Chapter 1

TO PATIENCE, WELL NAMED, AND
TO GUIDO, WHOSE KIND HAND GUIDED
ME THROUGH A MAZE OF DIFFICULTIES

CONTENTS

Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two

MURDER IN PARIS

_No reference is intended in this story to any
living person._

CHAPTER ONE

Catherine did not at first know what to make of Geoffrey Macadam.
Did his stiffness betoken mere British reserve, or was he trying to
hide a natural annoyance at having a stranger thrust upon him,
threatening the peace of his journey to Paris?

If the latter, she longed to tell him how hotly she shared his
resentment, how for eight days across the Atlantic she had been
fleeing from the officious patronage of the lady now needlessly
effecting the introduction.

“It’s no fault of mine,” her eyes strove to convey. “I promise not to
take advantage of it!”

The very next instant she caught that curious, almost startled look on
his face which set her wondering, asking herself if he were really as
wooden as she had imagined.

That look one may take as the starting point of the story…

Mrs. Hugh Tyler Pope--the Hugh rendered as Huge by some of their
fellow-travellers--was no more to be denied than the forces of nature.
She overcame by sheer weight of fatuity, and having constituted
herself Catherine’s protectress on the voyage was determined to see
matters through. Useless for the girl to protest that she wanted no
assistance in finding her seat. Overborne by the pressure of a mighty
bust she was propelled the full length of the train, while a voice
richly-oiled with kind intentions shouted for the benefit of all and
sundry:

“Now, if only we’d met you sooner, dear, we could have had your place
reserved along with ours. Such a pity! It’s just too dreadful to think
of you travelling all this way by your little lonesome! Still it can’t
be helped now, the train’s so jammed. Is this your seat? So it is. At
any rate it’s a corner one. _Porter! Mettay le grand sac de
Mademerselle ploos au coin, il y a un carton aussi._ These foreigners
don’t give a hoot for your convenience, you have to show ’em
everything.”

It was at this precise moment that, clogging the aisle with her
immense mink coat and treading on one pair of toes after another, she
had spied the retiring male in the opposite corner and shrilled with
recognition.

“Why, if it isn’t Mr. Macadam! Now, what do you know about that? Been
up to Havre on business? Well, well! Catherine, my dear--I want you to
meet the very nicest man in all Paris, Englishman. Mr. Macadam, let me
present a little friend of mine I’ve met on the boat, Miss West, from
Boston. She’s on her way to visit a relative in the Avenoo Henri
Martin--you know, Mrs. Harry Belmont Bender, whose husband was killed
last year in that awful motor accident in Massachoosetts. So sad!”

Extremely painful, nor was this the end. Not content with entrusting
her young friend to the Englishman’s care (“As though I were a
congenital idiot,” thought Catherine bitterly), she had dragged her
victim back into the corridor and confided a parting message at the
top of her lungs.

“Now wasn’t that luck? Such a nice man for you to know. Macadam and
Langtree. Lawyers. Everybody knows them. This one’s the son, quiet,
you understand, but such perfect manners. Be nice to him… Well, au
revoir, dear! Don’t forget to ring me up, and come to my very next At
Home.”

So saying Mrs. Hugh Tyler Pope careened up the swaying corridor and
out of Catherine’s life. Her part was played, nor did Catherine,
inwardly cursing her, suspect what an important part it was.

Self-consciously, now, she sank into her seat. To her relief the
Englishman had retired behind his magazine, so that she was able to
settle herself calmly and collect her scattered thoughts.

To tell the truth, they needed collecting. Various uneasy qualms,
hitherto stifled at birth, rose anew to trouble her, growing more
insistent with each repetition.

_Had she done right to come?_

A guilty voice whispered that she had been unwisely precipitate over
the whole affair, and might live to regret it.

“Yet why?” she argued crossly. “Germaine certainly wants me with her.
There’s no doubt about that.”

Yes, Mme. Bender’s letter, for all its characteristic vagueness, had
expressed an earnest wish for her company. She would have bothered no
more about it if it had not been for this other, rather odd epistle
now hidden in her bag, a communication she had shown to no one.

