The Cinema Murder | Page 2

a lengthened, a scrupulous, an almost horrified estimate of his

surroundings.
To the ordinary observer there would have been nothing remarkable in the appearance of
the little room, save its entirely unexpected air of luxury and refinement. There was a
small Chippendale sideboard against the wall, a round, gate-legged table on which stood
a blue china bowl filled with pink roses, a couple of luxurious easy-chairs, some old
prints upon the wall. On the sideboard was a basket, as yet unpacked, filled with hothouse
fruit, and on a low settee by the side of one of the easy-chairs were a little pile of reviews,
several volumes of poetry, and a couple of library books. In the centre of the mantelpiece
was a photograph, the photograph of a man a little older, perhaps, than this newly-arrived
visitor, with rounder face, dressed in country tweeds, a flower in his buttonhole, the
picture of a prosperous man, yet with a curious, almost disturbing likeness to the pale,
over-nervous, loose-framed youth whose eye had been attracted by its presence, and who
was gazing at it, spellbound.
"Douglas!" he muttered. "Douglas!"
He flung his hat upon the table and for a moment his hand rested upon his forehead. He
was confronted with a mystery which baffled him, a mystery whose sinister possibilities
were slowly framing themselves in his mind. While he stood there he was suddenly
conscious of the sound of the opening gate, brisk footsteps up the tiled way, the soft swirl
of a woman's skirt. The latch was raised, the door opened and closed. The newcomer
stood upon the threshold, gazing at him.
"Philip!" she exclaimed. "Why, Philip!"
There was a curious change in the girl's tone, from almost glad welcome to a note of
abrupt fear in that last pronouncement of his name. She stood looking at him, the victim,
apparently, of so many emotions that there was nothing definite to be drawn either from
her tone or expression. She was a young woman of medium height and slim, delicate
figure, attractive, with large, discontented mouth, full, clear eyes and a wealth of dark
brown hair. She was very simply dressed and yet in a manner which scarcely suggested
the school-teacher. To the man who confronted her, his left hand gripping the
mantelpiece, his eyes filled with a flaming jealousy, there was something entirely new in
the hang of her well-cut skirt, the soft colouring of her low-necked blouse, the greater
animation of her piquant face with its somewhat dazzling complexion. His hand flashed
out towards her as he asked his question.
"What does it mean, Beatrice?"
She showed signs of recovering herself. With a little shrug of the shoulders she turned
towards the door which led into an inner room.
"Let me get you some tea, Philip," she begged. "You look so cold and wet."
"Stay here, please," he insisted.
She paused reluctantly. There was a curious lack of anything peremptory in his manner,

yet somehow, although she would have given the world to have passed for a few
moments into the shelter of the little kitchen beyond, she was impelled to do as he bade
her.
"Don't be silly, Philip," she said petulantly. "You know you want some tea, and so do I.
Sit down, please, and make yourself comfortable. Why didn't you let me know you were
coming?"
"Perhaps it would have been better," he agreed quietly. "However, since I am here,
answer my question."
She drew a little breath. After all, although she was lacking in any real strength of
character, she was filled with a certain compensatory doggedness. His challenge was
there to be faced. There was no way out of it. She would have lied willingly enough but
for the sheer futility of falsehood. She commenced the task of bracing herself for the
struggle.
"You had better," she said, "frame your question a little more exactly. I will then try to
answer it."
He was stung by her altered demeanour, embarrassed by an avalanche of words. A
hundred questions were burning upon his lips. It was by a great effort of self-control that
he remained coherent.
"The last time I visited you," he began, "was three months ago. Your cottage then was
furnished as one would expect it to be furnished. You had a deal dresser, a deal table, one
rather hard easy-chair and a very old wicker one. You had, if I remember rightly, a strip
of linoleum upon the floor, and a single rug. Your flowers were from the hedges and your
fruit from the one apple tree in the garden behind. Your clothes--am I mistaken about
your clothes or are you dressed more expensively?"
"I am dressed more expensively," she admitted.
"You and I both know the value of these things," he went on, with