He Who Whispers Read Online Free PDF Page A

there in their employ. And this marriage was sudden. It took them aback. But they would not really have been satisfied unless Harry had married a millionairess with a title, and even then only if he had waited until he was thirty-five or forty before leaving home.
    â€˜So what could they say except, “God bless you”?
    â€˜Mama Brooke kept a stiff upper lip, with the tears running down her face. Towards his son Papa Brooke became very bluff and hearty and man-to-man, as though Harry had suddenly grown up overnight. At intervals papa and mama would murmur to each other in hushed tones, “I’m sure it’ll be all right!” – as one might speculate, at a funeral, about the destination of the deceased’s soul.
    â€˜But please to note: both parents were now enjoying themselves very much. Once used to the idea, they began to take pleasure in it. That is the way of families everywhere, and the Brookes were nothing if not conventional. Papa Brooke was looking forward to his son working harder in the leather business, building up an even sounder name for Pelletier et Cie. After all, the newly wedded pair would live at home or at least reasonably close to home. It was ideal. It was lyrical. It was Arcadian.
    â€˜And then ... tragedy.
    â€˜Black tragedy, I tell you, as unforeseen and as unnerving as a bolt of magic.’
    Professor Rigaud paused.
    He had been sitting forward with his thick elbows on the table, arms upraised, the forefinger of his right hand tapping impressively against the forefinger of his left hand each time he made a point, his head a little on one side. He was like a lecturer. His shining eyes, his bald head, even his rather comical patch of moustache, had a fervour of intensity.
    â€˜Hah!’ he said.
    Exhaling his breath noisily through the nostrils, he sat upright. The thick cane, propped against his leg, fell to the floor with a clatter. He picked it up and set it carefully against the table. Reaching into his inside pocket, he produced a folded sheaf of manuscript and a photograph about half cabinet size.
    â€˜This,’ he announced, ‘is a photograph of Miss Fay Seton. It was done in colour, not crudely either, by my friend Coco Legrand. The manuscript is an account of this case, which I have specially written for the archives of the Murder Club. But look, please, at the photograph!’
    He pushed it across the tablecloth, brushing away crumbs as he did so.
    A soft face, a disturbingly haunting face, looked out past the shoulder of the beholder. The eyes were wide-spaced, the brows thin; the nose was short; the lips were full and rather sensual, though this was contradicted by the grace and fastidiousness about the carriage of the head. Those lips just avoided the twitch of a smile at their outer corners. The weight of dark red hair, smooth as fleece, seemed almost too heavy for the slender neck.
    It was not beautiful. Yet it troubled the mind. Something about the eyes – was it irony, was it bitterness under the far-away expression? – at once challenged you and fled from you.
    â€˜Now tell me!’ said Professor Rigaud, with the proud satisfaction of one who believes himself to be on sure ground. ‘Can you see anything wrong in that face?’

CHAPTER 3
    â€˜W RONG ?’ echoed Barbara Morell.
    Georges Antoine Rigaud seemed convulsed by some vast inner amusement.
    â€˜Exactly, exactly, exactly! Why do I designate her as so very dangerous a woman?’
    Miss Morell had been following this narrative with the utmost absorption, and a faintly contemptuous expression. Once or twice she had glanced at Miles, as though about to speak. She watched Professor Rigaud as he picked up his dead cigar from the edge of a saucer, took a triumphant puff at it, and put it down again.
    â€˜I’m afraid,’ – suddenly her voice went high, as though she were somehow personally concerned in this – ‘I’m afraid we must get