Detective and mystery stories; Gethryn, Anthony (Fictitious character) -- Fiction; Murder -- Investigation -- Fiction
Her eyes flashed gratitude. “Ever so much. Oh! you don’t know how—what
a horrible, _awful_ day I’ve had!”
“I can guess,” Anthony said.
“Oh, I know; I know you can! I didn’t mean that you—— How can I ever
thank you enough?”
“Thank me? Why, you know, it seems I’ve done nothing much yet except
make a fool of myself running down blind alleys.”
She sprang to her feet. “Done nothing! Done nothing!” she blazed at
him. “How dare you say such a thing! Why, if it hadn’t been for you
and—and your cleverness I would never have known Jimmy was safe. I’d
just have gone on and on thinking horrors to myself.” Suddenly all the
fire died out of her. “And I think I should have died,” she added
quietly.
Anthony said: “You overwhelm me. You can reward me best by allowing me
to hope our acquaintance isn’t ended.”
Her eyes opened in amazement. “Why, _of course!_” she said. “But we’re
friends already, aren’t we? At least, I am.”
Anthony was silent. The only answer he wanted to make were best
unsaid. He rose to his feet.
“I must go,” he said. “May I suggest that I get my friend Hastings to
drive you up to town to-morrow to see your brother. That’ll be some
time in the afternoon, after the inquest.”
“Mr. Gethryn, you thinking of everything, everything! May I? I love
Mr. Hastings already—for taking such care of Jimmy, poor darling, when
he didn’t know him from Adam.” She smiled; and Anthony caught his
breath.
He made a move in the direction of the door; then paused. “Mrs.
Lemesurier,” he said, “you can’t, I suppose, tell me anything I
haven’t already picked up about the Abbotshall _ménage_?” Business
seemed safer ground when his emotions were so hard to repress.
She shook her head. “I’m sorry; I can’t. Except Sir Arthur—and he’s
only a guest—I hardly know anything about them. Mr. Hoode I met twice.
I’ve never seen his sister. I dare say I should have known them quite
well by this time if Jim hadn’t left Mr. Hoode in that funny way. But
after that—well, it was rather awkward somehow, and we just haven’t
mixed.”
“D’you know this Mrs. Mainwaring at all?”
“Not at all except from the illustrated papers.”
“Oh. So she’s what Zenith might call a Society Snake, is she? Well,
well. Not a tennis champion or a plus-four person as well, is she?”
“Oh, no. I’m sure she isn’t. Mr. Gethryn, why all this curiosity?”
Anthony smiled. “Now don’t get scenting murderers in everything I say,
will you. Merely my ’satiable curtiosity. I shall be punished for it
one day. ‘And his tall aunt the ostrich spanked him with her hard,
hard claw.’ That was for ’satiable curtiosity, you remember.” He
turned to the door. “I really must go now.”
She stopped him, laying a hand on his arm. “Mr. Gethryn, one minute.
Now that—owing to you—I’m happy again, I’m like the elephant’s child,
too, simply bursting with curtiosity. Who _did_ do it?”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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