The Dower House Mystery by Patricia Wentworth Page B

fell to talking about old times; and in the end Lady Susan carried Amabel back to tea with her.
    â€œEdward wants to see you,” she said. “And Julian’s coming in. He can take you home afterwards.”
    As they came out upon the road, two women passed with a large Airedale.
    â€œThe Bronson girl and her governess,” said Lady Susan quickly. “I’d better introduce you.”
    She called “Angela!” The other two turned, waiting, and she put her hand on the girl’s arm.
    â€œI want you to meet Mrs. Grey—Mademoiselle Lemoine, Miss Bronson.”
    Angela Bronson was certainly too tall. In ten years’ time she would be handsome, perhaps beautiful. She stood now, the picture of awkward embarrassment, obviously uncertain as to whether she ought to shake hands or not.
    Mademoiselle Lemoine presented a very complete contrast. Wings of smooth black hair under a close black hat; a delicate fair skin; eyes between grey and green. Without being beautiful, she certainly put the handsome heiress in the shade; pose and manner were distinguished and assured. She acknowledged the introduction smilingly, and laid a hand on the Airedale’s head as he pressed against her grey tweed skirt.
    â€œYou do not introduce Forester,” she said, “and yet he is so much the most important of us three.”
    Amabel thought that she had never heard a Frenchwoman speak such good English—just the faintest suspicion of an accent and no more.
    â€œForester is last year’s Crystal Palace Champion,” said Lady Susan. They walked on, talking of dogs, until they came to the corner where their ways parted.
    Later on, at tea, Lady Susan turned to Julian and said gravely, “I suppose you know that the name of Forsham has become famous. No, don’t begin to look modest, because it’s nothing to do with you.” She gave her deep chuckle—“It’s the Bronson girl’s dogs—she breeds prize Airedales, and they’re all Forsham something or other. Amabel and I met her with Forester just now. He’s last year’s Champion. And then there’s Forsham Favourite, and Forsham Fantasy, and goodness knows how many more besides.”
    â€œWhy not Bronson’s Bloomer?” inquired Julian. “Why drag in the Forshams?”
    Susan Berkeley chuckled again.
    â€œI’ll ask Angela, if you like,” she said. “She’s not a bad child really—just a little lacking in perception perhaps, but no vice. And, in case you know of anyone who wants a real good watch-dog, she’s got two she wants to sell just short of show form and going cheap. I’ve seen one of them about with her—quite a nice dog. He is Forsham Fearless,” she added with a twinkle.
    â€œThanks,” said Julian, “one may want a dog; one never knows. Were you thinking of my lonely and unprotected state?” He turned to Amabel. “I meant to ask you before. Have you heard anything of your dog?”
    Amabel did not look at him; she was cutting a piece of cake into little bits. Her manner was abstracted as she said:
    â€œOh, yes, he went home. I heard from Miss Lee this morning.”
    â€œHome!” said Julian. The word escaped him as a sharp exclamation.
    Amabel did not raise her eyes.
    â€œYes,” she said; and there was a little pause which Susan Berkeley filled with a question as to Julian’s plans for the winter.
    Presently, when they were walking home together, Julian broke the silence that had succeeded their good-byes with an abrupt, “What’s the matter with you? You look horribly tired.”
    â€œWell, we didn’t have a very good night,” said Amabel.
    â€œI knew that as soon as I saw you. What’s been happening?” His shoulder just touched hers in the darkness. His voice sounded angry.
    The heaviness at Amabel’s heart lifted a little. Julian was angry for her. She felt warmed and