which she was organizing and which was to take place shortly.
Occasionally she referred to her husband over a question of days
or dates.  His watchful and attentive manner never varied.  From
the very first I took a firm and rooted dislike to him, and I
flatter myself that my first judgments are usually fairly shrewd.

Presently Mrs. Inglethorp turned to give some instructions about
letters to Evelyn Howard, and her husband addressed me in his
painstaking voice:

"Is soldiering your regular profession, Mr. Hastings?"

"No, before the war I was in Lloyd's."

"And you will return there after it is over?"

"Perhaps.  Either that or a fresh start altogether."

Mary Cavendish leant forward.

"What would you really choose as a profession, if you could just
consult your inclination?"

"Well, that depends."

"No secret hobby?" she asked.  "Tell me--you're drawn to
something? Every one is--usually something absurd."

"You'll laugh at me."

She smiled.

"Perhaps."

"Well, I've always had a secret hankering to be a detective!"

"The real thing--Scotland Yard? Or Sherlock Holmes?"

"Oh, Sherlock Holmes by all means.  But really, seriously, I am
awfully drawn to it.  I came across a man in Belgium once, a very
famous detective, and he quite inflamed me.  He was a marvellous
little fellow.  He used to say that all good detective work was a
mere matter of method.  My system is based on his--though of
course I have progressed rather further.  He was a funny little
man, a great dandy, but wonderfully clever."

"Like a good detective story myself," remarked Miss Howard.
"Lots of nonsense written, though.  Criminal discovered in last
chapter.  Every one dumbfounded.  Real crime--you'd know at
once."

"There have been a great number of undiscovered crimes," I
argued.

"Don't mean the police, but the people that are right in it.  The
family.  You couldn't really hoodwink them.  They'd know."

"Then," I said, much amused, "you think that if you were mixed up
in a crime, say a murder, you'd be able to spot the murderer
right off?"

"Of course I should.  Mightn't be able to prove it to a pack of
lawyers.  But I'm certain I'd know.  I'd feel it in my fingertips
if he came near me."

"It might be a 'she,' " I suggested.

"Might.  But murder's a violent crime.  Associate it more with a
man."

"Not in a case of poisoning." Mrs. Cavendish's clear voice
startled me.  "Dr. Bauerstein was saying yesterday that, owing to
the general ignorance of the more uncommon poisons among the
medical profession, there were probably countless cases of
poisoning quite unsuspected."

"Why, Mary, what a gruesome conversation!" cried Mrs. Inglethorp.
"It makes me feel as if a goose were walking over my grave.  Oh,
there's Cynthia!"

A young girl in V.  A.  D.  uniform ran lightly across the lawn.

"Why, Cynthia, you are late to-day.  This is Mr. Hastings--Miss
Murdoch."

Cynthia Murdoch was a fresh-looking young creature, full of life
and vigour.  She tossed off her little V.  A.  D.  cap, and I
admired the great loose waves of her auburn hair, and the
smallness and whiteness of the hand she held out to claim her
tea.  With dark eyes and eyelashes she would have been a beauty.

She flung herself down on the ground beside John, and as I handed
her a plate of sandwiches she smiled up at me.

"Sit down here on the grass, do.  It's ever so much nicer."

I dropped down obediently.

"You work at Tadminster, don't you, Miss Murdoch?"