Ah, there she had been wrong, there was no blinking the fact. She
ought to have confided in her married sister Barbara and her sober
brother-in-law, John. Catherine made her home with these two, and
usually asked their advice on matters. Only sometimes, when she
foresaw the result, she omitted the formality.

To be frank, she had been feverishly eager to leave Boston behind and
with it the irksome associations of an engagement just terminated. She
felt she could not walk down Boylston Street or across the Common
without encountering a certain injured young man or some member of his
family, in bitter league against her. Yes, she had dashed off
instantly to secure her passage, and when later this curious missive
penned by a complete stranger had arrived she had kept silent about it
for fear of shipwrecking her plans.

Oh, well, it was done now, there was no looking back. Besides there
was nothing definite in the letter, no fact that one could get hold
of, in spite of its emotional tone. Who was this woman, anyhow?
Probably some excitable friend of Germaine’s, prone to exaggeration.
The hysterical note spoke for itself. Naturally that accident last
year had dealt poor Mme. Bender’s nerves a shattering blow, but there
could be nothing worse. She would put the whole thing out of her
mind.…

Why did her _vis-à-vis_ keep stealing those furtive glances in her
direction? The covert survey, always quickly withdrawn, disturbed her
like the prickings of her own conscience. There was a queer look of
interest in his face, the same expression she had noticed a little
while ago.

Discreetly she took stock of him. He was of slender build, wiry and
muscular, his skin ruddy with health, features unremarkable, and eyes
grey and keen, beneath strong bushy brows. His whole appearance had an
air of restraint, extending to his clothing, which was well-cut, not
too new, and by no detail claimed attention. Altogether he looked a
man who would do nothing rash. Like John, she decided. John, too, was
a lawyer. No, in a situation like her present one, he would
undoubtedly have weighed the pros and cons carefully, and then--she
was sure of it!--stayed at home…

“I beg your pardon?”

She started out of her reverie.

“Yes?”

He coloured in confusion.

“Nothing. I fancied you spoke.”

“No, I was only thinking.” Then she added with a little laugh, “You
didn’t overhear my thoughts, did you?”

A glint of humour was her only answer. Still, a thaw had set in, and
from now on the glances became more frequent and less furtive. Soon
she was sure he had something to say, but that his reticence was
fighting against it. Twice he cleared his throat, then at last the
question came forth.

“I beg your pardon, but did I understand Mrs. Pope to say you are a
relation of Mme. Belmont Bender?”

He had leaned forward, voice lowered, as though the matter were a
private one.

“Mr. Bender was my cousin,” she replied in surprise. “Mme. Bender is
French.”

“Yes. Oh, yes, of course!”

“Perhaps you know Mme. Bender?” she suggested.

“I have met her,” he said cautiously. “Not in a social way. You see,”
he went on after a pause, “my firm--we happen to be solicitors--has
had the handling of the Benders’ affairs for a very long time. Your
cousin was one of our oldest clients.”

“Oh! So that’s it!”

Catherine’s eyes lit up, transforming her entire appearance
miraculously. Her eyes were her most striking feature. Rather sombre
in repose, with a brooding melancholy recalling the famous portrait of
Beatrice Cenci, they had a trick of flaming up with the rise of any
sudden emotion and becoming twin lakes of liquid fire.

“That’s extremely interesting,” she exclaimed, and bent towards him,
flecks of red straining her cheeks. “I--I wonder if you’d mind telling
me just how she seemed to you when you last saw her? I’d rather like
to know.”

He was gazing straight into her eyes now, as though fascinated, half
against his will, by their molten glory. He took a moment to reply.

“It was some time ago,” he answered slowly. “Before Mr. Bender’s
death, in fact. Few people have seen her recently, and I am told that
she’s by way of being a complete--” he hesitated, choosing the right
word--“invalid. Probably you know more of her than I do.”

Her face fell.

“I know very little indeed,” she said uncertainly. “Except for one
short note, I’ve had no news for almost a year.… You see, I have never
known her well. She and Cousin Harry were seldom in America, and it
wasn’t till after the accident, when she was ill in a sanatorium----”

“Sanatorium?” he repeated quickly.

“She was injured, you know--a bad concussion.”

