Free Mr. Zero by Patricia Wentworth Page B

the colour nor the attitude became him. Darts were flying, a thought dangerously. There was a constant babel and babble of voices.
    Algy found James Craster.
    â€œHere,” he said, “I want to know how serious is this damned story—for me, I mean?”
    James was large, and fair, and taciturn. He took thought, and produced reluctant words.
    â€œDamned serious, I’m afraid.”
    â€œPeople are believing it?”
    â€œNot Mary and me.”
    â€œThanks. Other people though?”
    James took thought again, again found words—more words than usual.
    â€œPerhaps not today. All saying can’t believe such a thing.”
    â€œDepends how that’s said.” Algy’s tone was grim.
    James nodded, and saved a word.
    â€œTomorrow they’ll be spreading it. Saying ‘Suppose he did.’ Next day it’ll be, ‘Well, I always thought.’ That’s how it goes. Unless it’s stopped. Better stop it quick. Get Lushington to stop it. That’s my advice. Lies breed like flies.”
    Algy was rather grey. James hit hard. Once you got him going he’d say what he thought. No beating about the bush. No tact. A good friend.
    He passed on, talked to Mary for a little, and found her gentle commonplaces a balm. She never said anything that you could label as wise or witty. She looked with her friendly eyes, and her voice was like running water, clear, and cool, and sweet. Algy esteemed James a lucky fellow.
    When he saw Mr. Brewster rise not very gracefully from his cushion at Sylvia’s feet, he crossed over, sped Cyril on his way and annexed the vacant place. Sylvia, vaguely embarrassed, seemed about to be gone. Algy smiled at her.
    â€œDo stay and talk to me, Lady Colesborough. Has he been warning you against me? Do tell me.”
    Sylvia responded with a smile, a little nervously, and said,
    â€œOh, no.”
    â€œI’m not really dangerous, you know, and we got on beautifully the other night, didn’t we? Now let’s talk about the country. Why do you hate it?”
    â€œWe were so poor,” said Sylvia with simplicity.
    Algy liked her for that. He pursued his ordered way. A very good reason.
    â€œBut do you hate it when you’re not poor? You were at Wellings last week, weren’t you? Do you hate a place like that? It’s lovely, isn’t it?”
    â€œI suppose so,” said Sylvia doubtfully. “In summer it might be. I like lights in the streets, and plenty of shops, and people.”
    Algy laughed. She looked like the sun and the moon and the stars, but she didn’t like those things. She liked people and shops. He said,
    â€œI expect there were plenty of people at Wellings, weren’t there?”
    â€œWell, it wasn’t a big party.”
    â€œWho did you have?”
    â€œWell, Poppy and Buffo—but of course it’s their house. You know them, don’t you?”
    â€œJust a little.”
    â€œShe has the most divine clothes.” Sylvia’s eyes waked into starry beauty. “She designs them herself, you know, and I can’t think how she does it. I do think clever people are marvellous—don’t you?”
    â€œThey’re a menace,” said Algy. “I always avoid them. Who else did you have?”
    â€œWell, his brother—Buffo’s brother Binks—and his wife, Constance. She isn’t a bit like Poppy.”
    â€œAnd you and your husband?”
    â€œYes, but Francis was late for dinner because he couldn’t get away—business is so tiresome that way—so I had to go down alone.”
    â€œThe Lushingtons were there, weren’t they?”
    Sylvia nodded.
    â€œThey had just arrived when I got there, but we had to go off and dress for dinner almost at once.”
    She was quite pleased to prattle. With a very little trouble Algy discovered the geography of the house and the whereabouts of the guests. There was an east wing and a west