The Wheel Spins by Ethel White

by his grave face.
    “Oh, it’s rather involved,” he told her. “All about where is the pen of the aunt of my gardener?”
    Her confidence began to cloud as she grew conscious of an unfriendly atmosphere. The baroness did not remove her eyes from her face during her short speech, to which the professor listened with marked respect. At its end she made a sign to the doctor, as though ordering him to support her statement.
    Hitherto he had been a silent witness of the scene. His white impassive face and dead eyes made him resemble one newly-returned from the grave, to attend a repeat performance of the revue of life—to its eternal damnation.
    But as he began to talk at his patron’s bidding he grew vital and even vehement, for he used his hands to emphasise his words.
    When he had finished speaking the professor turned to Iris.
    “You appear to have made an extraordinary mistake,” he said. “No one in this carriage knows anything about the lady you
say
is missing.”
    Iris stared at him incredulously.
    “Are you telling me I invented her?” she asked angrily.
    “I hardly know what to think.”
    “Then I’ll tell you. All these people are telling lies.”
    Even as she spoke Iris realised the absurdity of her charge. It was altogether too wholesale. No rational person could believe that the passengers would unite to bear false witness. The family party in particular looked solid and respectable, while the father was probably the equivalent to her own lawyer.
    The professor was of the same opinion, for his manner grew stiffer.
    “The people whom you accuse of being liars are citizens of good standing,” he said, “and are known personally to the baroness, who vouches for their integrity. The gentleman is not only a well-known banker in the district, but is also the baroness’ banker. The young lady”—he glanced warily at the blonde—“is the daughter of her agent.”
    “I can’t help that,” protested Iris. “All I know is that I’m owing Miss Froy for my tea. She paid for me.”
    “We can check up on that,” interrupted Hare. “If she paid, you’ll be so much to the good. Just count up your loose cash.”
    Iris shook her head.
    “I don’t know how much I had,” she confessed. “I’m hopeless about money. I’m always getting R.D. cheques.”
    Although the professor’s mouth turned down at the admission, he intervened in proof of his sense of fair play.
    “If you had tea together,” he said, “the waiter should remember your companion. I’ll interview him next, if you will give me a description of the lady.”
    Iris had been dreading this moment because of her clouded recollection of Miss Froy. She knew that she had barely glanced at her the whole time they were together During tea she had been half-blinded by the sun, and when they returned to the carriage she had kept her eyes closed on account of her headache. On their way to and from the restaurant-car, she had always been either in front or behind her companion.
    “I can’t tell you much,” she faltered. “You see, there’s nothing much about her to catch hold of. She’s middle-aged, and ordinary—and rather colourless.”
    “Tall or short? Fat or thin? Fair or dark?” prompted Hare.
    “Medium. But she said she had fair curly hair.”
    “‘Said’?” repeated the professor. “Didn’t you notice it for yourself?”
    “No. But I think it looked faded. I remember she had blue eyes, though.”
    “Not very enlightening, I’m afraid,” remarked the professor.
    “What did she wear?” asked Hare suddenly.
    “Tweed. Oatmeal, flecked with brown. Swagger coat, finger-length, with patch pockets and stitched cuffs and scarf. The ends of the scarf were fastened with small blue-bone buttons and she wore a natural tussore shirt-blouse, stitched with blue—a different shade—with a small blue handkerchief in the breast-pocket. I’m afraid I didn’t notice details much. Her hat was made of the same material, with a stitched