rudeness.

"You look very bad, Maurice," she responded, almost in a whisper, as we
moved towards the house. I was acutely conscious that the others were
watching my retreat; especially that inquisitive little Vereker woman,
whom I was beginning to hate. When we entered the dusk of the
drawing-room, out of range of those curious eyes, I turned on my cousin.

"Mary--for God's sake--don't let that woman--or any one else, speak
of--Anne--in connection with Cassavetti," I said, in a hoarse undertone.

"Anne! Why, what on earth do you mean?" she faltered.

"He doesn't mean anything, except that he's considerably upset," said
Jim's hearty voice, close at hand. He had followed us in from the
garden. "You go back to your guests, little woman, and make 'em talk
about anything in the world except this murder affair. Try frocks and
frills; when Amy Vereker starts on them there's no stopping her; and if
they won't serve, try palmistry and spooks and all that rubbish. Leave
Maurice to me. He's faint with hunger, and inclined to make an ass of
himself even more than usual! Off with you!"

Mary made a queer little sound, that was half a sob, half a laugh.

"All right; I'll obey orders for once, you dear, wise old Jim. Make him
come back to-night, though."

She moved away, a slender ghostlike little figure in her white gown; and
Jim laid a heavy, kindly hand on my shoulder.

"Buck up, Maurice; come along to the dining-room and feed, and then tell
me all about it."

"There's nothing to tell," I persisted. "But I guess you're right, and
hunger's what's wrong with me."

I managed to make a good meal--I was desperately hungry now I came to
think of it--and Jim waited on me solicitously. He seemed somehow
relieved that I manifested a keen appetite.

"That's better," he said, as I declined cheese, and lighted a cigarette.
"'When in difficulties have a square meal before you tackle 'em; that's
my maxim,--original, and worth its weight in gold. I give it you for
nothing. Now about this affair; it's more like a melodrama than a
tragedy. You know, or suspect, that Anne Pendennis is mixed up in it?"

"I neither know nor suspect any such thing," I said deliberately. I had
recovered my self-possession, and the lie, I knew, sounded like truth,
or would have done so to any one but Jim Cayley.

"Then your manner just now was inexplicable," he retorted quietly. "Now,
just hear me out, Maurice; it's no use trying to bluff me. You think I
a