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Chapter I. I Go to Styles
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Thethrobofthemotorcamethroughtheopenwindow,andMissHowardroseandmovedtothedoor.John’svoicesoundedoutside.Withherhandonthehandle,sheturnedherheadoverhershoulder,andbeckonedtome.
“Aboveall,Mr.Hastings,watchthatdevil—herhusband!”
Therewasnotimeformore.MissHowardwasswallowedupinaneagerchorusofprotestsandgood-byes.TheInglethorpsdidnotappear.
Asthemotordroveaway,Mrs.Cavendishsuddenlydetachedherselffromthegroup,andmovedacrossthedrivetothelawntomeetatallbeardedmanwhohadbeenevidentlymakingforthehouse.Thecolourroseinhercheeksassheheldoutherhandtohim.
“Whoisthat?”Iaskedsharply,forinstinctivelyIdistrustedtheman.
“That’sDr.Bauerstein,”saidJohnshortly.
“AndwhoisDr.Bauerstein?”
“He’sstayinginthevillagedoingarestcure,afterabadnervousbreakdown.He’saLondonspecialist;averycleverman—oneofthegreatestlivingexpertsonpoisons,Ibelieve.”
“Andhe’sagreatfriendofMary’s,”putinCynthia,theirrepressible.
JohnCavendishfrownedandchangedthesubject.
“Comeforastroll,Hastings.Thishasbeenamostrottenbusiness.Shealwayshadaroughtongue,butthereisnostauncherfriendinEnglandthanEvelynHoward.”
Hetookthepaththroughtheplantation,andwewalkeddowntothevillagethroughthewoodswhichborderedonesideoftheestate.
