have made an end of Geoffrey, but the evidence, as Lomas complained, could not hang a yellow dog.
And the next day, Reggie Fortune, bland as ever, called on Geoffrey. It was a very humble house in a Chelsea cul-de-sac. The aged servant who took in Reggie's name left him on the doorstep, from which he had the glimpse of a narrow bare hall and uncarpeted stairs. He was kept waiting some time, and heard confused noises. When at last he was shown into the studio he met signs of storm. Geoffrey was flushed and visibly in the sulkiest of tempers, his wife pale and tired.
"Well, what is it now?" Geoffrey growled.
His wife smiled. "Mr. Fortune? That is so kind. If you would please sit down. Some tea, yes?"
And Reggie was saying to himself. "Oh, my aunt! She isn't a woman, she's a child." For Lucia Charlecote was so frail, of such a simplicity, that she looked rather like an angel in one of the primitive Italian pictures than a woman.
"Shut up, Lucia," Geoffrey growled. "What do you want here, Mr. Fortune? Trying a bit of your detective work?"
"You're rather difficult, aren't you?" Reggie said mildly. "You know, you told me you wanted to have the truth brought out, justice for your father, all that sort of thing. Well, I'm still on it."
"Much good you've done, haven't you?"
"I don't mind confessin' we've missed something."
