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Authors: Patricia Wentworth
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rate, by a chair, a writing-table and Miss Silver herself. The writing-table was immense, of the large old-fashioned flat kind with drawers all round it; the top was piled high with exercise-books of different colours very neatly stacked.
Miss Silver sat in front of a pad of pink blotting-paper. She was a little person with no features, no complexion, and a great deal of tidy mouse-coloured hair done in a large bun at the back of her head. She inclined her head slightly, but did not offer to shake hands.
Charles introduced himself, mentioned Archie’s name, mentioned Emmeline Foster’s name, and received no indication that Miss Silver had any recollection of either of them.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Moray?” The voice was rather a hesitating one; a quiet voice without tone.
Charles began to feel sorry he had come.
“Well—I wanted some information.”
Miss Silver picked up a brown copy-book, wrote Charles’ name at the head of a page, asked for and added his address, and then inquired what sort of information he wanted.
Charles did not mean to tell her very much—not at first anyhow. He said,
“I want information about a man who is lodging at 5 Gladys Villas, Chiswick. He’s a middle-aged man with a fresh colour. I don’t know his name. I want to know anything you can find out about him; and I most particularly want to know whether he is really deaf.”
Miss Silver wrote in the copy-book. Then she asked,
“Anything more?”
“Yes,” said Charles frowning. “I want to know something about Mr. Standing’s family affairs. You know the man I mean—he’s been in all the papers.”
“His affairs,” said Miss Silver, “are largely public property. I can tell you a good deal about them now. He was washed overboard whilst he was yachting off Majorca, and he didn’t leave any will. His immense fortune will therefore be inherited by his only child. Her name is Margot. She is just eighteen, and until a week ago was at school in Switzerland. Was that what you wanted to know?”
Charles shook his head.
“Everyone knows that. I want news from day to day of what is happening. I want to know who is in the house with the girl—what she does—who her friends are. I want to be told at once if she goes away, or if there is any sudden development in her affairs. I’m afraid it’s all rather indefinite; but I expect you can see the sort of thing I want.”
Miss Silver had been using the right-hand page of the brown copy-book; she now wrote something quickly on the left. Then she said;
“I see what you want. But you haven’t told me why you want it.”
“No.”
Miss Silver smiled suddenly. The smile had the most extraordinary effect upon her face; it was just as if an expressionless mask had been lifted and a friendly, pleasant face had looked out from behind it.
“It’s no good, Mr. Moray.”
Charles said, “I beg your pardon?”
The smile was still there.
“I can’t take your case unless you’re going to trust me. I can’t work for a client who only tells me snippets and odds and ends. ‘Trust me all in all, or not at all,’ is my motto. Tennyson is out of fashion, but I admire him very much, and that is my motto.”
Charles looked at her with the suspicion of a twinkle. What a Victorian little person! He became aware of a half-knitted stocking on her lap, still needles bristling. It seemed to him very appropriate. He twinkled, and replied to her quotation with another:
“The Taran-Tula Indians say that you may catch a snake by the tail, but you should never trust a woman.”
Miss Silver looked sorry for the Taran-Tula Indians.
“Poor ignorant heathens!” she said; and then, “Of course, if one has been very badly treated, it makes one cautious. But I can’t take your case unless you are frank with me. Frankness on your part—discretion on mine.”
She picked up the stocking and began to knit, holding the needles in the German way. After one round she looked at Charles and
Miss Silver sat in front of a pad of pink blotting-paper. She was a little person with no features, no complexion, and a great deal of tidy mouse-coloured hair done in a large bun at the back of her head. She inclined her head slightly, but did not offer to shake hands.
Charles introduced himself, mentioned Archie’s name, mentioned Emmeline Foster’s name, and received no indication that Miss Silver had any recollection of either of them.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Moray?” The voice was rather a hesitating one; a quiet voice without tone.
Charles began to feel sorry he had come.
“Well—I wanted some information.”
Miss Silver picked up a brown copy-book, wrote Charles’ name at the head of a page, asked for and added his address, and then inquired what sort of information he wanted.
Charles did not mean to tell her very much—not at first anyhow. He said,
“I want information about a man who is lodging at 5 Gladys Villas, Chiswick. He’s a middle-aged man with a fresh colour. I don’t know his name. I want to know anything you can find out about him; and I most particularly want to know whether he is really deaf.”
Miss Silver wrote in the copy-book. Then she asked,
“Anything more?”
“Yes,” said Charles frowning. “I want to know something about Mr. Standing’s family affairs. You know the man I mean—he’s been in all the papers.”
“His affairs,” said Miss Silver, “are largely public property. I can tell you a good deal about them now. He was washed overboard whilst he was yachting off Majorca, and he didn’t leave any will. His immense fortune will therefore be inherited by his only child. Her name is Margot. She is just eighteen, and until a week ago was at school in Switzerland. Was that what you wanted to know?”
Charles shook his head.
“Everyone knows that. I want news from day to day of what is happening. I want to know who is in the house with the girl—what she does—who her friends are. I want to be told at once if she goes away, or if there is any sudden development in her affairs. I’m afraid it’s all rather indefinite; but I expect you can see the sort of thing I want.”
Miss Silver had been using the right-hand page of the brown copy-book; she now wrote something quickly on the left. Then she said;
“I see what you want. But you haven’t told me why you want it.”
“No.”
Miss Silver smiled suddenly. The smile had the most extraordinary effect upon her face; it was just as if an expressionless mask had been lifted and a friendly, pleasant face had looked out from behind it.
“It’s no good, Mr. Moray.”
Charles said, “I beg your pardon?”
The smile was still there.
“I can’t take your case unless you’re going to trust me. I can’t work for a client who only tells me snippets and odds and ends. ‘Trust me all in all, or not at all,’ is my motto. Tennyson is out of fashion, but I admire him very much, and that is my motto.”
Charles looked at her with the suspicion of a twinkle. What a Victorian little person! He became aware of a half-knitted stocking on her lap, still needles bristling. It seemed to him very appropriate. He twinkled, and replied to her quotation with another:
“The Taran-Tula Indians say that you may catch a snake by the tail, but you should never trust a woman.”
Miss Silver looked sorry for the Taran-Tula Indians.
“Poor ignorant heathens!” she said; and then, “Of course, if one has been very badly treated, it makes one cautious. But I can’t take your case unless you are frank with me. Frankness on your part—discretion on mine.”
She picked up the stocking and began to knit, holding the needles in the German way. After one round she looked at Charles and
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