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

in print—he makes speeches you know. All I wanted him to say was yes or no. What do you mean about the newspapers?” she went on. “Is anything wrong with mother?”

He shook his head.

“So far as I know Lady Bartholomew is in the best of health and is on her way home.”

“Then what do you mean by asking me about the newspapers!” she demanded; “why should I see the newspapers—what is there for me to see?”

“About Kara?” he suggested.

She shook her head in bewilderment.

“I know and want to know nothing about Kara. Why do you say this to me?”

“Because,” said T. X. slowly, “on the night you disappeared from Cadogan Square, Remington Kara was murdered.”

“Murdered,” she gasped.

He nodded.

“He was stabbed to the heart by some person or persons unknown.”

T. X. took his hand from his pocket and pulled something out which was wrapped in tissue paper. This he carefully removed and the girl watched with fascinated gaze, and with an awful sense of apprehension. Presently the object was revealed. It was a pair of scissors with the handle wrapped about with a small handkerchief dappled with brown stains. She took a step backward, raising her hands to her cheeks.

“My scissors,” she said huskily; “you won't think—”

She stared up at him, fear and indignation struggling for mastery.

“I don't think you committed the murder,” he smiled; “if that's what you mean to ask me, but if anybody else found those scissors and had identified this handkerchief you would have been in rather a fix, my young friend.”

She looked at the scissors and shuddered.

“I did kill something,” she said in a low voice, “an awful dog... I don't know how I did it, but the beastly thing jumped at me and I just stabbed him and killed him, and I am glad,” she nodded many times and repeated, “I am glad.”

“So I gather—I found the dog and now perhaps you'll explain why I didn't find you?”

Again she hesitated and he felt that she was hiding something from him.

“I don't know why you didn't find me,” she said; “I was there.”

“How did you get out?”

“How did you get out?” she challenged him boldly.

“I got out through the door,” he confessed; “it seems a ridiculously commonplace way of leaving but that's the only way I could see.”

“And that's how I got out,” she answered, with a little smile.

“But it was locked.”

She laughed.

“I see now,” she said; “I was in the cellar. I heard your key in the lock and bolted down the trap, leaving those awful scissors behind. I thought it was Kara with some of his friends and then the voices died away and I ventured to come up and found you had left the door open. So—so I—”

These queer little pauses puzzled T. X. There was something she was not telling him. Something she had yet to reveal.

“So I got away you see,” she went on. “I came out into the kitchen; there was nobody there, and I passed through the area door and up the steps and just round the corner I found a taxicab, and that is all.”

She spread out her hands in a dramatic little gesture.

“And that is all, is it?” said T. X.

“That is all,” she repeated; “now what are you going to do?”

T. X. looked up at the ceiling and stroked his chin.

“I suppose that I ought to arrest you. I feel that something is due from me. May I ask if you were sleeping in the bed downstairs?”

“In the lower cellar?” she demanded,—a little pause and then, “Yes, I was sleeping in the cellar downstairs.”

There was that interval of hesitation almost between each word.

“What are you going to do?” she asked again.

She was feeling more sure of herself and had suppressed the panic which his sudden appearance had produced in her. He rumpled his hair, a gross imitation, did she but know it, of one of his chief's mannerisms and she observed that his hair was very thick and inclined to curl. She saw also that he was passably good looking, had fine grey eyes, a straight nose and a most firm chin.

“I think,” she suggested gently, “you had better arrest me.”

“Don't be silly,” he begged.

She stared at him in amazement.

“What did you say?” she asked wrathfully.

“I said 'don't be silly,'” repeated the calm young man.

“Do you know that you're being very rude?” she asked.

He seemed interested and surprised at this novel view of his conduct.

“Of course,” she went on carefully smoothing her dress and avoiding his eye, “I know you think I am silly and that I've got a most comic name.”

“I have never said your name was comic,” he replied coldly; “I would not take so great a liberty.”

“You said it was 'weird' which was worse,” she claimed.

“I may have said it was 'weird,”' he admitted, “but that's rather different to saying it was 'comic.' There is dignity in weird things. For example, nightmares aren't comic but they're weird.”

“Thank you,” she said pointedly.

“Not that I mean your name is anything approaching a nightmare.” He made this concession with a most magnificent sweep of hand as though he were a king conceding her the right to remain covered in his presence. “I think that Belinda Ann—”

“Belinda Mary,” she corrected.

“Belinda Mary, I was going to say, or as a matter of fact,” he floundered, “I was going to say Belinda and Mary.”

“You were going to say nothing of the kind,” she corrected him.

“Anyway, I think Belinda Mary is a very pretty name.”

“You think nothing of the sort.”

She saw the laughter in his eyes and felt an insane desire to laugh.

“You said it was a weird name and you think it is a weird name, but I really can't be bothered considering everybody's views. I think it's a weird name, too. I was named after