Chapter IX

The three men stared at the intruder with varying expressions. Brandreth’s face registered annoyance, changing after a second to humorous resignation. Wilson’s retained its usual air of impassive attention. Michael’s brow clouded with resentment and disapproval, though he was unable to restrain a gaze of curiosity at the heroine of the tale they had just heard.

Prejudiced as he was, Michael had to admit that neither the lawyer nor the photograph had overstated Sylvia Meston’s attractions. True, she was not looking her conventional “best” at the moment; for she had pretty clearly neither slept nor troubled to make up for the lack of sleep by adventitious aids. But that, in a sense, did her natural good looks more credit. Life at the Grange, however hot it was reputed to be, had not apparently damaged either her health or her complexion, since she was able to face worry and sleeplessness without looking either puffy or sallow. Michael noted almost with resentment that the lines of her jaw and the bones of her face, as well as her skin, were nearly as perfect as they could be, and that the short, brown curls, just visible under her hat, were as springy and as full of colour as any he had seen. Nevertheless, he did not abate his dislike; for Sylvia Meston obviously belonged to that type of womanhood he was wont to describe as “predatory.” He could see her, despite her weariness, settling on the best way of “getting at” Wilson as soon as she entered the room. “Minx!” he said to himself, as he was introduced, and saw the grey eyes sweep over him, and then appeal, a little too obviously, for his sympathy for beauty in distress.

“You know my name?” Wilson asked her, a slight asperity in his voice.

“So did the maid. Is it a secret? Ned told me you were here last night. Does it matter?” Sylvia asked indifferently. She had curled herself into a chair like a graceful kitten; but her fingers were rather uneasily clutching at its arm.

“I didn’t tell it you for public consumption,” Brandreth said, with an expression like that of a cat caught stealing cream. “Nor did I ask you to come here this morning.”

“Oh, well, I thought I’d better see what you were doing. I don’t trust you any farther than I can see you,” Sylvia said. “_Is_ Mr. Wilson going to help us?” She turned her eyes suddenly on the owner of the name.

“I don’t quite see, at the moment, how I can help,” Wilson said. “Can you tell me just why you are so sure that Mr. Meston didn’t kill himself?”

“He wouldn’t. Not while I was alive. Didn’t Ned explain that to you?” Sylvia said. “I told him to. He said God would give me back to him.”

“But he might have met with an accident.”

“Accidents didn’t happen to William. He wasn’t that kind of man. Besides, he could swim like a duck. He _couldn’t_ have got into that river, unless some one had pushed him there.”

“Who would have?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure,” said Sylvia. “If I did, I shouldn’t be asking you to find out. _Will_ you find out?” Her tone was low, but none the less insistent.

“Would you mind telling me exactly why you are so anxious to know?”

“Well, he was my husband, wasn’t he? Aren’t I supposed to be interested?”

“But----” Even Wilson ventured a faint doubt, and Michael was betrayed into an unmistakable snort of contempt. There was an instant’s pause, during which Sylvia Meston raised her head, and stared him full in the face, with the indignant gaze of a trapped animal.

“Oh, I know what _you’re_ thinking!” she burst out at last; and Michael reflected sourly that the pause had given its full value to her change of tone. “You needn’t bother to be polite! You’re thinking what all these swine here are saying--that I was glad William was dead, and that it’s indecent of me to bother how he died. Well, I’m not! I used to think I’d give anything in the world to get rid of him, and I didn’t care how it happened. But I’m not. Lockwood made me go and look at him”--she gave a shudder that was obviously genuine--“and whatever he was like and whatever he did to me, I couldn’t want him to look like that.”

“What about what you did to him?” Michael intervened.

“Oh, I was a little cat,” Sylvia said. “You needn’t think I don’t know it. Ned told me so dozens of times, didn’t you, Ned? I said, it’s no use, you can’t do what you can’t. And it’s no use talking about paying your debts of honour when you haven’t any money. I think William might have made it a bit easier, that’s all. I wouldn’t have asked for anything, only to be let alone. It was just an idiotic mistake, that’s all about it, and he might have seen. Everybody else knew it wasn’t any use going on trying. But that’s no reason why he should be killed, is it? or why you shouldn’t find out who killed him? Ned says I shall get his money. Well, I don’t want it--I won’t take it. I wish you’d have it and find out who killed him!”

“If he _was_ killed,” Wilson said slowly, “the police will find out who did it, I presume.”

“If you knew Lockwood,” said Sylvia, a curl suddenly appearing at the corner of her mouth, “you wouldn’t make silly suggestions. He couldn’t find a murderer if he tried. Besides--he’d be sure to arrest the wrong person.”

“Oh, would he?” said Wilson, looking at her narrowly. She shifted uneasily, and turned her eyes full on him.

“Won’t you? Mr. Wilson--please?”

“My dear lady, you must give me time to think it over. I haven’t got my bearings yet. And, if I do take an interest, there are a great many things I should want to know.”

“Well, why don’t you ask them?” A motor horn honked long and angrily outside.

“It appears,” said Brandreth, who was nearest the window, “as though this conference would shortly be increased in numbers. Do you want Godfrey to come in and hold your hand, Sylvia?”

“Damn Godfrey!” Sylvia’s expressive face changed again. “Of course I don’t. Why can’t he leave me alone? I told him I should be half an hour at least.” The horn sounded again.

“He seems to be of the opinion that the half-hour has elapsed,” said Brandreth.

“He’ll have the whole town here in a minute, if he goes on making that noise,” said Michael.

“That’s what you’d like, isn’t it?” said Sylvia, with disconcerting penetration. “You’d like to send me home tarred and feathered on a cart-tail. I suppose you think I’m enjoying this. Oh, damn, there he goes again! I suppose I’d better go and tell him to shut up. Mr. Wilson, won’t you----”

“You must let me think it over,” Wilson said firmly; but somewhat to Michael’s disgust he accompanied the sinner downstairs. Brandreth, after a little hesitation, followed them, while Michael sullenly stared out of the window, and watched Sylvia Meston climb into a small, but smart two-seater, whose driver, a dark, heavily built, rather scowling fellow in motoring cap and coat, was presumably the Squire.

“What are you going to do?” he asked, when Wilson came back.

“Get you to have another look at the body,” was the answer. “We can’t do anything till we know a little more.”

“I shan’t be allowed,” said Michael gloomily. “You heard what Lockwood said.”

“Oh, I think we can manage that. If necessary, I’ll disclose myself to him. In fact, I’m not sure that it wouldn’t be best to do so, as Brandreth seems incapable of keeping his mouth shut,” Wilson mused.

“And then?”

“Oh, then we’ll see. It’s an odd business, isn’t it?”

“You don’t mean you’re going to take it up? Just because that girl made sheep’s eyes at you! It’s the first time I ever knew you fall for such an obvious siren, Harry,” said Michael in a hurt voice. Wilson burst out laughing.

“My dear fellow, don’t be so censorious. I was going to ask you what you made of Mrs. Meston and her views, but you’ve made it unnecessary.”

“I don’t think what she meant me to think, anyway!”

“I’m not so sure that I know what she meant you to think. The air of this place isn’t good for you, Michael. If you continue in this strain, I shall begin to think that you slew Meston yourself in an attack of dyspepsia.”