Free Nothing Venture by Patricia Wentworth Page B

seen just that amused sparkle in his eyes or heard that warm, bantering note in his voice. She listened in a smiling silence whilst they capped stories and reminded one another of ridiculous or strenuous adventures shared. She learned by piecing scraps of their talk together that they had knocked about Europe and the Near East for the best part of a year in one another’s company.
    â€œI was doing hot articles on Great Men’s Hats , and Politicians’ Pyjamas , and Brigands’ Boots —that’s where we bumped up against it in Anatolia—and What Criminals Like for Breakfast . Now what do you suppose the biggest rip of the lot began the day on? You don’t know—you can’t guess? No—I’ll bet my life you can’t! Bread and milk—in a bowl with pink rosebuds round the edge. I tell you, I sat there and saw him putting it away—but you needn’t believe me if you don’t want to.”
    â€œYou were writing articles. And what was Jervis doing?” said Nan. In this pleasant dream it was quite easy to say Jervis. It warmed and comforted her to say his name like that, as if it were her daily, familiar use.
    â€œWhat was Jervis doing?” Her colour rose and her eyes shone as she said it.
    â€œJervis was mending a hole in his head,” said Ferdinand Fazackerley.
    Was it fancy, or did he hold her eyes with his for a moment? She repeated his words mechanically.
    â€œA hole in his head?”
    With a wrenching sensation she looked away and saw Jervis frowning.
    â€œI’d had a fall,” he said. “I came down on some slippery rocks and broke my head. I was just down from Oxford, so I got a year’s holiday and went racketing round with F.F. He picked me up just as the tide was going to finish me off, and has stuck to me like a burr ever since.”
    â€œDo burrs pick people up?” said Nan. “I thought it was the other way around.” She laughed to cover the faint tremor in her voice, and was aware of Ferdinand Fazackerley’s eyes upon her.
    â€œMrs Weare, don’t you take any notice of him. He’s no hand at telling a yarn, and I’m a whale at it. Besides, he was dead to the world, and if the tide had drowned him, he wouldn’t have known a thing about it. No—if you want the goods, I’m your man.” His restless, curious eyes thrust questions at her: “Am I going to tell this story? Do you want me to tell it? If not—why not? Yes—why, why, why ?” The high light in the brown eyes was like a bright elusive question mark.
    Jervis’ voice broke in on them.
    â€œThere’s nothing to tell. F.F.’s a professional yarn-spinner.”
    â€œDon’t you want the story, Mrs Weare—exclusive tale of eye-witness? Or—do you know it already?”
    Panic knocked at Nan’s heart.
    She said, “Please tell me,” and heard her voice hurry and stumble. He couldn’t know—he couldn’t know anything. And if he did—no, he couldn’t—she couldn’t face it—not here, not now, with Jervis looking at her. No, he wasn’t looking at her, he was looking with a half-frowning tolerance at F.F.; and F.F. was saying,
    â€œDon’t look so scared—he got out of it all right, thanks to the pluckiest kid I’ve ever run across.” He flung round on Jervis. “Did you ever find out who she was?”
    Jervis said, “No.”
    Nan leaned forward with her elbows on the table and her chin in her cupped hands. The movement was purely instinctive. Her heart was beating and her lips trembling. She pressed hard with one of her fingers against the corner of her mouth.
    â€œWell then, Mrs Weare, you shall hear the story.”
    â€œIt won’t interest her,” said Jervis.
    â€œMrs Weare—you hear him. What do you say to that?”
    Nan lifted her chin for a moment.
    â€œOh, please tell me,” she said quite