Free Beggar’s Choice by Patricia Wentworth

sadly. An ass who wrote poetry told her that her laugh had all the tears and all the music of the world in it. Of course, after that, she made a point of laughing sadly. She’s had a lot of practice, and she does it awfully well.
    â€œLook here, Anna,” I said—and I admit that I was hot—“Look here, did you cart me all the way down from London into the middle of this wood to ask me whether I hated you?”
    â€œPerhaps I did.”
    What can you do with a woman like that? I moved as if I was going to get up.
    â€œCar—don’t! I—I do want to talk to you. I—I’ve risked a lot to come and talk to you like this.”
    I never heard such rubbish in my life. You’d think she might know it wasn’t any good talking like that to me. Anna and I are the same age, and we’ve known each other for the whole twenty-seven years. That’s what annoys me—she ought to know better. I said so.
    â€œWhat’s the good of talking like that? What have you brought me down here for?”
    â€œBobby’s been telling you.”
    Bobby.… When she said that, I knew where I’d seen the fat man before. Markham—that was his name—Bobby Markham. The Bobby did it, and his bulk. About a fortnight ago I tried for the job of secretary to a man called Arbuthnot Markham who is a partner in a big firm of timber importers. As they do most of their business with South America, and as I happen to have a smattering of Spanish, I thought I might have a chance. I hadn’t. And after I’d seen Arbuthnot Markham I wasn’t so sorry—I didn’t like him. But beggars can’t be choosers.
    The fat man was in the outer office when I came through. He didn’t speak to me, though we’d had a nodding acquaintance some years before. He recognized me all right though—I could see that. It rather rubs it in when the people you didn’t think good enough for you, start thinking you’re not good enough for them. Not that I cared what Bobby Markham did. I didn’t like him any better than I liked his brother. I suppose they were brothers; there was a good deal of likeness, only Arbuthnot was hard where Bobby was soft, and thick-set where Bobby was just fat. I put down Arbuthnot as a bully, and Bobby as a silly ass. Their voices were alike though.
    â€œOh,” I said, “Bobby’s been telling me?” That was Anna all over—she gave his name away as easily as saying good-morning. “And where do you come in? He talked about a client.”
    She tipped up her chin again.
    â€œOh, I was the client.”
    â€œLook here, Anna,” I said, “what’s all this nonsense? It doesn’t take me in a bit, you know, this spoof offer of five hundred pounds and Mr. Bobby Markham’s talk about a client who has forged a check and wants me to forge another so as to get him out of a hole.”
    I thought she turned paler.
    â€œNot him ,” she said, “ her .”
    â€œMeaning you?”
    She had turned paler. For the first time, I thought she had stopped acting.
    â€œYes,” she said, “yes. That’s why I asked you whether you hated me, Car. If you do, you’ve got your revenge to your hand.”
    I wanted to be quite sure what she meant, so I said,
    â€œYes?”
    â€œYes— yes,” she said. “Do you hate me, Car? Because if you do, you’ve only to go to Uncle John and tell him just what Bobby and I have said to you to-night.”
    Of course she knew that I wouldn’t do any such thing. She was playing up, but under all the theatrical stuff there was something that made me feel a bit sorry for her. You can tell when any one is frightened. I thought she was frightened, and I wondered what on earth she’d been up to.
    I leaned back against the jamb of the door and tried to keep my temper.
    â€œWhat have you been up to?” I said.
    â€œBobby told