THE MAN WITH THE DARK BEARD (Murder Mystery Classic). Annie Haynes

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СКАЧАТЬ Sir Felix! They are Lady Skrine's pearls."

      The great lawyer bent his head. "She would have liked you to have them, Hilary," he said briefly. "Wear them for her sake—and mine."

      He did not wait to hear her somewhat incoherent thanks; but, with a pat on her arm and a slight bow in the direction of the young man who was standing surlily aloof, he went out of the room.

      The two he had left were silent for a minute, Hilary's head still bent over the pearls, the roses lying on the table beside her. At last the man came a step nearer.

      "So he gives you his wife's pearls, Hilary. And—takes my roses from you."

      As he spoke he snatched up the flowers, and as if moved by some uncontrollable influence, flung them through the open window. With a sharp cry Hilary caught at his arm—too late.

      "Basil! Basil! My roses!"

      A disagreeable smile curved Wilton's lips.

      "You have the pearls."

      "I—I would rather have the roses," the girl said with a little catch in her voice. "Oh, Basil, how could you—how could you be so silly?"

      "Hilary! Hilary!" he said hoarsely. "Tell me you don't care for him."

      "For him—for Sir Felix Skrine!" Hilary laughed. "Well, really, Basil, you are—Why, he is my godfather! Does a girl ever care for her godfather? At least, I mean, as—" She stopped suddenly.

      In spite of his anger, Wilton could not help smiling.

      "As what?" he questioned.

      "Oh, I don't know what I meant, I am sure. I must be in a particularly idiotic mood this morning," Hilary returned confusedly. "My birthday has gone to my head, I think. It is a good thing a person only has a birthday once a year."

      She went on talking rapidly to cover her confusion.

      All the wrath had died out of Wilton's face now, and his deep-set, grey eyes were very tender as he watched her.

      "How is it that you care for Skrine?" he pursued. "Not as—well, let us say, not as you care for me, for example?"

      The flush on Hilary's face deepened to a crimson flood that spread over forehead, temples and neck.

      "I never said—"

      Wilton managed to capture her hands.

      "You never said—what?"

      Hilary turned her heated face away.

      "That—that—" she murmured indistinctly.

      Wilton laughed softly.

      "That you cared for me? No, you haven't said so. But you do, don't you?"

      Hilary did not answer, but she did not pull her hands away. Instead he fancied that her fingers clung to his. His clasp grew firmer.

      "Ah, you do, don't you, Hilary?" he pleaded. "Just a little bit. Tell me, darling."

      Hilary turned her head and, as his arm stole round her, her crimson cheek rested for a moment on his shoulder.

      "I think perhaps I do—just a very little, you know, Basil"—with a mischievous intonation that deepened her lover's smile.

      "You darling—" he was beginning, when the sound of the opening door made them spring apart.

      Dr. Bastow entered abruptly. He cast a sharp, penetrating glance at the two on the hearthrug.

      In his hand he held a large bunch of roses—the same that Basil Wilton had thrown out a few minutes before.

      "Do either of you know anything of this?" he asked severely. "I was walking in one of the shrubbery paths a few minutes ago when this—these"—brandishing the roses—"came hurtling over the bushes, and hit me plump in the face."

      In spite of her nervousness, or perhaps on that very account, Hilary smiled.

      Her father glanced at her sharply.

      "Is this your doing, Hilary?"

      Before the girl could answer Wilton quietly moved in front of her. His grey eyes met the doctor's frankly.

      "I must own up, sir. I brought the flowers for—for Miss—for Hilary's birthday. And then, because I was annoyed, I threw them out of the window."

      For a moment the doctor looked inclined to smile. Then he frowned again.

      "A nice sort of confession. And may I ask why you speak of my daughter as Hilary?"

      Wilton did not flinch.

      "Because I love her, sir. My dearest wish is that she may promise to be my wife—some day."

      "Indeed!" said the doctor grimly. "And may I ask how you expect to support a wife, Wilton? Upon your salary as my assistant?"

      Wilton hesitated. "Well, sir, I was hoping—"

      Hilary interrupted him. Taking her courage in both hands she raised her voice boldly.

      "I love Basil, dad. And I hope we shall be married some day."

      "Oh, you do, do you?" remarked her father, raising his pince-nez and surveying her sarcastically. "I suppose it isn't the thing nowadays to ask your father's consent—went out when cropped heads and skirts to the knees came in, didn't it?"

      Chapter II

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      "What is this I hear from your father?"

      Miss Lavinia Priestley was the speaker. She was the elder sister of Hilary's mother, to whom she bore no resemblance whatever. A spinster of eccentric habits, of an age which for long uncertain was now unfortunately becoming obvious, she was almost the only living relative that the young Bastows possessed. Of her, as a matter of fact, they knew but little, since most of her time was spent abroad, wandering about from one continental resort to another. Naturally, however, during her rare visits to England she saw as much as possible of her sister's family, by whom in spite of her eccentricity she was much beloved. Of Hilary she was particularly fond, though at times her mode of expressing her affection was somewhat arbitrary.

      In appearance she was a tall, gaunt-looking woman with large features, dark eyes, which in her youth had been fine, and a quantity of rather coarse hair, which in the natural course of years should have been grey, but which Miss Lavinia, with a fine disregard of the becoming, had dyed a sandy red. Her costume, as a rule, combined what she thought sensible and becoming in the fashions of the past with those of the present day. The result was bizarre.

      Today she wore a coat and skirt of grey tweed with the waist line and the leg-of-mutton sleeves of the Victorian era, while the length and the extreme skimpiness of the skirt were essentially modern, as were her low-necked blouse, which allowed СКАЧАТЬ