'
The soft light of the lamp filled the studio.
'Well, that's a comfort,' said Lady Wetherby, sauntering in. 'We
couldn't afford to lose--Oh!'
Lord Wetherby spun round as her scream burst upon his already
tortured nerve centres. Lady Wetherby was kneeling on the floor.
Claire hurried in.
'What is it, Polly?'
Lady Wetherby rose to her feet, and pointed. Her face had lost its
look of patient amusement. It was hard and set. She eyed Mr
Pickering in a menacing way.
'Look!'
Claire followed her finger.
'Good gracious! It's Eustace!'
'Shot!'
She was looking intently at Mr Pickering. 'Well, Dudley,' she
said, coldly, 'what about it?'
Mr Pickering found that they were all looking at him--Lady
Wetherby with glittering eyes, Claire with cool scorn, Lord
Wetherby with a horror which he seemed to have achieved with
something of an effort.
'Well!' said Claire.
'What about it, Dudley?' said Lady Wetherby.
'I must say, Pickering,' said Lord Wetherby, 'much as I disliked
the animal, it's a bit thick!'
Mr Pickering recoiled from their accusing gaze.
'Good heavens! Do you think I did it?'
In the midst of his anguish there flashed across his mind the
recollection of having seen just this sort of situation in a
moving picture, and of having thought it far-fetched.
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