at the opening of a new and hopeful future.
The papers, of course, had been full of the tragedy. Glaring headlines, sandwiched biographies of every member of the household, subtle innuendoes, the usual familiar tag about the police having a clue. Nothing was spared us. It was a slack time. The war was momentarily inactive, and the newspapers seized with avidity on this crime in fashionable life: “The Mysterious Affair at Styles” was the topic of the moment.
Naturally it was very annoying for the
where the staircase branched, staring down into the hall in the direction in which he had disappeared.
“What has happened to your extraordinary little friend, Mr. Hastings? He has just rushed past me like a mad bull.”
“He’s rather upset about something,” I remarked feebly. I really did not know how