. During this explanatory
conversation, she had consumed her second cup of tea. She called the
waitress and paid her bill.
"I must be going now," she said. "I have quite enjoyed this little chat,
although I am sure you will think very badly of me for having confided
so much to a stranger. I really don't know what made me do it--I suppose
I got tired of having kept silence for so long."
Yes, he could understand that. Poor, pretty little girl, just at an age
when all the pleasures of youth should be open to her, and to have to
pass her life in the society of that rather common-looking brother, good
fellow as she declared him to be.
"I have enjoyed the meeting immensely, too," said Hugh heartily. "I only
wish we could come across each other at some of these Blankfield houses,
stupid and dull as they generally are."
And then, the pretty Miss Burton fired her last shot as she rose to
leave:
"I have been unconventional enough from the beginning, and if I can do
it without blushing, I am going to be more unconventional still. If you
cared to come up to Rosemount one afternoon, I am sure my brother would
be pleased to see you."
Murchison was very embarrassed by the suggestion, although she did not
proffer it in any bold fashion.
"I shall be delighted," he stammered. "I will run up one afternoon."
Of course when he said this he had very little intention of keeping his
promise. To enjoy a mild sort of flirtation with an exceedingly pretty
girl was one thing. To go to her house and make the acquaintance of her
brother, who he was certain was not a gentleman, was quite a
different proposition, and might land him in all sorts of unpleasant
complications.
He also had an uneasy conviction that Miss Burton was remarkably
self-assured for such a young woman. She had spoken of blushing when
she gave him the invitation, but she had not done so. Not the faintest
colour showed on her cheek, and the glance that met his was perfectly
steady and unwavering. She must either be very innocent, or, young as
she was, she had acquired the experience and self-possession of a much
older woman. He would like to think it all out.
The girl nodded in a friendly fashion, and tripped away, leaving Hugh
Murchison to finish his tea, and ponder over what had happened.