Anne Belinda by Patricia Wentworth

know where Anne Waveney was supposed to have been all this year—“Your other sister has been travelling with Miss Dawn.” It hadn’t taken her a moment, of course, to recognize Aurora. So she had been travelling with Aurora Fairlie. Just for a moment her upper lip lifted in a smile; she wondered whether Aurora knew. Then the smile faded, and she frowned. The letter was clever: Jenny was clever. Anne hated the cleverness as much as she loved Jenny. She hated it with a quick, rebellious hatred.
    She tore up the third letter. Then she put all the bits into the waste-paper basket and went along the corridor to telephone to Mr. Carruthers.
    It took her some time to get on, and as she waited, she began to feel a little frightened. She didn’t really want to talk to Mr. Carruthers. She couldn’t imagine why he should want to talk to her. No, that wasn’t quite true; it wasn’t a bit difficult to imagine the sort of things that her father’s lawyer might feel it his duty to say to her. “Wouldn’t” was the word, not “couldn’t.” She wouldn’t imagine those things.
    â€œHullo!” said a voice very loudly.
    Anne said “Hullo!”
    The voice said “Hullo!” again in a faint, dying whisper.
    Anne went on saying “Hullo.”
    When the voice had come a little nearer, she asked for Mr. Carruthers.
    The voice said, “Who?”
    Anne said, “Mr. Carruthers.”
    The voice became very loud again. It said, “This is City OOOB. There is no one of the name of Jones here.”
    Anne giggled. She had forgotten how mad telephones could be.
    â€œI said Carruthers—I didn’t say Jones—I don’t want Jones.”
    She didn’t really want Carruthers either. This helped her to bear up when the voice said reprovingly, “Mr. Carruthers is away. He has been ill. Would you like to speak to Mr. Smith?”
    Anne repressed a warm feeling of relief. She wished Mr. Carruthers a speedy return to health; but the reprieve certainly raised her spirits. She said hastily:
    â€œNo, I don’t want to speak to Mr. Smith. I only wanted to ask whether Lady Marr is at Waterdene.”
    â€œOh yes—I believe so. As a matter of fact, we addressed some papers there this morning. Who is it speaking?”
    â€œThank you,” said Anne, and rang off.
    She went back to her room and put on her hat and gloves. Then she went downstairs, where she looked up an afternoon train and despatched a telegram: “Arriving three-thirteen. Anne.” She glanced at the little wrist-watch which had been Sir Anthony’s present on her twenty-first birthday. She had just time to have her hair cut, but no time to dawdle. She was almost at the outer door, when she turned sharply aside and bent to the fastening of a shoe.
    Aurora Fairlie, in a monstrous hurry, passed within a yard of her. Her heavy shoes creaked as much as ever—Aurora’s shoes always did creak. Anne looked back and saw the broad tweed-clad shoulders and rough deer-stalker hat disappear in the crowd. She slipped into the street half laughing, and once again she wondered whether Aurora knew that Anne Waveney had been travelling with her for a year.
    At Aristide’s she found an assistant who remembered her and mourned over the neglected condition of her hair.
    â€œI’ve been right out of civilization,” said Anne. “It is awful—isn’t it?”
    The young lady threw a complacent glance at her own immaculate golden waves.
    â€œ Well —” she said, and left it at that, adding: “Of course, I’ll do my best.”
    Her best was a very talented best. As the clever fingers did their work, Annie Jones receded, and Anne Belinda Waveney emerged upon the world. At the same time the world displayed itself to Anne Belinda. The young lady had a fluent tongue as well as clever fingers. She talked all the time, and while she talked, Anne