She thought he looked a trifle embarrassed.

“But do you mean to say,” he ventured gravely, “that her mind was
affected?”

“Certainly not!” she retorted with energy. “Why do you ask that?”

He reddened again.

“I’m sorry! In England a sanatorium usually means a home for mental
patients.”

“Oh, I see! With us it’s simply a private hospital.”

It was odd, though, his suggesting such a thing. Suppose, after all…

“I interrupted you. Please go on.”

“I was only about to say that while Mme. Bender was recovering I used
to go and see her every afternoon. She seemed so alone, so helpless
and so crushed. You know, she had always depended on Cousin Harry for
everything, gone everywhere with him, let him act for her, think for
her even. Why, she’s never bothered to learn English properly. There
was no need, her husband spoke such beautiful French.”

“I recall that he did.”

“She was so overwhelmed by grief and shock that she was utterly
incapable of making any plans. She even turned to me for advice, like
a little child, perhaps because I could talk French with her, and
scarcely anyone else could. She wanted me to go back to Paris with her
then, but it wasn’t possible.”

There was a far-away look in her eyes as she thought of her broken
engagement, rejoicing that the ring she had worn for a year--its stone
cut like a piece of rock quartz because her fiancé had thought it bad
taste for diamonds to sparkle--was no longer on her finger.

He was watching her closely.

“But was Mme. Bender entirely alone in Boston?”

“Oh, no! There was a maid, a most excellent woman, who had been with
her for years and understood her perfectly. Indeed, there were two
servants, a man and a woman, who used to travel with the Benders
wherever they went--Egypt, Biarritz, Cannes, all those places. The man
was a sort of courier-valet, spoke a dozen languages--very efficient.…
I wonder if those same servants are still looking after her?” she
added, “because, poor dear, she had such a horror of strangers!”

“The servants? Oh, yes, they are still there,” he assured her quickly;
then in reply to her look of surprised inquiry continued by way of
explanation, “At least I saw them at her apartment a few months ago.
Mme. Bender sent for me on a business matter, but when I arrived she
was too ill to see me, so that the maid you mention had to speak to me
instead.”

Inexplicably Catherine felt that he was withholding some item of
importance. Moreover his interest in her had become so pointed that
she grew positively ill at ease, and saying no more, resolutely
directed her attention to the flying landscape.

They were in the heart of Normandy, which early spring had garnished
with rainwashed tints delicate and vague. Through a mist of green,
thatched cottages appeared, each with its little rectangle of
farmyard, walled in by slender poplars. There was a flush upon the
budding hedges, and here and there showed the pink bouquet of a
flowering almond.

Catherine feasted her eyes, but her soul was troubled. The letter in
her bag suggested anew such alarming possibilities that she was
impelled to run through it again, hoping to fathom the writer’s real
meaning.

No use. It was a tangled mass of contradictions, framed in extravagant
phraseology which left her baffled and irritated. She sat staring at
the blue pages as though they contained some strange hieroglyph she
had not the wit to decipher.

Minutes passed. The other occupants of the carriage had lapsed into
whole or partial somnolence, with the exception of the Englishman, who
having donned a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles was frowning sternly at
the cover of his magazine.

Suddenly Catherine addressed him.

“Do you happen to know anyone in Paris by the name of
Cushing--Hermione Cushing?” she inquired.

He started violently, the copy of _The Bystander_ sliding to the
floor.

“Hermione Cushing?” he echoed, obviously to gain time.

Their eyes met, and in a flash Catherine realized that there was
something in the letter after all.

CHAPTER TWO

During the pause which followed, Catherine had time to reflect that
this young man was a lawyer, and as such would be extremely unlikely
to part with information. Her brother-in-law belonged to the legal
profession. She thought she knew the breed.

“Hermione Cushing?” he repeated again with a sort of negative
inflection. “Oh, yes! You mean the singer.”

“Do I?” she demanded bluntly. “I didn’t know she was a singer.”

The gleam in his eye was altogether human.

“Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that she was a singer,” he
amended. “In any case, she’s a country-woman of yours.”

“You do know her, then?”

“Very slightly. Every one knows Miss Cushing. She’s a well-known
figure in Paris.”

