The Mysterious Affair at Styles | Page 8

said Mrs. Inglethorp sharply. "What should there be?"
Then catching sight of Dorcas, the parlourmaid, going into the
dining-room, she called to her to bring some stamps into the boudoir.
"Yes, m'm." The old servant hesitated, then added diffidently: "Don't
you think, m'm, you'd better get to bed? You're looking very tired."
"Perhaps you're right, Dorcas--yes--no--not now. I've some letters I
must finish by post-time. Have you lighted the fire in my room as I told
you?"
"Yes, m'm."

"Then I'll go to bed directly after supper."
She went into the boudoir again, and Cynthia stared after her.
"Goodness gracious! I wonder what's up?" she said to Lawrence.
He did not seem to have heard her, for without a word he turned on his
heel and went out of the house.
I suggested a quick game of tennis before supper and, Cynthia agreeing,
I ran upstairs to fetch my racquet.
Mrs. Cavendish was coming down the stairs. It may have been my
fancy, but she, too, was looking odd and disturbed.
"Had a good walk with Dr. Bauerstein?" I asked, trying to appear as
indifferent as I could.
"I didn't go," she replied abruptly. "Where is Mrs. Inglethorp?"
"In the boudoir."
Her hand clenched itself on the banisters, then she seemed to nerve
herself for some encounter, and went rapidly past me down the stairs
across the hall to the boudoir, the door of which she shut behind her.
As I ran out to the tennis court a few moments later, I had to pass the
open boudoir window, and was unable to help overhearing the
following scrap of dialogue. Mary Cavendish was saying in the voice
of a woman desperately controlling herself:
"Then you won't show it to me?"
To which Mrs. Inglethorp replied:
"My dear Mary, it has nothing to do with that matter."
"Then show it to me."

"I tell you it is not what you imagine. It does not concern you in the
least."
To which Mary Cavendish replied, with a rising bitterness:
"Of course, I might have known you would shield him."
Cynthia was waiting for me, and greeted me eagerly with:
"I say! There's been the most awful row! I've got it all out of Dorcas."
"What kind of a row?"
"Between Aunt Emily and him. I do hope she's found him out at last!"
"Was Dorcas there, then?"
"Of course not. She 'happened to be near the door'. It was a real old
bust-up. I do wish I knew what it was all about."
I thought of Mrs. Raikes's gipsy face, and Evelyn Howard's warnings,
but wisely decided to hold my peace, whilst Cynthia exhausted every
possible hypothesis, and cheerfully hoped, "Aunt Emily will send him
away, and will never speak to him again."
I was anxious to get hold of John, but he was nowhere to be seen.
Evidently something very momentous had occurred that afternoon. I
tried to forget the few words I had overheard; but, do what I would, I
could not dismiss them altogether from my mind. What was Mary
Cavendish's concern in the matter?
Mr. Inglethorp was in the drawing-room when I came down to supper.
His face was impassive as ever, and the strange unreality of the man
struck me afresh.
Mrs. Inglethorp came down last. She still looked agitated, and during
the meal there was a somewhat constrained silence. Inglethorp was
unusually quiet. As a rule, he surrounded his wife with little attentions,
placing a cushion at her back, and altogether playing the part of the

devoted husband. Immediately after supper, Mrs. Inglethorp retired to
her boudoir again.
"Send my coffee in here, Mary," she called. "I've just five minutes to
catch the post."
Cynthia and I went and sat by the open window in the drawing-room.
Mary Cavendish brought our coffee to us. She seemed excited.
"Do you young people want lights, or do you enjoy the twilight?" she
asked. "Will you take Mrs. Inglethorp her coffee, Cynthia? I will pour
it out."
"Do not trouble, Mary," said Inglethorp. "I will take it to Emily." He
poured it out, and went out of the room carrying it carefully.
Lawrence followed him, and Mrs. Cavendish sat down by us.
We three sat for some time in silence. It was a glorious night, hot and
still. Mrs. Cavendish fanned herself gently with a palm leaf.
"It's almost too hot," she murmured. "We shall have a thunderstorm."
Alas, that these harmonious moments can never endure! My paradise
was rudely shattered by the sound of a well known, and heartily
disliked, voice in the hall.
"Dr. Bauerstein!" exclaimed Cynthia. "What a funny time to come."
I glanced jealously at Mary Cavendish, but she seemed quite
undisturbed, the delicate pallor of her cheeks did not vary.
In a few moments, Alfred Inglethorp had