‘He destroyed the papers?’ ‘That’s right,’ Roding said, throwing her a glance of frowning surprise, as if he had not rated her intelligence so high. No, this was imbecile. And Pottiswick, of course. A few feet away, across the low vases of pink and white roses, sat Annabel, more beautiful to-night perhaps than ever before in her life. Immediately he grasped the fact that there was drama here, probably the old drama of the fugitive. Blood dripped down one side of her forehead. Joan told me it was hung somewhere in the house, only I couldn’t remember where after all this time. His smile faded.
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