That was all. He had shut up like a clam.

“Oh dear!” fumed Catherine inwardly, “he’s going to be tiresome like
John! And yet he must know something, or why did he jump like that
when I mentioned her name?”

There had been no doubt about his confusion. Even now he was watching
her warily, as though dreading a direct attack. She decided to lay her
cards on the table.

“Mr. Macadam,” she began, glancing hastily at their comatose
companions, “just before I sailed I had a queer sort of letter from
this Miss Cushing, who tells me she is an old and dear friend of Mme.
Bender’s, and as such feels it her duty to warn me about something. Is
it true? I mean, is she really my cousin’s friend?”

He considered briefly.

“Oh, yes. I believe--indeed, I know that she is.”

“Then there’s nothing wrong about her? Nothing odd?”

She fancied his smile was reminiscent.

“Nothing,” he replied discreetly. “Beyond a certain excitability,
which one may put down to the artist temperament.” Yet even as he
spoke she detected a trace of reservation which further mystified her.
Why couldn’t he be more open?

“Perhaps that explains things. You see, I have been frightfully
bothered to know what to make of this.” She fingered the pages with
hesitation, then suddenly made up her mind. “If you won’t think me
stupid, I’d like to ask you to read her letter and tell me whether I
ought to take what she says seriously or not. You can understand my
feeling nervous about it.”

She finished the sentence hurriedly, rather ashamed of her boldness;
then, as he took the sheets from her and gave them careful attention,
she held her breath, studying him anxiously.

Secure behind an expressionless mask, the young solicitor perused the
pages to the final flourish. Catherine, watching, could obtain no clue
to his thoughts.

“You see what she says about the maid believing Mme. Bender to be out
of her mind,” she put in presently. “And about it’s being an
undeniable fact that the poor thing is behaving queerly. Does she
herself think my cousin is unbalanced, or doesn’t she? That’s what I
can’t make out. The very vehemence with which she denies the
suggestion makes me wonder if where there’s so much smoke there mayn’t
be a little fire? Do you understand what I mean?”

“Of course,” he assented, “it puts the idea into one’s head.”

“That’s precisely it. I never dreamed of such a thing before, and it’s
naturally very upsetting.”

He folded the pale blue sheets and handed them back to her.

“If it’s not impertinent, may I ask if anyone else has seen this?”

Catherine blushed.

“No,” she confessed guiltily. “I had made my plans, and frankly I
didn’t want to give up the trip. Besides, I had heard from Mme. Bender
herself----.”

“Oh, she wrote to you, did she?”

“Certainly, and her letter seemed perfectly rational. She’s always a
little wandering and impractical, you know, but as a matter of fact,
on this occasion she was less so than usual. She urged me to come as
soon as possible, and told me to send a wire from Havre, so that
Eduardo--that’s the manservant--could meet me with the car and see me
through the customs.”

“You are sure she wrote the letter herself?”

Catherine stared at him astonished.

“Of course! I know her handwriting well. Besides, who else could have
written it?”

Somehow his manner filled her with apprehension. How she wished he
would offer some opinion, or if he had any secret information that he
would let her share it!

“Besides,” she argued, to justify herself, “it is not as though Miss
Cushing were trying to prevent my coming. It is only that she
apparently thinks I ought to be prepared for what to expect. Indeed,
she seems most anxious for me not to change my mind. Don’t you get
that idea?”

“Very much so,” he agreed. “She appears to think she will have a
better chance of seeing Mme. Bender if you are there.”

Catherine gave a quick nod.

“Evidently she’s had some sort of shindy with the maid, Jeanne.
Here--what is it she says?--‘She detests me, _cette femme là_, and
will go to any lengths to prevent my seeing her mistress.’ I wonder
what is at the back of that?”

Macadam stirred uncomfortably and took out his cigarette case.

“Oh, I expect the maid is of a jealous disposition. You know what
these old servants are like. Will you smoke?”

“Oh, thanks!” She paused while he held his lighter to her cigarette,
then puffing thoughtfully remarked: “That probably explains it. But it
occurred to me--what if Mme. Bender herself doesn’t want to see Miss
Cushing, in which case the maid is merely carrying out her orders?”

