Four Strange Women by E.R. Punshon Page B

more especially why you seem to think it’s a case of murder.”
    â€œDon’t you?” asked Eyton simply, and that rather silenced Bobby for the moment. “Of course,” Eyton went on, “if there is anything more I can tell you, I’m perfectly willing. But I don’t think there is. Anything special, do you mean?”
    â€œWell, if you wouldn’t mind going over it all again from the very start,” Bobby said. “Then I might ask a question or two to clear up points we aren’t quite certain about.”
    â€œJust as you like,” Eyton agreed. “Only too ready to help, of course, though I think I’ve put everything in my story. It’ll be in the Midwych News to-morrow, but there’s a carbon here you can look through if you like. It’ll be in the London Daily Announcer to-morrow, too—front page stuff, fully signed,” he added, closing his eyes for one brief ecstatic moment at the thought. “ Sunday Illustrated will have it as well, for Sunday, and Weekly Pictures next week—with photographs.”
    Bobby’s breath was a little taken away by this hail of announcements, and he perceived that the Great British Public was indeed in for a feast.
    â€œYou’ve lost no time,” he remarked.
    â€œA journalist never loses time,” said Mr. Eyton firmly.
    â€œYou took photographs, then?” Bobby asked.
    Mr. Eyton looked at him pityingly.
    â€œOf course,” he said. “Do you suppose there wouldn’t be photographs? what’s a journalist for?”
    Bobby was tempted to reply that he hadn’t the least idea. Instead he said:—
    â€œI don’t think that was mentioned before.”
    â€œIt was not,” agreed Mr. Eyton. “Your people would have wanted to see them, and I wanted to get them off. They’ll be in the News to-morrow and in the London Announcer . The Sunday Illustrated will have them too— they pay big,” he couldn’t help interposing with a deep satisfaction—“and so will Weekly Pictures next week—just too late for the current issue, worse luck.”
    â€œAre they all the same?” Bobby asked.
    Mr. Eyton pondered the question.
    â€œWell, they are and they aren’t,” he said. “They are all ‘exclusive’ of course—editors will hardly look at anything that isn’t these days. But they’re all the same really—just different shots from different angles. Makes them seem different, but they’re all much of a muchness. Care to join me in a cup of cocoa?”
    â€œThanks very much,” said Bobby with more gratitude in his voice—he hoped—than in his heart.
    Possibly Eyton felt a certain lack of true warmth in Bobby’s acceptance for he said:—
    â€œSorry I’ve nothing else, but spirits disagree with me and I hate beer. I have to drink the stuff sometimes, because there’s a sort of convention that beer’s a proof of manliness and good fellowship, but afterwards it always feels to me like a wad of cotton wool inside. Now cocoa”—a touch of enthusiasm came into his voice—“cocoa warms you up, keeps you going, clears your mind, calms your nerves. I do all my best work on cocoa.”
    While he was speaking he busied himself making that strange brew, and he made it lovingly and with care, carefully measuring the amount he put in the cups—he procured a second for Bobby—mixing it with just the right amount of sugar, adding a little milk, beating it into a paste of exactly the right consistence, pouring on water and hot milk in the correct proportions. As he was thus occupied he said but now without enthusiasm:—
    â€œSmoke, if you like. I don’t myself, but I don’t mind it.” He coughed delicately in a way Bobby accepted as a hint, and so made no effort to produce his own cigarettes. He accepted the cup of cocoa Eyton handed him and