Man with the Dark Beard by Annie Haynes Page B

that I must be mistaken? Sir Felix is Hilary’s godfather, isn’t he? I expect many girls are very fond of their godfathers, don’t you?”
    â€œI don’t know. I have had no experience of the relationship,” Wilton said curtly.
    In his heart, he was inclined to resent the use of his fiancée ’s Christian name. He finished his tea and set the cup on the table. Then he went over and stood beside Miss Houlton.
    â€œOf course you did not see anything, that is understood. But what did you think you saw?”
    â€œOh, really, I don’t know.” The tea-cups rattled as she moved them. “Really I can’t tell you anything while you stand over me like that, Mr. Wilton. You might be Sir Felix Skrine himself. Do sit down and have some more tea or I shall not talk to you at all.”
    â€œI have only a few minutes to spare,” Wilton said, glancing at his watch. “I’ve just remembered that I have an appointment.”
    Iris’s little teeth bit sharply into her underlip.
    â€œWell, sit down for just those two or three minutes. And now that we are comfortable again I will tell you that I didn’t really see anything. I just thought I heard rather a suspicious sound – a sort of rustling you know, and – and something else,” with a faint smile. “And when I did get in, they were standing a long way apart, and I always think myself – well, that that looks rather suspicious, don’t you?” with a demure glance at him from beneath her lowered eyes. “But, really, I don’t suppose it meant anything. It couldn’t, of course, if she’s engaged to you. I expect Sir Felix was just being – er – godfatherly.”
    â€œProbably!”
    Wilton’s tone was final and non-committal. Already he was regretting having entered into any sort of discussion of Hilary with Iris Houlton.
    â€œHave you heard of this latest development in the Bastow Murder Case?” he asked abruptly. Miss Houlton had just taken up the tea-pot. Her fingers grew suddenly rigid as she clasped the handle.
    â€œNo, I haven’t heard anything. I hate thinking about murders.”
    â€œOne can hardly help thinking about a murder when the victim is some one you have known,” Wilton rejoined.
    Iris Houlton tossed her head. On her cheeks the rouge showed rose-red, but her voice was firm.
    â€œI wasn’t so very fond of Dr. Bastow. He was a cross old thing. I didn’t think you liked him either. I heard you both talking pretty loudly in the consulting-room the day he was murdered. It sounded to me as if you were quarrelling.”
    â€œWell, we were not,” Wilton said repressively.
    â€œWell, folks can only talk about what they know,” returned Iris, some of her London polish dropping off and a tiny trace of what sounded like a Midland accent peeping out. “But what was this development you were talking about?”
    â€œIt is in all the midday papers.”
    â€œNever read them,” Iris interrupted, “unless I mean to put a bit on a horse, and want to spot the winner.”
    Wilton ignored the remark. “A pistol has been found among some bushes in Rufford Square. It is supposed to be the one with which Dr. Bastow was shot.”
    â€œRufford Square!” Iris repeated thoughtfully. “Yes, he might go back through Rufford Square, though it’s a bit out of the way.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?” questioned Wilton, staring at her.
    Iris looked back at him. He could not help noticing that the pupils of her eyes were curiously dilated until they looked almost black, and the darkened eyebrows and eyelashes were obviously artificially tinted as they contrasted with the skin, rapidly whitening, despite the liberal covering of paint and powder.
    â€œWhy, Sanford Morris, of course!” she returned, and her voice had a hard and defiant sound. “Who else could it be?”
    â€œHeaps of