“Oh, perfectly! I see your point.”

Indeed, he saw it only too clearly. This possibility had impressed him
so strongly during his one memorable interview with the lady in
question that even now he could not be sure Miss Cushing was not
making a nuisance of herself, forcing her attentions where they were
not wanted. Various information, all emanating from the singer
herself, disposed him to this opinion. He wished now that he had
investigated the matter more thoroughly, but in all justice he had
done the best he could.…

“Of course, it is not always easy to tell if a person is insane,” he
remarked with apparent irrelevance. “Often there are completely lucid
intervals, so that two observers might easily have different
opinions.”

“That’s what bothers me. I can’t help thinking that this maid, who has
known Mme. Bender for so many years and is her constant companion,
must be in a better position to judge of her mental state than someone
who sees her occasionally. Similarly, if Jeanne objects to admitting
Miss Cushing, she is likely to have a good reason for it.”

She stopped suddenly, realizing that she was putting into words all
the doubts she had been trying not to admit. Perhaps she was driven to
do so by her companion’s evasiveness.

Macadam let his gaze dwell upon her sensitive, troubled face. The eyes
were pensive now, clouded with doubt, the corners of the mouth drooped
a little. It was a fairly wide mouth, generous, and with a look of
firm sweetness, which accorded well with the high-bridged, delicately
modelled nose. One would not call her pretty, he decided. Pretty was
too trivial a word. No, there was a sort of high loveliness about her,
showing as much in her expression as in the fine lines of her body.
When her eyes ran over with that golden, liquid fire it was as though
emotion had suddenly fused something clear and intense in her very
soul. It made one think she had a greater capacity for feeling than
most of the women one met. Now, because she was looking downcast, he
longed to find some way of relieving her anxiety. But how?

“At any rate,” he said, “I don’t see that you need worry. I happen to
know that your cousin is under the care of a reputable physician who
probably understands her case.”

“An American?”

“No--French, I believe.”

“She’s changed, then. Cousin Harry always had an American doctor. Oh,
well, I suppose it’s all right my going to stay there. Anyway, I hope
so.”

So did he. The truth was he was finding himself quite concerned over
the thought that this singularly attractive girl was about to become
the sole companion of a woman whose sanity was in grave dispute. She
might be letting herself in for something unpleasant. He himself had
known at least one case of so-called “circular insanity,” where the
patient after a long period of normal conduct, had veered with
startling abruptness into homicidal mania, and ended by inflicting a
knife-wound upon a member of his family. Miss Cushing’s account of
things, garbled and difficult to follow, rushed into his mind so
forcibly that for an instant he opened his lips to utter a guarded
warning. Then, simply because he had long been trained in grooves of
discretion, he decided that it was no business of his to interfere.

When the train pulled into the Gare St. Lazare dusk was deepening into
night. Doors banged open, porters swarmed into the carriages
clamouring for hand-luggage, there was a confused surging exodus of
passengers on to the grimy platform.

Catherine felt a thrill of happy excitement. Paris at last! How she
had longed to be here, ever since her single brief visit four years
ago! The staccato babble filling her ears had an exotic sound,
heralding an era of freedom and romance. How stupid of her to upset
herself over imagined difficulties! Everything was going to be
perfect.…

What was Mr. Macadam saying?

“Shall you be able to recognize this butler who is coming to meet
you?”

“Eduardo? Oh, certainly! I’d know him anywhere. He’s a sort of mongrel
Portuguese, looks as though he ought to have rings in his ears and a
knife between his teeth, but quite decent, really. He must be
somewhere among the crowd.”

While a blue-clad brigand fastened her bags together with a strap and
slung them over a nonchalant shoulder, she scanned the platform with
an eager eye.

“I’ll stay with you, if you don’t mind, till you find him,” suggested
her companion tentatively.

“Oh, thank you, though it’s not at all necessary. He’s sure to be
here.”

She accepted the hand outstretched to assist her down the awkward step
and, looking this way and that, followed her porter’s slouching figure
towards the customs enclosure. Humanity jostled her, raucous voices
shouted “_Attention!_” and more than once she was glad of the
protecting pressure on her arm as some heavily laden truck trundled
ruthlessly towards her, bent upon destruction.

