The Clue of the Twisted Candle by Edgar Wallace (great books to read .TXT) 📕

a most unexpected pleasure,” he said, and shook hands warmly.

T. X. had not seen him for a year and found very little change in this strange young man. He could not be more confident than he had been, nor bear himself with a more graceful carriage. Whatever social success he had achieved, it had not spoiled him, for his manner was as genial and easy as ever.

“I think that will do, Miss Holland,” he said, turning to the girl who, with notebook in hand, stood by the desk.

“Evidently,” thought T. X., “our Hellenic friend has a pretty taste in secretaries.”

In that one glance he took her all in—from the bronze-brown of her hair to her neat foot.

T. X. was not readily attracted by members of the opposite sex. He was self-confessed a predestined bachelor, finding life and its incidence too absorbing to give his whole mind to the serious problem of marriage, or to contract responsibilities and interests which might divert his attention from what he believed was the greater game. Yet he must be a man of stone to resist the freshness, the beauty and the youth of this straight, slender girl; the pink-and-whiteness of her, the aliveness and buoyancy and the thrilling sense of vitality she carried in her very presence.

“What is the weirdest name you have ever heard?” asked Kara laughingly. “I ask you, because Miss Holland and I have been discussing a begging letter addressed to us by a Maggie Goomer.”

The girl smiled slightly and in that smile was paradise, thought T. X.

“The weirdest name?” he repeated, “why I think the worst I have heard for a long time is Belinda Mary.”

“That has a familiar ring,” said Kara.

T. X. was looking at the girl.

She was staring at him with a certain languid insolence which made him curl up inside. Then with a glance at her employer she swept from the room.

“I ought to have introduced you,” said Kara. “That was my secretary, Miss Holland. Rather a pretty girl, isn't she?”

“Very,” said T. X., recovering his breath.

“I like pretty things around me,” said Kara, and somehow the complacency of the remark annoyed the detective more than anything that Kara had ever said to him.

The Greek went to the mantlepiece, and taking down a silver cigarette box, opened and offered it to his visitor. Kara was wearing a grey lounge suit; and although grey is a very trying colour for a foreigner to wear, this suit fitted his splendid figure and gave him just that bulk which he needed.

“You are a most suspicious man, Mr. Meredith,” he smiled.

“Suspicious! I?” asked the innocent T. X.

Kara nodded.

“I am sure you want to enquire into the character of all my present staff. I am perfectly satisfied that you will never be at rest until you learn the antecedents of my cook, my valet, my secretary—”

T. X. held up his hand with a laugh.

“Spare me,” he said. “It is one of my failings, I admit, but I have never gone much farther into your domestic affairs than to pry into the antecedents of your very interesting chauffeur.”

A little cloud passed over Kara's face, but it was only momentary.

“Oh, Brown,” he said, airily, with just a perceptible pause between the two words.

“It used to be Smith,” said T. X., “but no matter. His name is really Poropulos.”

“Oh, Poropulos,” said Kara gravely, “I dismissed him a long time ago.”

“Pensioned hire, too, I understand,” said T. X.

The other looked at him awhile, then, “I am very good to my old servants,” he said slowly and, changing the subject; “to what good fortune do I owe this visit?”

T. X. selected a cigarette before he replied.

“I thought you might be of some service to me,” he said, apparently giving his whole attention to the cigarette.

“Nothing would give me greater pleasure,” said Kara, a little eagerly. “I am afraid you have not been very keen on continuing what I hoped would have ripened into a valuable friendship, more valuable to me perhaps,” he smiled, “than to you.”

“I am a very shy man,” said the shameless T. X., “difficult to a fault, and rather apt to underrate my social attractions. I have come to you now because you know everybody—by the way, how long have you had your secretary!” he asked abruptly.

Kara looked up at the ceiling for inspiration.

“Four, no three months,” he corrected, “a very efficient young lady who came to me from one of the training establishments. Somewhat uncommunicative, better educated than most girls in her position—for example, she speaks and writes modern Greek fairly well.”

“A treasure!” suggested T. X.

“Unusually so,” said Kara. “She lives in Marylebone Road, 86a is the address. She has no friends, spends most of her evenings in her room, is eminently respectable and a little chilling in her attitude to her employer.”

T. X. shot a swift glance at the other.

“Why do you tell me all this?” he asked.

“To save you the trouble of finding out,” replied the other coolly. “That insatiable curiosity which is one of the equipments of your profession, would, I feel sure, induce you to conduct investigations for your own satisfaction.”

T. X. laughed.

“May I sit down?” he said.

The other wheeled an armchair across the room and T. X. sank into it. He leant back and crossed his legs, and was, in a second, the personification of ease.

“I think you are a very clever man, Monsieur Kara,” he said.

The other looked down at him this time without amusement.

“Not so clever that I can discover the object of your visit,” he said pleasantly enough.

“It is very simply explained,” said T. X. “You know everybody in town. You know, amongst other people, Lady Bartholomew.”

“I know the lady very well indeed,” said Kara, readily,—too readily in fact, for the rapidity with which answer had followed question, suggested to T. X. that Kara had anticipated the reason for the call.

“Have you any idea,” asked T. X., speaking with deliberation, “as to why Lady Bartholomew has gone out of town at this particular moment?”

Kara laughed.

“What an extraordinary question to ask me—as though Lady Bartholomew