The Master of the Priory by Annie Haynes Page B

glasses, and however hot the weather is I have never seen her out of doors even in the park except with her hat and her face swathed in a veil. She gives neuralgia as the reason, but she evidently dislikes speaking about it.”
    â€œUm-m.” Mr. Gregg was making some entries in his ledger. “Will you describe the lady, madam.”
    â€œShe is tall,” Sybil began, “tall, with good features and a very fair complexion and masses of black hair—too black, and not shingled. I am sure it is dyed.”
    Mr. Gregg permitted himself a smile. “That is not so very unusual, madam, I fancy. Everybody does not admire shingling, either. What age is she?”
    â€œI should say under thirty,” Sybil said vaguely. “What with her veil and her glasses it is difficult to see enough of her to be sure.”
    Mr. Gregg tapped restlessly on the open page of his ledger.
    â€œWell, madam, I think it would be well to consider what you are doing before we go on with the matter. It is sure to be expensive—such inquiries always are—and I am bound to tell you that you seem to have but the slightest of grounds for your suspicion of this lady.”
    Sybil’s small face looked obstinate. “I intend to go on,” she said quietly. “But of course, Mr. Gregg—” She stopped suddenly and opened her bag. “I was forgetting. But I don’t know that you will consider these of any importance. I came across them by accident in Miss Martin’s room, among some things she was burning.” She held out the photograph and the tiny curl of red gold hair.
    Mr. Gregg looked a little bored as he took them in his hand, then his expression changed indefinably; he bent over them and studied them intently. At last he glanced up.
    â€œYou are sure these belong to Miss Martin?”
    â€œQuite sure,” Sybil returned laconically.
    Mr. Gregg swept them both into an envelope.
    â€œWell, Miss Lorrimer, we will do the best we can for you and as soon as we learn anything definite we will communicate with you.”
    â€œOne more thing I might mention,” Sybil said as she stood up. “Miss Martin, though they met as strangers, is evidently on most familiar terms with a man who dined at the Priory last week, a Mr. Carlyn, of Carlyn Hall. I feel sure he knows the secret of her past.”
    â€œMr. Carlyn. Ah!” The detective said no more as he opened the door for her. He was apparently lost in a brown study.
    Sybil opened her bag again. “I believe it is usual to pay something on account.” She laid a twenty-pound note on the table.
    Mr. Gregg pushed it back to her, blinking benevolently.
    â€œNo, no! My dear madam, wait till we have done something.”
    He saw her out with grave politeness, then he went back to his office and took up his speaking-tube.
    â€œSend Mr. Marlowe to me at once.”
    There was an air of repressed excitement about him as he waited the coming of the ex-constable from Carlyn.
    The ex-policeman looked much as usual, save that out of uniform he seemed a trifle less portly and important. He looked at Mr. Gregg in some surprise.
    â€œYou sent for me, sir?”
    â€œYes,” Mr. Gregg replied, taking the photograph from its envelope and handing it to him. “Sit down, Marlowe. Can you tell me anything about this?”
    Marlowe glanced at it leisurely and then he gave a cry of amazement.
    â€œWhy, if it isn’t a photo of John Winter, who was murdered in the Home Wood at Carlyn Hall a year last spring. Where did you get it, sir?”
    Mr. Gregg rubbed his hands together.
    â€œAh! ‘Thereby hangs a tale.’ But I thought I wasn’t mistaken. You will have to prepare for special work for the next few days, Marlowe.”

Chapter Nine
    â€œA ND YOU will tell me a story, Barbara, and you will come to tea in the schoolroom with me and Miss Martin?” cried Maisie, dancing round the girl in her