Free Through The Wall by Patricia Wentworth Page B

enabled her to replace the old peacock-blue curtains which had weathered the war. After much faithful service they had suddenly shown signs of complete disintegration, and she had been most fortunate in finding some stuff of very nearly the same colour in a shop at Ledbury. It really toned in very well indeed with the upholstery of her walnut chairs and with the old carpet. The chairs were Victorian. They had spreading laps and odd-shaped arms and legs with a good deal of yellow carving about them, but they were surprisingly comfortable to sit in.
    Miss Silver glanced at the watch which she wore pinned to the left side of her dress by an old-fashioned bar brooch set with small seed pearls. Her client was late.
    As the thought passed through her mind, the door opened and Hannah announced, “Miss Adrian—”
    Helen Adrian brought the scent of violets into the room. Her large blue eyes took in Miss Silver and her surroundings at a glance. With no perceptible pause she smiled and said, “How do you do?” and took the chair on the other side of the writing-table, all with an air of being very completely at her ease.
    Miss Silver had not risen. She said, “Good-morning,” and she inclined her head. Then she picked up the useful grey stocking which she was making for her niece Ethel Burkett’s second boy, Derek, and began to knit, holding the needles in the continental manner, her hands low in her lap and her eyes quite free to observe her visitor.
    They told her a good deal. First, and quite obviously, Helen Adrian was a rather spectacularly beautiful young woman. About thirty years old, or perhaps a little less. Or even perhaps a little more. Rather fairer than most fair women, with eyes that were larger and bluer than most blue eyes, and a complexion which may have been originated by nature but had been most exquisitely cultivated by art. It was really impossible to say which of the two owed more to the other. A perfectly tailored black coat and skirt displayed the excellence of Miss Adrian’s figure. A glimpse of the ivory tailored silk of the shirt bespoke the excellence of Miss Adrian’s taste. A small black hat in the latest mode emphasized the burnished gold of Miss Adrian’s hair.
    Miss Silver took in all these things and waited for her client to speak. She had not long to wait. In the manner of one who endeavours to put a social inferior at her ease, Miss Adrian said,
    “It is very kind of you to see me, but I am afraid I may be just wasting your time. A friend of mine told me that Lady Portington—I don’t know her myself, but she is a very intimate friend of my friend’s—”
    Miss Silver coughed.
    “I was able to be of some help to Lady Portington.”
    Miss Adrian smiled encouragement.
    “Oh, you are too modest. The pearls are heirlooms.”
    Miss Silver knitted for a moment in silence. Then she said,
    “I think you did not come here to discuss Lady Portington’s pearls. What can I do for you, Miss Adrian?”
    Helen Adrian said, “Well, I don’t know—” She had the sensation that you have when you find that you have missed a step in the dark. She felt as if she had come down hard on something she didn’t know was there. She had been thinking that Miss Silver was a scream, and so was her room, and that she would get a good laugh out of the show if she didn’t get anything else. And then, with a cough, a something in her voice, an odd sort of look in those very ordinary greyish eyes, this governessy little old maid was making her feel snubbed, uncertain. She hadn’t felt like this since her first term at school. The thought just went through her mind, and was pushed out. She said, “Well, I don’t know,” and looked down at her immaculately gloved hands. They were holding her bag too tightly. It was Fred Mount’s latest present and very expensive—black suede, with ivory fittings. She relaxed her hold on it and looked up, to see that Miss Silver was watching her.
    “In what way can I help