The Moving Finger Read Online Free PDF Page A

shudder.
    “And anyway,” I added, “why all this concern about my love life? What about you, my girl? You'll need a little distraction down here, if I know you. No unappreciated genius knocking about here. You'll have to fall back on Owen Griffith. He's the only unattached male in the place.”
    Joanna tossed her head.
    “Dr. Griffith doesn't like me.”
    “He's not seen much of you.”
    “He's seen enough apparently to make him cross over if he sees me coming along the High Street!”
    “A most unusual reaction,” I said sympathetically. “And one you're not used to.”
    Joanna drove in silence through the gate of Little Furze and around to the garage. Then she said:
    “There may be something in that idea of yours. I don't see why any man should deliberately cross the street to avoid me. It's rude, apart from everything else.”
    “I see,” I said. “You're going to hunt the man down in cold blood.”
    “Well, I don't like being avoided.”
    I got slowly and carefully out of the car and balanced my sticks. Then I offered my sister a piece of advice:
    “Let me tell you this, girl. Owen Griffith isn't any of your tame, whining, artistic young men. Unless you're careful, you'll stir up a hornets' nest about your ears. That man could be dangerous.”
    “Oh, do you think so?” demanded Joanna with every symptom of pleasure at the prospect.
    “Leave the poor devil alone,” I said sternly.
    “How dare he cross the street when he saw me coming?”
    “All you women are alike. You harp on one theme. You'll have sister Aimйe gunning for you, too, if I'm not mistaken.”
    “She dislikes me already,” said Joanna. She spoke meditatively, but with a certain satisfaction.
    “We have come down here,” I said sternly, “for peace and quiet, and I mean to see we get it.”
    But peace and quiet were the last things we were to have.

The Moving Finger

Chapter 2
    It was about a week later that I came back to the house to find Megan sitting on the veranda steps, her chin resting on her knees.
    She greeted me with her usual lack of ceremony.
    “Hullo,” she said. “Do you think I could come to lunch?”
    “Certainly,” I said.
    “If it's chops, or anything difficult like that and they won't go round, just tell me,” shouted Megan as I went around to apprise Partridge of the fact that there would be three to lunch.
    I fancy that Partridge sniffed. She certainly managed to convey, without saying a word of any kind, that she didn't think much of that Miss Megan.
    I went back to the veranda.
    “Is it all right?” asked Megan anxiously.
    “Quite all right,” I said. “Irish stew.”
    “Oh, well, that's rather like dogs' dinner anyway, isn't it? I mean it's mostly potato and flavour.”
    “Quite,” I said.
    We were silent while I smoked my pipe. It was quite a companionable silence.
    Megan broke it by saying suddenly and violently, “I suppose you think I'm awful, like everyone else.”
    I was so startled that my pipe fell out of my mouth. It was a meerschaum, just colouring nicely, and it broke. I said angrily to Megan:
    “Now see what you've done.”
    That most unaccountable of children, instead of being upset, merely grinned broadly.
    “I do like you,” she said.
    It was a most warming remark. It is the remark that one fancies perhaps erroneously that one's dog would say if he could talk. It occurred to me that Megan, for all she looked like a horse, had the disposition of a dog. She was certainly not quite human.
    “What did you say before the catastrophe?” I asked, carefully picking up the fragments of my cherished pipe.
    “I said I supposed you thought me awful,” said Megan but not at all in the same tone she had said it before.
    “Why should I?”
    Megan said gravely, “Because I am.”
    I said sharply, “Don't be stupid.”
    Megan shook her head.
    “That's just it. I'm not really stupid. People think I am. They don't know that inside I know just what they're like, and that all the time I'm