The Tall House Mystery. Dorothy Fielding

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      Warner decided to go all out on the scoop theory of advancement. He did not want a young female besieging him with postal packets of manuscript which would probably have no return stamps. He decided to be more wary.

      "A scoop is really the only way," he repeated dogmatically. "Something mysterious happens, or something that can be made to look so."

      "Here in Bispham?" Her tone was raillery itself, but she waved to him to proceed.

      "If you're the first in the field you can offer your stuff to almost any newspaper and, later, you can possibly work into a post on it. Now what about finishing the round?"

      She played so badly that he knew her mind was wandering. It is a curious fact, he reflected, that your mind may be on something else, and you can do your work quite decently, but let your mind wander ever so slightly at a game, and the game is ruined. Which looks as if games were harder than work...a little third article might be made out of the idea, treated humorously...

      He thanked her when they were back at the clubhouse again, and suggested cocktails. She declined. Her father expected her to be home to pour out tea, but she spoke as though half dreaming. He watched her long stride making for the gate with some misgiving.

      "I hope she won't murder the verger so as to qualify for a post with me," he thought. "She looks capable-of a good deal."

      At the rectory, Alfreda came to a sudden halt in the shabby old hall. Surely she knew that hat, that voice, and stepping through on to the veranda there rose up before her the man whom she had never expected to see again—Lawrence Gilmour. The sun glinted on his brown hair and seemed to shine in his brown eyes. Suddenly a wave of hatred passed over Alfreda such as she had never dreamed that she could feel. He to stand there smiling, after leaving her to the tender mercies of the village gossips! For the first time she dared to realize how much she had suffered. In pride, in dismay, in hopes lost, in the pity and the scarcely veiled amusement of the countryside, and which of those two last had been the harder to bear she could not tell. It all welled up inside her now. Usually pale, there was a flush like a soft rose in her thin cheeks, her lips were a vivid bow of color unhelped by any cosmetics. Alfreda did not use cosmetics. They were expensive, and what was the use—at Bispham? Her eyes were sparkling as she looked into his.

      "Alfreda!" he said, coming forward and taking her hand. "I find that I can't get on without you. Have you missed me, too?"

      She could not speak. She dared not. Words were thronging behind her clenched teeth which it would have been madness to utter. She seemed to be standing outside herself, and she was amazed at what she was watching. A shiver passed over her. Alfreda closed her eyes, and as he put his arms about her, felt as though she could have struck the face bending down to kiss her, and struck it again and again. Hard.

      "Why did you leave me?" she asked in a low whisper. "Because I wanted to be sure. And to give you time to be sure too," he replied gravely. "I am sure now. Will you marry me, darling?"

      "No!" she said with a sort of shout, and then saw her mother come into the room. Mrs. Longstaff jumped. "Alfreda! Mr. Gilmour!"

      "Mrs. Longstaff, I've come back to marry the dearest girl in the world."

      Mrs. Longstaff could not conceive of Alfreda in quite that light.

      "Indeed?" was all she could say for the moment, then came the knowledge of all that this would mean. Only last week the charwoman had ventured to speak pityingly of "Miss Freda" for being so lonely. Her daughter well married...Gilmour was in the Civil Service, and had ample pay...there would be no pension for his wife, but he would, of course, carry a handsome life insurance...

      "My dear children," said Mrs. Longstaff and gave a hand to each. Alfreda took it, and committed herself. After all, anything was better than the life she had been leading—the life with no outlook. Yet she felt for Gilmour only burning resentment. He could have spared her all this, these wounds to her pride, and yet he had not. She would never forgive him. But she would use him. He should be her stepping-stone to something different—larger. She told herself that she did not even believe in his supposed affection for her. It had suited him to play with her and leave her. It now suited him to come back to her...what was he saying? He wanted her to come and spend a fortnight in town at a big house in Chelsea which he and some friends had taken furnished for a few weeks. There was a lady staying there, a Mrs. Pratt, who would chaperone her. Perhaps Mrs. Longstaff would ring her up on the 'phone, the number was Flaxman 0000, and perhaps Alfreda would come back with him now, his car could wait. He had really gone into the friendly syndicate because he thought how heavenly it would be to have Alfreda up in town, staying in what would be, for a week, his house. He explained the idea to the two women, and Mrs. Longstaff went to the telephone and was soon in talk with Mrs. Pratt.

      Mrs. Pratt was charming. She had taken such a liking to young Lawrence Gilmour, "a really delightful young man," and would be very pleased to chaperone Miss Longstaff during her stay at The Tall House. She hoped she could come soon. Her own daughter was there too. In fact, another engagement was expected...the two women chatted most pleasantly.

      In the veranda Gilmour pleaded his cause.

      "I thought, I hoped, I believed you felt as I did," he stammered.

      "And you shall suffer as I did!" was her unspoken addition. Aloud she said, "I'll come to The Tall House for a fortnight since you ask me, but I don't promise to marry you, you know. At the end of the time I'll give you my answer."

      "Oh, no, no!" he begged. "Surely I've left you time enough to know your own heart. Why, I brought you down this!" He opened a small case and something inside it flashed. Alfreda, for the first time, felt one of the bands of ice around her heart break with a little splintering sound, like the girl in the fairy tale...he must really love her to have bought her this...it was a charming half-hoop of diamonds. For a second she wavered. A month ago how she would have rejoiced. But four weeks of suffering leave a scar...she closed the case with a snap, and returned it to him.

      "I'll give you my answer at the end of the fortnight," she said quietly, "and meanwhile I'm to be quite free. I promise nothing, except to come to town." Let him, too, feel the pleasure of uncertainty. "Is that agreed?"

      It was not in the least what he hoped and wanted. But something in her tone warned him not to press her, unless he wanted to lose her. As for Alfreda, suddenly she knew what she wanted. She would go to town for the two weeks, and by hook or by crook at the end of them land a job on a newspaper. As for marriage—she had only wanted it as a key to open the world outside Bispham. Perhaps she could open it for herself by herself.

      She refused to go back in his car with Gilmour, and her mother upheld her in this. After all, tomorrow would do quite nicely and one evening would give the two women and a seamstress time enough to alter that frightful evening frock that Alfreda had ordered from the sales because it was so cheap...So Gilmour went off alone, but with the promise that Alfreda would come to town on the following day in time for lunch. He had no doubt as to her ultimate answer, and decided that it was only her girlish way of paying him out for his delay in proposing, little dreaming how exactly he had hit the nail on the head, and yet how he had given it a slant quite off the true. He wanted to tell all the house-party about her, and burst out with the news to Moy that evening after dinner. They were playing billiards together.

      "I can't keep it to myself!" Gilmour was playing wildly. "I've as good as got engaged to the dearest girl in the world, and she's coming here on a fortnight's visit. It's still Haliburton's week, but he's an awfully understanding chap...I'm not worthy to tie Alfreda's shoe-strings, but—well"—he gave a choked little laugh, "she'll be here in time for lunch tomorrow."

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