Free Who Pays the Piper? by Patricia Wentworth Page A

her said “I can’t” . Something that was stronger than that said “I must”.
    At two o’clock on the Monday Lucas Dale rang up. He said,
    â€œI’ve got everything fixed for ten o’clock on Thursday morning. Is Cathy any better?”
    â€œShe hasn’t spoken yet. She sleeps a great deal.”
    â€œIs that how she was before?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œMay I send you some flowers—grapes—any other fruit?”
    â€œNo, thank you.”
    He went on speaking because he could not bring himself to ring off with that “No” in his ears.
    â€œI made a new will this morning—just in case the bottom drops out of things between this and Thursday. As a matter of fact it will hold good afterwards, so Duckett says. You used to have to sign a will on your wedding day, but nowadays a will made in contemplation of marriage holds water all right. This is one of the good old-fashioned everything-to-my-wife sort. There, that’s all—I just wanted you to know.”
    As the day wore on Cathy seemed better. She turned on her side and slept. She had a little more colour.
    Susan left the door open and went and lay down on her bed. She had not thought that she would sleep, but she fell at once into deep unconsciousness beyond the reach of dreams. She did not know that Mrs. O’Hara came in and stood there looking at her in a good deal more trouble than she had expressed for Cathy. Because Cathy had never been strong, but Susan had never had a day’s illness in her life, and what was the matter with her now? Cathy was always pale, but if Susan lost her colour, there must be something dreadfully wrong, and if she didn’t want to marry Bill Garrick, and did want to marry Mr. Dale, then why should she lose her colour and go about the house saying “Yes, Aunt Milly”, and “No, Aunt Milly”, and looking a great deal more like a ghost than a girl? It was very uncomfortable indeed. Something would have to be done about it—perhaps a friendly, tactful talk with Mr. Dale. “After all, I am in the position of Susan’s mother.”
    Mrs. O’Hara returned to her sofa and considered the line to be adopted by a tactful mother.
    Susan waked to the sound of the telephone bell. She came back out of blank and distant places and was aware of it first as an insistent sound, and then as a summons. She went down into the dining-room and shut the door. Fear went with her. Her heart beat suffocatingly as she lifted the receiver and heard Bill’s voice.
    â€œSusan ——”
    The one word told her that he had had her letter. She had wondered how he would take it, and the word told her that too. He was taking it fighting.
    She must have made some sound. He said,
    â€œI’ve only just had your letter. I’ve been out all day. What’s all this infernal nonsense?” There was an effect of pure rage controlled to words.
    Susan said, “It’s no use—I can’t talk about it.”
    â€œI haven’t the slightest desire to talk about it. I rang you up to tell you I was coming down. It’s a quarter to four now. I shall be down by six.”
    He must have flung the receiver back. The line shocked and went dead. Susan hung up and stood a long time staring at the wall. She ought to have tried to stop him—she hadn’t tried—it wouldn’t have been any good—you couldn’t stop Bill when he had made up his mind to do a thing. A numbness came over her. It was nearly four o’clock.
    She began to make Mrs. O’Hara’s tea.

CHAPTER XII
    Bill Carrick stopped the car which he had borrowed from Ted Walters and got out. There were no lights on this side of the Little House, and no Susan at the gate. It hit him, but he didn’t stop to think about it. He walked straight into the unlighted hall, where he stood and listened. There was no sound of any kind. He went through the dining-room