The Mysterious Mr Quin Read Online Free PDF

Staverton,’ announced Mrs Unkerton, in a tone of great satisfaction. ‘All friends here, I think.’
    ‘These people have an uncanny gift for saying just the most awful things they can,’ murmured Lady Cynthia, but Mr Satterthwaite was not listening. He was watching Mrs Staverton.
    Very easy–very natural. Her careless ‘Hullo! Richard, ages since we met. Sorry I couldn’t come to the wedding. Is this your wife? You must be tired of meeting all your husband’s weather-beaten old friends.’ Moira’s response–suitable, rather shy. The elder woman’s swift appraising glance that went on lightly to another old friend.
    ‘Hullo, John!’ The same easy tone, but with a subtle difference in it–a warming quality that had been absent before.
    And then that sudden smile. It transformed her. Lady Cynthia had been quite right. A dangerous woman! Very fair–deep blue eyes–not the traditional colouring of the siren–a face almost haggard in repose. A woman with a slow dragging voice and a sudden dazzling smile.
    Iris Staverton sat down. She became naturally and inevitably the centre of the group. So you felt it would always be.
    Mr Satterthwaite was recalled from his thoughts by Major Porter’s suggesting a stroll. Mr Satterthwaite, who was not as a general rule much given to strolling, acquiesced. The two men sauntered off together across the lawn.
    ‘Very interesting story of yours just now,’ said the Major.
    ‘I will show you the window,’ said Mr Satterthwaite.
    He led the way round to the west side of the house. Here there was a small formal garden–the Privy Garden, it was always called, and there was some point in the name, for it was surrounded by high holly hedges, and even the entrance to it ran zigzag between the same high prickly hedges.
    Once inside, it was very charming with an old-world charm of formal flower beds, flagged paths and a low stone seat, exquisitely carved. When they had reached the centre of the garden, Mr Satterthwaite turned andpointed up at the house. The length of Greenways House ran north and south. In this narrow west wall there was only one window, a window on the first floor, almost overgrown by ivy, with grimy panes, and which you could just see was boarded up on the inside.
    ‘There you are,’ said Mr Satterthwaite.
    Craning his neck a little, Porter looked up.
    ‘H’m I can see a kind of discolouration on one of the panes, nothing more.’
    ‘We’re too near,’ said Mr Satterthwaite. ‘There’s a clearing higher up in the woods where you get a really good view.’
    He led the way out of the Privy Garden, and turning sharply to the left, struck into the woods. A certain enthusiasm of showmanship possessed him, and he hardly noticed that the man at his side was absent and inattentive.
    ‘They had, of course, to make another window, when they boarded up this one,’ he explained. ‘The new one faces south overlooking the lawn where we were sitting just now. I rather fancy the Scotts have the room in question. That is why I didn’t want to pursue the subject. Mrs Scott might have felt nervous if she had realized that she was sleeping in what might be called the haunted room.’
    ‘Yes. I see,’ said Porter.
    Mr Satterthwaite looked at him sharply, and realized that the other had not heard a word of what he was saying.
    ‘Very interesting,’ said Porter. He slashed with his stick at some tall foxgloves, and, frowning, he said: ‘She ought not to have come. She ought never to have come.’
    People often spoke after this fashion to Mr Satterthwaite. He seemed to matter so little, to have so negative a personality. He was merely a glorified listener.
    ‘No,’ said Porter, ‘she ought never to have come.’
    Mr Satterthwaite knew instinctively that it was not of Mrs Scott he spoke.
    ‘You think not?’ he asked.
    Porter shook his head as though in foreboding.
    ‘I was on that trip,’ he said abruptly. ‘The three of us went. Scott and I and Iris. She’s a