him isn’t.”
“How very unusual. My dear, if you will excuse me, I believe I ought to go and view this astonishing development myself.”
“Oh, let’s all go,” cried Mrs. Swiveltree, sensing that Mme. Vigée-Lenoir was about to say the same thing.
Nobody, however, said what was in everybody’s mind; namely that since all the servants were faithful old retainers except the drab and mousy Miss Twiddle, whom none could dream capable of a stabbing, a poisoning, or indeed of any action calling for boldness and cunning; then the vicious murderer who was so adroitly decimating their numbers must, ipso facto, be a member of the house party.
Was it Hellespont, that enigma of the clubs and fashionable salons, whose source of income was cause for conjecture and whose predilection for such diversions as slow horses and fast women was well-known? Was it Mme. Vigée-Lenoir, whose reason for crossing the Channel might in truth have been something far, far removed from baby care? Mrs. Swiveltree had already intimated pretty strongly that she herself considered the voluptuous gauloise little more than a foreign adventuress.
And what of Mrs. Swiveltree herself? Was old Cadwallader’s absence from this gathering prompted by gout or by guile? Could his known antipathy to the Beaird-Wynnington Dirigible Airship have driven him to send his wife here tonight ostensibly in defiance of his wishes but in fact to obtain and destroy the plans that could threaten his shipping interests? Mrs. Swiveltree might have her reservations about old Cadwallader as a preux chevalier, but of his generosity in the matter of jewels, frocks, millinery, country houses, carriages, and the other small amenities of his life she had no cause for complaint and no desire to disoblige her source of supply.
Gerald Potherton was a younger son, with his way to make in the world. His attachment to the Honourable Ermentine might exclude him from suspicion, but how could he know His Lordship’s daughter might not suddenly transfer her affections elsewhere, and who was to say that madcap miss hadn’t put him up to it?
As for Count Bratvuschenko—well, they would just have to see.
And see they did! The door to the room that was to have been occupied by the foreign nobleman had been left open by the footman in his agitation. Through the orifice, all could see a heterogeneous group of objects dropped carelessly on the bed. There was a furry something that proved on closer inspection to be Bratvuschenko’s bushy brown beard, as well as his luxuriant head of hair. There was his eyeglass. There were his medals, his sash, his tail coat, and even his embonpoint.
“A padded waistcoat, by George!” exclaimed Hellespont. “The blighter was heavily disguised.”
“But why would any man weesh to make heemself fat and ugly?” demanded Mme. Vigée-Lenoir.
“That, madame, is a question we must all ask ourselves,” replied Hellespont, “though I deem it more pertinent to consider where the former inhabitant of these trappings may be at this moment.”
Well might he consider. Little did Hellespont know that even as he spoke, a figure far removed from the guzzling buffoon he had last seen at the dinner table was searching assiduously through Hellespont’s own personal effects. Nor were the discoveries thus made of a particularly edifying nature. What was an intimate of Lord Ditherby-Stoat doing with a pack of marked cards in his possession, not to mention a threatening letter from his bookmaker and several photographs of the sort of young women who are only facetiously referred to as ladies? And why should a cabinet-size portrait of the Honourable Ermentine be found in such less than dubious company? Lastly, what was contained within this box of a mysterious powder, that had a picture of a horse crudely limned on the cover?
Already, the rooms of the other guests had been searched. Mrs. Swiveltree’s had yielded a large bill from her milliner, a still larger one from
“How very unusual. My dear, if you will excuse me, I believe I ought to go and view this astonishing development myself.”
“Oh, let’s all go,” cried Mrs. Swiveltree, sensing that Mme. Vigée-Lenoir was about to say the same thing.
Nobody, however, said what was in everybody’s mind; namely that since all the servants were faithful old retainers except the drab and mousy Miss Twiddle, whom none could dream capable of a stabbing, a poisoning, or indeed of any action calling for boldness and cunning; then the vicious murderer who was so adroitly decimating their numbers must, ipso facto, be a member of the house party.
Was it Hellespont, that enigma of the clubs and fashionable salons, whose source of income was cause for conjecture and whose predilection for such diversions as slow horses and fast women was well-known? Was it Mme. Vigée-Lenoir, whose reason for crossing the Channel might in truth have been something far, far removed from baby care? Mrs. Swiveltree had already intimated pretty strongly that she herself considered the voluptuous gauloise little more than a foreign adventuress.
And what of Mrs. Swiveltree herself? Was old Cadwallader’s absence from this gathering prompted by gout or by guile? Could his known antipathy to the Beaird-Wynnington Dirigible Airship have driven him to send his wife here tonight ostensibly in defiance of his wishes but in fact to obtain and destroy the plans that could threaten his shipping interests? Mrs. Swiveltree might have her reservations about old Cadwallader as a preux chevalier, but of his generosity in the matter of jewels, frocks, millinery, country houses, carriages, and the other small amenities of his life she had no cause for complaint and no desire to disoblige her source of supply.
Gerald Potherton was a younger son, with his way to make in the world. His attachment to the Honourable Ermentine might exclude him from suspicion, but how could he know His Lordship’s daughter might not suddenly transfer her affections elsewhere, and who was to say that madcap miss hadn’t put him up to it?
As for Count Bratvuschenko—well, they would just have to see.
And see they did! The door to the room that was to have been occupied by the foreign nobleman had been left open by the footman in his agitation. Through the orifice, all could see a heterogeneous group of objects dropped carelessly on the bed. There was a furry something that proved on closer inspection to be Bratvuschenko’s bushy brown beard, as well as his luxuriant head of hair. There was his eyeglass. There were his medals, his sash, his tail coat, and even his embonpoint.
“A padded waistcoat, by George!” exclaimed Hellespont. “The blighter was heavily disguised.”
“But why would any man weesh to make heemself fat and ugly?” demanded Mme. Vigée-Lenoir.
“That, madame, is a question we must all ask ourselves,” replied Hellespont, “though I deem it more pertinent to consider where the former inhabitant of these trappings may be at this moment.”
Well might he consider. Little did Hellespont know that even as he spoke, a figure far removed from the guzzling buffoon he had last seen at the dinner table was searching assiduously through Hellespont’s own personal effects. Nor were the discoveries thus made of a particularly edifying nature. What was an intimate of Lord Ditherby-Stoat doing with a pack of marked cards in his possession, not to mention a threatening letter from his bookmaker and several photographs of the sort of young women who are only facetiously referred to as ladies? And why should a cabinet-size portrait of the Honourable Ermentine be found in such less than dubious company? Lastly, what was contained within this box of a mysterious powder, that had a picture of a horse crudely limned on the cover?
Already, the rooms of the other guests had been searched. Mrs. Swiveltree’s had yielded a large bill from her milliner, a still larger one from
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