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A tailored suit, necessarily borrowed plumage, became her so completely that it was difficult to believe it not her own. Her eyes were calm and sweet with candour; her colour was a clear and artless glow; the hand she offered the Briton was tremorless. "Colonel Stanistreet?" "I am he, Miss Brooke. It is kind of you to call so early to relieve my mind about your brother.
He could see her now, in her pitiful finery, sitting back, trying to hide her white face with gloves that were anything but white. But Tyson was not thinking of Mrs. Hathaway. "I mean that baby Molly my wife. That was the wickedest, cruellest thing I ever did in the whole course of my abominable life. I might have known how it would end." Stanistreet looked thoughtfully at his friend.
"Too frightfully weird...." She drifted across the threshold, then hesitated, a pretty figure of disdainful discontent. "But really, Colonel Stanistreet is right," Blensop interposed vivaciously. "What do you imagine I heard to-night? The Lone Wolf is in America!" "What is that you say?" Mrs. Arden demanded sharply. "The Lone Wolf ... Fact. Have it on most excellent authority." "The Lone Wolf!"
When he had seen to the burying of his dead, and gone his rounds among the hopelessly dying, Tyson turned to his own affairs. The mail had come in, and his letters had been forwarded to him overnight from the nearest station. There was one from Stanistreet; it lay unopened on a box of cartridges amongst his other papers. These he began to look over and arrange. They were curious documents.
Stanistreet indicated a cigarette-box and leaned back to glance through the letters. During a brief pause Blensop busied himself with collecting together the documents which had occupied him and began reassorting them, while "Karl," helping himself to a cigarette, smoked with manifest enjoyment. "These seem to be in order," Stanistreet observed.
Now ceiling and walls were foul with smoke, the gay white paint was branded and blistered, and the floor he walked on was cleared as if for a dance of devils. But it was nothing to Stanistreet. It would have been nothing to him if he had found Mrs. Nevill Tyson's drawing-room utterly consumed. There was no reality for him but his own lust, and anger, and bitterness, and his idea of Mrs.
"That is something I am prepared to prove to your satisfaction." "If you will be so good.... But excuse me for one moment." Stanistreet turned in his chair. "Mr. Stone?" "Yes, sir." "Have you finished with the safe? If so, I want my secretary to check over its contents carefully and make sure nothing else is missing." "I'm all through with it, Colonel Stanistreet.
"I trust you lost nothing of value?" Stanistreet shrugged. "Unhappily, we did a diamond necklace, the property of my sister-in-law, and ah a document we could ill afford to part with.... But you offered to show me credentials, I believe." "Such as they are," Lanyard replied. "My passports and letters were stolen from me. But these, I think, should serve as well to prove my bona fides."
Lanyard enquired civilly, nodding toward the shattered French window. "A burglary, sir." "The criminal escaped ?" Stanistreet nodded. "Our watchman surprised him, and was shot for his pains not seriously, I'm happy to say. The burglar got himself tangled up in that window, but extricated in time, and went over the garden wall before we could determine which way he had taken."
"Ask her to come in, please." The footman retired. "Howson is resting easily, Dr. Apthorp reports," Blensop added, going back to the safe. "Has Stone turned up anything of interest, sir?" "Footprints," Stanistreet replied with a snort of moderate impatience. "He's quite upset since I've informed him the man who made them is " "Good God!"
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