Free Miss Silver Deals With Death by Patricia Wentworth Page A

your memories? I don’t. Fun while they last, but what’s the good of remembering them? Anyhow Giles and I are all washed-up.”
    Meade put out a hand and took hold of the back of one of the brocaded chairs. The smell of naphthalene from Mrs. Spooner’s spencer was suddenly more than she could bear. She let it slip down on the floor. Then she said in a steady enquiring voice,
    “Giles and you?”
    Miss Roland smiled a brilliant scarlet smile.
    “Didn’t he tell you about me? Oh, no—of course he’s forgotten all about everything. But he might just have happened to mention me before he lost his memory. Sure he didn’t?”
    Meade shook her head.
    “Was there any reason why he should?”
    Carola was helping herself to a cigarette from a shagreen box. She struck a match and set the tip glowing before she said,
    “Reason? Well, that’s just as you happen to look at it. Some people might think he would mention that there was one Mrs. Armitage already before he asked you to marry him? I suppose he did ask you to marry him? Your aunt seems to think so.”
    Meade’s hand closed tightly on the back of the chair. She said,
    “We are engaged.”
    The scarlet lips emitted a puff of smoke.
    “Did you hear what I said? I don’t believe you did—or you didn’t take it in. I expect it was a shock, but that’s not my fault, is it? You can’t expect me just to hold my tongue and let Giles go on forgetting me. I’ve got my allowance to think about. What about that? He was giving me four hundred a year. And can I do with it—oh, boy!”
    Meade felt nothing. It was just as if it was happening to somebody else. It couldn’t be happening to her—and Giles. She looked at the photograph on the mantelpiece and she looked at Carola. There are things you can’t believe.
    She said, “Miss Roland—” and was met by a bright glance and a wave of the cigarette.
    “But I’m not. I said you hadn’t been listening. Roland is just my stage name. Rather good, don’t you think? But my real legal name is Armitage. That’s what I’ve been telling you—I’m Mrs. Armitage.” She turned back to the mantelpiece, picked up the photograph, and slightly altered its position. “He’s not handsome, but there’s something attractive about him, don’t you think? At least I used to think so till I found out what a cold, grasping devil he could be.”
    Meade stared at her, her eyes wide and blank. It didn’t seem to mean anything. It didn’t seem to make sense. She said in a horrified whisper,
    “It doesn’t make sense—”
    Carola dropped the photograph and came back. She was angry, but there was amusement behind the anger. She had always wanted to get a bit of her own back on Giles, but she couldn’t have hoped for a chance like this. There was a packet of letters lying on a little gimcrack table with twisted silver legs and a glass top. She picked up the one that lay uppermost and said, with the Mayfair accent gone,
    “Oh, I’m a liar, am I? All right, Miss Meade Underwood, you take a look at this, and then perhaps you’ll be sorry you spoke! I suppose you know Giles’ writing when you see it.”
    A sheet of paper was being held up in front of her. The writing on it was Giles’ writing, very black and distinct. Everything had become quite extraordinarily clear and distinct—the edge of the paper; the way it was creased; Carola’s hand, long fingers, and scarlet nails; and a ring with a single diamond, very bright— Giles’ letter.
    The writing said,
    “You are making a mistake if you think that sort of argument will have any effect on me. You are just appealing to sentiment, and I haven’t any use for it. To be completely candid, it makes me see red, so I advise you to drop it. I will allow you four hundred a year provided you undertake to stop using the name of Armitage. If I find that you are breaking this condition I shall have no hesitation in cutting off supplies. You have, as you say, a perfect legal right to the