up the idea altogether by then."
"You'll have to face the world sooner or later, you know. Unless you were planning to live out your life in a bandbox."
"That's easy enough for you to say. Look at you. Anyone who can tie a neckcloth as you do doesn't have to worry about facing the world."
Julian regarded him thoughtfully. Then he rose and began drawing off his gloves. "Come here."
"Why?" asked Eugene, alarmed.
"Because my arms don't stretch like India rubber."
Eugene approached him haltingly. Julian twitched off the boy's neckcloth, held it between forefinger and thumb, and surveyed it wryly. "I highly recommend cleanliness. It pleases women and annoys men, which are two excellent ways to get on in society. However, we'll make the best of what we have. This is called Trone d'Amour. It's extremely simple. It has one dent in the centre and no collateral creases, and it ties in a knot in front—so. The neckcloth ought to be starched, but no matter."
Eugene went to look in a mirror, then gazed at Julian in awe. "But—but I could never tie it like that."
"You might consider wearing a black stock instead. It's much easier to keep neat, and if it isn't clean, no one will notice. It's very stiff, but that will be useful for learning to hold up your head—a trait you haven't been noted for up to now."
"You're very hard."
No, thought Julian, far too soft. I may have just given a lesson in sartorial elegance to Alexander Falkland's killer. And if that's so, how can I tie a cravat round his neck one moment, and a noose around it the next? The devil!—I'm becoming involved. And that's precisely what I expected to escape in this investigation.
He said, "This is a murder inquiry, and you're a suspect without an alibi, who profited signally by the victim's death. You can hardly expect to escape a few uncomfortable moments."
"There! I knew you suspected me!"
"I do suspect you. I also suspect Mr. Clare, Mr. Adams, and a number of other people. You haven't broken out of the field yet. If you do, I'll let you know."
"I think you're beastly cold-blooded. You've probably been trying to win my confidence in order to make me confess. Next you'll be thinking I killed that woman, too! If I bashed my brother-in-law on the head, why not her?"
"What in the devil's name are you talking about?"
"That woman who was found in the brickfield near here. Her face was all smashed with a piece of brick, till it was just a wet, muddy pulp. I saw the place where they found her. It was horrible. I wished I hadn't gone."
"The Brickfield Murder," said Julian slowly. "I'd forgotten about that. It was in all the newspapers while I was in Newmarket—till Alexander's murder crowded it out. It hasn't been solved, I suppose?"
"No. No one even knows who the woman was, because she hadn't any face—"
The door opened. Eugene started and spun around. Mrs. Falkland came in, still in riding dress, with a colour in her cheeks that made her look far healthier than she had yesterday. With one hand she held up the skirt of her black habit, which was cut overly long to hang becomingly from a side-saddle. In her other hand was an open letter.
"I have to speak with you, Eugene—Oh. Mr. Kestrel. I didn't know you were here."
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Falkland." Julian bowed over her hand. "I'm glad to see you looking so well."
"Thank you. This is the first day I've been well enough to ride."
"You ride on the Heath, I suppose?" He made conversation at random, wondering all the while why she seemed braced for some great effort. He did not think it had anything to do with him.
"Yes. I prefer to ride in the morning, but this morning it rained. But I'm afraid I interrupt you—I know you have things to ask Eugene."
"Don't go unless you'd rather. I believe Mr. Talmadge and I were finished." He glanced at Eugene.
Eugene was searching his sister's face. He fairly quivered with alertness, like an animal sensing danger. His eyes came to rest on the letter in her hand.
"You'll have to face the world sooner or later, you know. Unless you were planning to live out your life in a bandbox."
"That's easy enough for you to say. Look at you. Anyone who can tie a neckcloth as you do doesn't have to worry about facing the world."
Julian regarded him thoughtfully. Then he rose and began drawing off his gloves. "Come here."
"Why?" asked Eugene, alarmed.
"Because my arms don't stretch like India rubber."
Eugene approached him haltingly. Julian twitched off the boy's neckcloth, held it between forefinger and thumb, and surveyed it wryly. "I highly recommend cleanliness. It pleases women and annoys men, which are two excellent ways to get on in society. However, we'll make the best of what we have. This is called Trone d'Amour. It's extremely simple. It has one dent in the centre and no collateral creases, and it ties in a knot in front—so. The neckcloth ought to be starched, but no matter."
Eugene went to look in a mirror, then gazed at Julian in awe. "But—but I could never tie it like that."
"You might consider wearing a black stock instead. It's much easier to keep neat, and if it isn't clean, no one will notice. It's very stiff, but that will be useful for learning to hold up your head—a trait you haven't been noted for up to now."
"You're very hard."
No, thought Julian, far too soft. I may have just given a lesson in sartorial elegance to Alexander Falkland's killer. And if that's so, how can I tie a cravat round his neck one moment, and a noose around it the next? The devil!—I'm becoming involved. And that's precisely what I expected to escape in this investigation.
He said, "This is a murder inquiry, and you're a suspect without an alibi, who profited signally by the victim's death. You can hardly expect to escape a few uncomfortable moments."
"There! I knew you suspected me!"
"I do suspect you. I also suspect Mr. Clare, Mr. Adams, and a number of other people. You haven't broken out of the field yet. If you do, I'll let you know."
"I think you're beastly cold-blooded. You've probably been trying to win my confidence in order to make me confess. Next you'll be thinking I killed that woman, too! If I bashed my brother-in-law on the head, why not her?"
"What in the devil's name are you talking about?"
"That woman who was found in the brickfield near here. Her face was all smashed with a piece of brick, till it was just a wet, muddy pulp. I saw the place where they found her. It was horrible. I wished I hadn't gone."
"The Brickfield Murder," said Julian slowly. "I'd forgotten about that. It was in all the newspapers while I was in Newmarket—till Alexander's murder crowded it out. It hasn't been solved, I suppose?"
"No. No one even knows who the woman was, because she hadn't any face—"
The door opened. Eugene started and spun around. Mrs. Falkland came in, still in riding dress, with a colour in her cheeks that made her look far healthier than she had yesterday. With one hand she held up the skirt of her black habit, which was cut overly long to hang becomingly from a side-saddle. In her other hand was an open letter.
"I have to speak with you, Eugene—Oh. Mr. Kestrel. I didn't know you were here."
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Falkland." Julian bowed over her hand. "I'm glad to see you looking so well."
"Thank you. This is the first day I've been well enough to ride."
"You ride on the Heath, I suppose?" He made conversation at random, wondering all the while why she seemed braced for some great effort. He did not think it had anything to do with him.
"Yes. I prefer to ride in the morning, but this morning it rained. But I'm afraid I interrupt you—I know you have things to ask Eugene."
"Don't go unless you'd rather. I believe Mr. Talmadge and I were finished." He glanced at Eugene.
Eugene was searching his sister's face. He fairly quivered with alertness, like an animal sensing danger. His eyes came to rest on the letter in her hand.
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