There's a nasty wound over the left eye—seems to have been made by a blow."
"Sounds messy. Where do I come in?"
"Why, I don't quite see my way through it. If a fellow had a pistol ready to use, why bash the beggar? It's a futile sort of wound too, nasty mess, but not dangerous. But you'd better see the body, Fortune."
"Oh, let me thaw. So Lady Lunt's not satisfied with the police?"
"No, by Jove, she isn't. I say, Fortune, how did you know that?"
"Genius, just genius. And what's Lady Lunt like?"
"Well, you know, she isn't quite a lady. And yet she is in big things. He married her about ten years ago, somewhere on the Continent. But she's English. She was a dancer or singer or something. Pretty low class, I believe. She was awfully handsome—big, dark, dashing type. She hasn't kept her looks, but she's still striking. She was pretty rowdy at first—went the pace like he did. He was an awful old bounder, you know. But for a good while now she's been different—quiet and serious—looking after things down here, good work on the estate—that sort of thing. She quietened him down too, but he was pretty bad. I think she was getting him in hand slowly, but she must have been having a rotten time for years."
