Anne Belinda by Patricia Wentworth

walked up the drive, he hummed tonelessly:
    â€œCassidy was a gentleman,
    Cassidy did me brown.
    Cassidy’s wife wears a diamond hat
    And pearls all over her gown.”
    He came up to the house with his mind very strongly made up. He would be fenced with no longer. When he told Jenny, as he meant to tell her, that he had actually seen Anne, she could hardly refuse to give him Anne’s address.
    He walked into the middle of the group that was having tea on the lawn under the biggest cedar and took a cup from Jenny without speaking. Derek and Pamela were throwing buns at each other with the maximum amount of noise and laughter. The sun shone warm and soft on the bright green of the grass. Pamela’s scarlet frock dazzled in it. John looked at Jenny as he took his cup from her steady hand. She had very pretty hands, smaller than Anne’s and whiter, much whiter. Her brown eyes smiled up at him.
    â€œYou’ve walked too far—you look quite fagged, she said.
    â€œOh, I didn’t walk very far.”
    He took the vacant chair beside her and began to drink his tea in an abstracted silence. That Anne and Jenny had met he felt sure. If he had had any doubt before, it was gone now. Jenny had been crying; there were faint marks under her eyes, and the dark lashes through which she had looked up at him were not quite dry. Jenny cried rather easily. She had cried last night when he talked to her about Anne. Anything might have made her cry. But all the same he was sure, quite sure, that she and Anne had met. He drained his cup and set it down.
    â€œCan you let me have Miss Fairlie’s address?” he said quite casually as he turned.
    â€œBut she’s in Spain!” Jenny flushed a little as she answered him, and her eyes widened.
    â€œYes—her address in Spain.”
    â€œI don’t know—she’s always travelling about. You don’t take sugar, do you?”
    â€œYes, please. But when you write to your sister, how do you address the letters?”
    â€œPoste restante, Madrid,” said Jenny, and gave him his cup so full that the tea slopped over into the saucer.
    John emptied the saucer upon the grass. As the last drop fell, he said:
    â€œAnne’s still with her—with Miss Fairlie, I mean?”
    Jenny said, “Of course,” and said it a shade too quickly; the words were no sooner across her lips than she felt cold with fright. If by any chance John had seen Anne. He couldn’t have seen her. He might have passed her in the drive; he couldn’t possibly have recognized her.
    Pamela’s voice broke in, calling to John:
    â€œWhere on earth did you go to after our dance? You ought to have sat out with me and told me how well I did it.”
    â€œI had something to see about.” John’s tone was as non-committal as it well could be.
    â€œWell, you’ve missed the great bun contest. I’m three up on Derek. And I’m thinking of going in for the world’s championship. I’ll back myself to catch buns and dance the Charleston against anyone. Oh, I say, that’s an idea! Me doing the Charleston whilst Derek throws buns at me and I catch them in my teeth. It would make a perfectly ripping stunt. Come on, Derek! Let’s show them!”
    Everyone looked round laughing at the long, undulating scarlet figure. She swayed this way and that, opened her wide mouth to its widest extent, and actually caught Derek’s first bun with a dexterous snap. The next one hit her in the eye, but she caught it as it fell and hurled it back amid shouts of “Rotten shot! Play the game!”
    There was so much noise going on that the sound of Miss Aurora Fairlie’s massive tread and the inevitable creak of her stout shoes passed unnoticed.
    It was John who saw her first. He looked round at Jenny and saw the big, square-built figure standing a couple of yards away, feet well apart, hat tilted back from the large brick-coloured face,