Part 11 (1/2)
”Was it Mr. Greve's voice?”
”I cannot say, Miss. It was just the sound of voices, rather loud-like.
I caught the sound because the door leading from the hall to the library corridor was ajar. Mr. Greve must have forgotten to shut it.”
”What did you do?”
”Well, Miss, I closed the corridor door ...”
”Why did you do that?”
”Well, Miss, seeing the voices sounded angry-like, I thought perhaps it would be better not to let any one else hear.... And Mr. Greve looked upset-like when he pa.s.sed me. He gave me quite a turn, he did, when I saw his face under the hall lamp....”
”Did you stay there ... and listen?”
Bude drew himself up.
”That is not my 'abit, Miss, not 'ere nor in hany of the 'ouses where I 'ave seen service....”
The butler broke off. The _h_'s were too much for him in his indignation.
”I didn't mean to suggest anything underhand,” the girl said quickly. ”I mean, did you hear any more?”
”No, Miss. I emptied the letter-box and took the letters to the servants' hall.”
”But,” said Mary in a puzzled way, ”why do you say it was Mr. Greve if you didn't hear his voice?”
Bude spread out his hands in bewilderment.
”Who else should it have been, Miss? Sir Horace and the doctor were in the lounge at tea. Jay and Robert were in the servants' hall. It could have been n.o.body else....”
The girl's head sank slowly on her breast. She was silent. The butler s.h.i.+fted his position.
”Was there anything more, Miss?” he asked after a little while.
”There is nothing further, thank you, Bude,” replied Mary. ”About Mr.
Greve, I am sure there must be some mistake. He cannot have understood Mr. Humphries's question. I'll ask him about it when I see him. I don't think I should say anything to the Inspector about it, at any rate, not until I've seen Mr. Greve. He'll probably speak to you about it himself....”
Bude made a motion as though he were going to say something. Then apparently he thought better of it, for he made a little formal bow and in his usual slow and dignified manner made his exit from the room.
CHAPTER VIII
ROBIN GOES TO MARY
The house telephone, standing on the long and gracefully designed desk with its elaborately lacquered top, whirred. Mary started from her reverie in her chair by the fire. By the clock on the mantelshelf she saw that it was a quarter past eight. She remembered that once her mother had knocked at her door and bidden her come down to dinner. She had refused the invitation, declining to unlock the door.
She lifted the receiver.
”That you, Mary?”