Suspects—Nine Read Online Free PDF Page B

out fishing in a boat—a mile or two out to sea. And suppose that rat fell overboard. What would you do?”
    â€œJust plod along,” answered Bobby, “that’s all we do—plod along.”
    â€œTill when?” she asked.
    â€œOh, we run on non-stop lines,” Bobby assured her and turned again towards the door and again she interposed.
    â€œThat hat was meant for Flora Tamar, wasn’t it?” she asked.
    â€œI believe so,” Bobby answered. “I don’t know much about the details.”
    â€œWell, it was,” Lady Alice told him. “Flora meant to wear it at the Palace garden party and now she won’t and I shall.”
    â€œI’m afraid,” observed Bobby in his most casual tones, “I’m still a bit out of my depth there, but I did hear them arguing about what hats suit who. Seemed to think a hat that might suit one lady might make another look ridiculous.”
    â€œI never look ridiculous,” said Lady Alice simply, and glancing at her strongly-marked features, her tall, gaunt form, her cold and daunting eyes, Bobby was inclined to agree. “I shouldn’t look ridiculous if I went in a turban or a man’s topper. Flora would. She’s one of your pretty-pretties and everything has to be pretty, too, for her.” The words were flung out with a sudden and startling emphasis of hate, so that Bobby, his hand already put out towards the door, turned to look at her. She gave back his gaze with another of her steady and unblinking stares, that reminded him of a caged eagle—but in a cage that had an open door. “She isn’t only pretty-pretty, though,” Lady Alice went on. “Or I should have broken her long ago—or rather, it wouldn’t have been worth while to try.”
    â€œI hope you don’t intend to try,” Bobby said gravely, answering almost in spite of himself something heavy and ominous in her tone.
    â€œWell, I do,” said Lady Alice.
    â€œOh, yes,” said Bobby.
    â€œIf you say ‘Oh, yes’ to me like that,” she snarled, “I’ll take that knife to you I saw you squinting at.”
    â€œOh, no,” said Bobby.
    â€œIt’s quite true,” she added, turning that unblinking stare of hers upon the knife where it hung above the mantelpiece.
    â€œWhat is?” Bobby asked.
    â€œYou know,” she said.
    â€œOh, yes,” said Bobby.
    She stared at him again.
    â€œAll right,” she said. “I’ll remember you, whichever side you’re on. And I’ll tell you something. Keep an eye on Holland Kent.”
    â€œWhy?” asked Bobby.
    He knew the name well enough. It was that of a favoured son of fortune, whispered about in many quarters as the coming hope of whatever cause it was the whisperer happened to be interested in. Handsome, well born, rich, clever, energetic—all those qualities Holland Kent possessed and yet none of them in excess. His birth was good but there was no hereditary title to trammel his activities; he was rich, but not so rich as to be cumbered by the administration of his wealth; he was handsome but no mere matinee idol; clever, but not so much so as to arouse mistrust or be out of touch with everyday opinion; energetic, but only in the right causes and at the right moments; self confident, and yet always modest in expression. Above all, he smoked a pipe, and in England to smoke a pipe is the highway to success and popularity, both in politics and literature.
    Regarded everywhere by those who know as ‘the’ coming man, so far he had remained outside party politics. He was not even in Parliament. Some people hoped he intended to abolish Parliament, others that he intended to restore it to its ancient prestige. In general, it was conceded that the ball lay at his feet, though the direction in which he intended to kick it remained still matter for speculation. There was even a story that the Prime