Free The Fingerprint by Patricia Wentworth Page A

like to know where Mirrie had been at school. Most decidedly and distinctly she had slid away from the question when he asked it, and when anyone won’t answer a perfectly simple question curiosity is sharply pricked.
    He looked at the address, emitted a practically inaudible whistle, and posted the letter. He heard it fall into the box on the other side of the wall and turned round to wave goodbye to the Shotterleigh girls. They were hauling the bull-terriers away by means of handkerchiefs passed through their collars. The Airedale had come to heel, and the Peke’s expression made it plain that he dissociated himself from what he considered to have been a vulgar brawl.
    They were safely on the other side of the road before Mirrie ventured out of the shop. She said, “What dreadful dogs!” After which she put her hand in her pocket and turned bright pink.
    “My letter—oh, Johnny, my letter! It’s gone!”
    He looked at her with laughing eyes.
    “It’s all right—I posted it.”
    She said, “Oh!” They went over the road together.
    When they were on the other side she produced a question.
    “Did you look at it? Did it get muddy?”
    “I looked at it. It had a paw mark in one corner—Jane’s, I think.”
    She didn’t look at him. She was still rather pink. It was very becoming. Johnny said,
    “Perhaps I ought to have asked you before I posted it. It struck me there was something wrong about the address.”
    “Oh—”
    “Your letter was to Miss Brown, wasn’t it? Or wasn’t it?”
    “Of course it was!”
    “Well, it wasn’t addressed to her. It was addressed to Mr. E. C. Brown, 10 Marracott Street, Pigeon Hill, S.E. That’s a London suburb, isn’t it?”
    She looked up at him sideways then, a creature wary of a trap. A squirrel perhaps? No, a kitten playing with a leaf— playing and catching it—playing and being caught. Only he wasn’t so sure that this was play. She gave him a sudden glancing smile and said,
    “Didn’t I put Miss Brown’s name on it?”
    “You did not.”
    She heaved a small sigh.
    “I am stupid. But it doesn’t matter—she’ll get it all right. She is staying with her brother.”
    “Mr. E. C. Brown?”
    “Oh, yes.”
    “And she is staying with him in the middle of the school term?”
    She said in a voice of soft reproach, “She hasn’t been well.”
    He laughed in a manner which left her in no doubt as to his scepticism. Then he said,
    “All right, have it your own way, darling. Mr., Mrs., or Miss —I don’t give a damn.”
    Her lashes came down.
    “You oughtn’t to say damn.”
    “And you ought not to write letters to Mr. Brown and tell fibs about them, my poppet. Especially when they are the sort of fibs that wouldn’t deceive a half-witted child.”
    They were turning in at the gate as he spoke. She stamped a small angry foot and ran from him, reaching the front door first and banging it in his face. She was half way up the stairs as he crossed the hall, but she stopped and turned when she heard him laughing, her cheeks scarlet and her eyes bright with tears.
    “I don’t want to speak to you!”
    He blew her a kiss.
    “Darling, you needn’t.” Then, as she stamped again and ran up the rest of the way, he called after her,
    “It’s all right—I won’t tell. Don’t forget we’re going to a flick.”
    He wondered whether she would come, and he wondered about some other things too. Just why had she read him her letter to Miss or Mr. Brown? If for some reason she wanted him to know that Jonathan was prepared to treat her as a daughter, just what would the reason be? Something on the lines of “I’m not a little waif any longer—I’m Jonathan Field’s heiress”? Was she, in fact, extending the baited hook, not only to him but also to the rather supposititious Mr. Brown? And where did all this leave Georgina? Was Jonathan Field going to have two heiresses or only one?
    Mirrie came down smiling as the tea bell rang, and they made a party of four