Somewhere amid this seething mass her cousin’s servant must be
searching for her, but although she peered into every masculine face
she could descry no one faintly resembling him.

“Probably he’s been held up by the traffic. Better let me see you
through all this business so as not to waste time.”

She turned grateful eyes upon him, her brow faintly furrowed with
uncertainty.

“It is too good of you! But aren’t you in a hurry to get away?”

“I’ve nothing to do but go home to dinner,” he assured her. “Here we
are. Your trunk ought to be down near the end of the line.”

It was comforting to be looked after; she let him guide her through
the chaos. Already upon the long benches trunks lay open, their
contents jumbled together under the inspectors’ appraising eyes.

“Like the Last Judgment--the graves giving up their secrets!” she
laughed. “I hope they don’t paw my possessions about. I’ve nothing to
declare.”

It was finished. Certainly Mr. Macadam knew how to get things done
with ease and dispatch. Once more, amidst the turbulent scene, her
eyes sought expectantly for the familiar, squat figure of the
Portuguese, only to meet with disappointment.

Eduardo was not there.

CHAPTER THREE

In the open space taxis honked and porters jostled each other with
the peculiarly vicious abandon characteristic of Paris. A few private
cars were drawn up, and each of these they examined searchingly, sure
that one among them must be Mme. Bender’s. However, in turn they were
claimed, and drove away.

“You say you sent a telegram?” inquired the Englishman.

“Certainly, as soon as the boat docked. Of course it may have gone
astray.”

“Possibly. That does, of course, occasionally happen.”

She glanced at him with indecision. Twenty minutes had now passed, and
there was no sign that anyone was coming to meet her. She could not
deny feeling disappointed.

“Oh, well, there’s no good hanging about. I’ll just get into a taxi
and go along by myself.”

He had not noticed in the train how young she looked, and how slender,
almost fragile. Standing now against the dingy building with the cold
draught whipping her squirrel coat about her silk-clad knees, she
seemed to him altogether unfit to be venturing across a strange city
unescorted.

He found himself suggesting solicitously:

“Perhaps you’ll let me drop you at the apartment? I’d very much like
to.”

She shook her head quickly.

“Oh, no, I shouldn’t dream of it! You’ve been too awfully good as it
is.”

She was conscious of a warm appreciation, more pronounced than if the
offer had come from one of the cheerful, less restrained youths of her
acquaintance. She had begun by considering him stiff and severe. Now
she was not so sure.

“Here’s a taxi. I don’t in the least mind going alone, really. It’s
not as if I didn’t speak French.”

Her manner brooking no argument, he somewhat reluctantly handed her
into the waiting cab and gave directions to the driver. Then, not
quite satisfied, he hung on to the sill, looking in at her.

“You’re sure you’re all right?”

“Oh, absolutely! I’m not a baby, you know. I’ve been looking after
myself for years,”--and she laughed, wrinkling her nose.

“It’s this question of your cousin, Mme. Bender. I daresay you’ll find
everything as it should be, but if it isn’t--if for any reason you
don’t want to stay there”--here he floundered a little not sure as to
what he wanted to say--“well, perhaps you might let me know.”

“I will, if you like,” she agreed readily, though a little astonished.

“I’ll give you my telephone number--both my numbers, in fact. The
first is the office, the second my home.”

He scribbled on a card and handed it to her through the window.

“You won’t forget, will you? I shall be rather anxious to hear how
you’re getting on.”

For an instant his two hands rested on the ledge. She noted that they
were unexpectedly large and sinewy for his medium build, and that
there were dark brown hairs on the backs. A detached part of her brain
reflected that they were utterly unlike the pale smooth hands of Miles
Waring, her late affianced--hands which for some inexplicable reason
had always roused in her a faint repugnance.

She thanked him with a grateful smile, and the taxi lunged away,
leaving him upon the kerb, gazing after it with doubt in his eyes.

Beastly annoying of these people to let a young girl arrive like this
with no one to meet her. Nothing in it, of course, but all the same he
ought to have told her plainly the things Hermione Cushing had said to
him a few weeks ago.