must see that this does not account for the whole party breaking up before a quarter to ten. And it doesn’t explain why no one said goodnight to Mr. Paradine. Do you really wish to maintain that nothing had occurred which would account for these things—nothing of an unpleasant nature?”
She looked him straight in the face and said,
“There was nothing.”
Chapter 16
The family were just across the passage in Phyllida’s sitting-room. The instinct to keep together, to avoid being singled out, had taken them there—the old primitive herd instinct. This time no one sat down. Mark leaned on the mantelpiece and looked into the fire, his shoulder turned upon the room. Dicky still twisted a bit of string. There was one of those horrid silences which no one breaks because no one wants to be the first to voice the common thought. The fact that Albert was at a loss for words was enough to keep anyone else from speaking. It had never happened before, and would probably never happen again. He stood there, the last into the room, looking for all the world like something out of the family album. There was the same stiffness, the fixed regard, the attempt at an easy pose.
It was Brenda who spoke for everyone present. In blunt and heartfelt tones she exclaimed,
“I wish we knew what Aunt Grace was saying to him.”
Her brother turned a frowning look upon her.
“She’ll say what we agreed to say—why shouldn’t she?”
Albert Pearson came a little farther into the room.
“It’s most unfortunate that we hadn’t a little longer to talk things over. Dr. Frith was being very positive about its not being an accident, and when they got it out of Lane how early the party had broken up, I could see they were going to ask a lot of questions. Of course we don’t want to say what isn’t true, but we don’t want to stir up trouble either.”
Brenda said, “What about Irene—and Lydia? Suppose he goes and talks to them? Hadn’t you better ring up and tell them to be careful what they say?”
Frank Ambrose said, “No.”
“Well, I should.”
“Too risky. Besides, the telephone’s out of order—at least it was last night.”
Brenda hunched her shoulder.
“Then I don’t mind betting they give the show away.”
“Lydia’s got too much sense,” said Dicky.
She laughed unpleasantly.
“And Irene hasn’t any sense at all!”
In quite a quiet undertone, Frank Ambrose said,
“Hold your tongue, will you!”
Elliot Wray surveyed the room with a sense of impending disaster—Phyllida’s pretty pastel room which he hated because it wasn’t Phyllida’s room at all. It was the setting devised by Grace Paradine—her taste, her furniture, her idea of what a young girl’s room should be; sweet pea colouring, a little mauve, a little pink, a touch of purple, and a great deal of blue. He thought, “We’ve bitten off more than we can chew—that’s about the size of it. If he goes through the whole ten of us one at a time, somebody’s bound to crash.”
Then Phyllida had her hand on his arm and was saying in a voice which was only meant for him,
“Elliot, I’m no good at telling lies—I don’t think I can.”
He turned his eyes on her with a spark of angry humour.
“Oh, you can’t, can’t you?”
She shook her head.
“Why can’t we just tell the truth?”
His hand came down over hers. He said almost inaudibly, but with an extraordinary effect of anger,
“You’re not to say you went down to the study— do you hear?”
“Well, I won’t unless he asks me.”
“He won’t ask you—why should he?”
“I don’t know—he might.”
“Then you’ll say ‘No’!”
She shook her head.
“I can’t, Elliot—honest I can’t.”
“George Washington complex?” His grip was hurting her. “Don’t be a damned fool, Phyl!”
She said, “You’re hurting me,” and got a hard “I’d like to wring your neck!”
He was not prepared for her looking up at him with a smile. What can you do
She looked him straight in the face and said,
“There was nothing.”
Chapter 16
The family were just across the passage in Phyllida’s sitting-room. The instinct to keep together, to avoid being singled out, had taken them there—the old primitive herd instinct. This time no one sat down. Mark leaned on the mantelpiece and looked into the fire, his shoulder turned upon the room. Dicky still twisted a bit of string. There was one of those horrid silences which no one breaks because no one wants to be the first to voice the common thought. The fact that Albert was at a loss for words was enough to keep anyone else from speaking. It had never happened before, and would probably never happen again. He stood there, the last into the room, looking for all the world like something out of the family album. There was the same stiffness, the fixed regard, the attempt at an easy pose.
It was Brenda who spoke for everyone present. In blunt and heartfelt tones she exclaimed,
“I wish we knew what Aunt Grace was saying to him.”
Her brother turned a frowning look upon her.
“She’ll say what we agreed to say—why shouldn’t she?”
Albert Pearson came a little farther into the room.
“It’s most unfortunate that we hadn’t a little longer to talk things over. Dr. Frith was being very positive about its not being an accident, and when they got it out of Lane how early the party had broken up, I could see they were going to ask a lot of questions. Of course we don’t want to say what isn’t true, but we don’t want to stir up trouble either.”
Brenda said, “What about Irene—and Lydia? Suppose he goes and talks to them? Hadn’t you better ring up and tell them to be careful what they say?”
Frank Ambrose said, “No.”
“Well, I should.”
“Too risky. Besides, the telephone’s out of order—at least it was last night.”
Brenda hunched her shoulder.
“Then I don’t mind betting they give the show away.”
“Lydia’s got too much sense,” said Dicky.
She laughed unpleasantly.
“And Irene hasn’t any sense at all!”
In quite a quiet undertone, Frank Ambrose said,
“Hold your tongue, will you!”
Elliot Wray surveyed the room with a sense of impending disaster—Phyllida’s pretty pastel room which he hated because it wasn’t Phyllida’s room at all. It was the setting devised by Grace Paradine—her taste, her furniture, her idea of what a young girl’s room should be; sweet pea colouring, a little mauve, a little pink, a touch of purple, and a great deal of blue. He thought, “We’ve bitten off more than we can chew—that’s about the size of it. If he goes through the whole ten of us one at a time, somebody’s bound to crash.”
Then Phyllida had her hand on his arm and was saying in a voice which was only meant for him,
“Elliot, I’m no good at telling lies—I don’t think I can.”
He turned his eyes on her with a spark of angry humour.
“Oh, you can’t, can’t you?”
She shook her head.
“Why can’t we just tell the truth?”
His hand came down over hers. He said almost inaudibly, but with an extraordinary effect of anger,
“You’re not to say you went down to the study— do you hear?”
“Well, I won’t unless he asks me.”
“He won’t ask you—why should he?”
“I don’t know—he might.”
“Then you’ll say ‘No’!”
She shook her head.
“I can’t, Elliot—honest I can’t.”
“George Washington complex?” His grip was hurting her. “Don’t be a damned fool, Phyl!”
She said, “You’re hurting me,” and got a hard “I’d like to wring your neck!”
He was not prepared for her looking up at him with a smile. What can you do
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