“Is he interested?” asked Griselda.
Miss Cram furrowed her brows perplexedly.
“He’s a queer one. You never can tell with him. All wrapped up in the past. He’d a hundred times rather look at a nasty old bronze knife out of those humps of ground than he would see the knife Crippen cut up his wife with, supposing he had a chance to.”
“Well,” I said, “I must confess I agree with him.”
Miss Cram’s eyes expressed incomprehension and slight contempt. Then, with reiterated goodbyes, she took her departure.
“Not such a bad sort, really,” said Griselda, as the door closed behind her. “Terribly common, of course, but one of those big, bouncing, good-humoured girls that you can’t dislike. I wonder what really brought her here?”
“Curiosity.”
“Yes, I suppose so. Now, Len, tell me all about it. I’m simply dying to hear.”
I sat down and recited faithfully all the happenings of the morning, Griselda interpolating the narrative with little exclamations of surprise and interest.
“So it was Anne Lawrence was after all along! Not Lettice. How blind we’ve all been! That must have been what old Miss Marple was hinting at yesterday. Don’t you think so?”
“Yes,” I said, averting my eyes.
Mary entered.