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Well, my father and mother are both dead, and this is no time for settlin' matters; but I'll look you up when this business is all over." "If you do, you'll get hurt," said Winter brusquely. "Is that your rifle?" and he pointed to the weapon in Farrow's hands. "Yes. Where was it found?" "In the Quarry Wood, sir, but a'most in the park," said the policeman. "Has it been used recently?"
Jimmy hated writing letters, and he hated receiving them; most things bored him in these days; he had been drifting for so long, and under Cynthia Farrow's tuition he would very likely have finally drifted altogether into a slack, nothing-to-do man about town, very little good to himself or anyone else. Horatio Ferdinand wrote:
"And do you know her husband?" she asked. She turned her beautiful eyes to his pale face. "I've never seen him," said Jimmy. "But I should think he's a brute from what I've heard about him. He he oh, he treated her rottenly." "What a shame!" Christine half turned and looked after Cynthia Farrow's retreating figure. "Jimmy, wouldn't you be proud of such a beautiful wife?"
She would consent to leaving London at once, and going somewhere where Cynthia Farrow's influence had never made itself felt. She would start all over again; she would be so tactful, so patient. She would win him over to her; make him love her more than he had ever loved Cynthia. Her face glowed at the thought; her eyes shone like stars. She lost herself in happy introspection.
The man who did that, if, indeed, one man could alone have done all this mischief, must have been very, very strong a Hercules! The doctor took the candle from Miss Farrow's hand and walked in among the débris. "He must have gone through that door," he muttered.
On Christmas night this daily ceremony had been put off till Miss Farrow's bed-time, when, after a quiet, short evening, the party had broken up on the happiest terms with one another. As Blanche sat down, and her maid began taking the hairpins out of her hair, she told herself with a feeling of gratification that this had been one of the pleasantest Christmas days she had ever spent.
"He's been out most nights, sir," he answered stoically. "Only comes home with the milk, as you might say. Hasn't slept at all, and doesn't eat. It's my opinion, sir, that he's grieving like " He looked towards the mantelshelf and the place which they could both remember had once held Cynthia Farrow's portrait. Sangster shook his head. "You mean " he asked reluctantly. "Yes, sir."
His utterance was nearly hysterical. Farrow's judicial calm appeared to stir him to frenzy. He clamored for action, for zealous scouting, and this orderly investigation by mere words was absolutely maddening. "I'm not wastin' time, sir," said Farrow respectfully. "It's as certain as anything can be that the murderer, if murder has been done, has not got away by either of the gates."
In answer to Miss Farrow's apologies and explanations, everyone, of course, expressed himself or herself as very willing to fall in with the suggestion that they should all travel up to town together that day. It also seemed quite natural to them all, even to Bubbles, that Blanche should stay behind for the one night. She was not the sort of woman to leave a task half done.
They had met in a strange way, some ten years ago, in what Miss Farrow's sterner brother-in-law had called a gambling hell. And, just as we know that sometimes Satan will be found rebuking sin, so Blanche Farrow had set herself to stop the then young Lionel Varick on the brink.
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