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Updated: June 7, 2025
Croyle instructed you last night not to call her until she rang. That, no doubt, was an unusual order for her to give." "No, sir." Sir Chichester leaned back in his chair. "Oh, it wasn't?" "No, sir." Sir Chichester looked a little blank. He cast about for another line of examination. "You are aware, of course, Jenny, that your mistress was in the habit of taking drugs chloroform especially."
But it was not Joan, it was Stella Croyle. "I thought you had such a bad headache," said Lady Splay, after a perceptible pause. "It's better now, thank you," said Stella, and coming down the remaining steps, she advanced towards Harry. "How do you do, Colonel Luttrell?" she asked. For a moment he was taken aback.
They paused in their game and then Dennis Brown crept to the window of the hall and looked cautiously in. He stood transfixed; then turned and beckoned furiously. The lawn-tennis players forsook their rackets, Lady Splay and Stella Croyle their croquet mallets. Dennis Brown led them by a back way up to the head of the broad stairs. Here a gallery ran along one side of the hall.
He had done his best, but since Luttrell would talk the question over with Stella Croyle, shoulder to shoulder with her amongst the lights and music, the perfume of her hair in his nostrils and the pleading of her eyes within his sight he, Charles Hardiman, might as well have held his tongue. So very likely it would have been.
But since she was a woman, it would be a name at once so absurd and so intimate that it would never have gone with the dignified rhythm of the hexameter. "Wobbles" had been the first name which Stella Croyle had invented for Harry Luttrell, though by what devious process she had lighted upon it, psychology could not have discovered.
She checked herself with an effort lest she should go on laughing, and her laughter turn uncontrollably into hysteria and tears. Here was Mrs. Croyle, a grown woman, standing in front of her like a mutinous obstinate child, looking like one too, talking like one and bidding Joan leave her Wub alone. Whence did she get that ridiculous name? It was all degrading and grotesque. "Your Wub!
He could only trust feebly in that and in the strength of the "something else," the secret reason he was never to know. It was about half-way through dinner when Stella Croyle, who had directed many a furtive, anxious glance to the averted face of her companion, attacked directly. "What is the matter with you to-night?" she asked, interrupting him in the midst of a rattle of futilities.
There are only two women to choose from, Mrs. Croyle and Jenny Prask, her maid. But since Mrs. Croyle never took drugs, and had no troubles or thoughts of suicide and was quite gay, it follows that Jenny Prask " At this point Jenny interrupted in a voice in which fear was now very distinctly audible. "Why, you can't mean Oh, my lady, you are telling me that oh!"
Miss Whitworth was the last person to see Mrs. Croyle alive. Ask her! It is Jenny Prask or Miss Whitworth. We are up against that alternative all the time. And Jenny holds all the cards. For she knows, damn her, what happened here last night." "She did hold all the cards this morning," Hillyard corrected. "She doesn't now. Look at this key! There was a heavy dew last night.
They walked in their own magical garden. It fell to Martin Hillyard to look after Stella Croyle, and the task was not difficult. She kept her eyes blindfold to what she did not wish to see. She had a chance, she said to herself, recollecting her talk with Harry last night, and the news of Joan which Jenny Prask had given to her. She had a chance, if she walked delicately.
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