The Tall House Mystery (Musaicum Murder Mysteries). Dorothy Fielding

was there. Moy watched Ingram for a moment, reflecting on the oddity that the scholar should be so captivated by a featherhead. Moy was still of an age to put a value on cleverness in women which he would not do in later years. Yes, he vowed to himself, Miss Pratt would be difficult to put in a play...apart from her beauty, there seemed so little to get hold of...Then how, in a play, to make it clear why two sensible young men were ready to count a day well lost if it brought them but one smile from her?

       Haliburton came out of the house again, and stood a moment watching Ingram play. As a rule he was well worth attention. Turning his head, Haliburton saw that Tark was also watching the game.

      "Had your talk with him yet?" he asked pleasantly. Tark started as though he had not noticed that anyone stood beside him.

      "Not yet."

      "I heard you talking to someone in the house just now. It sounded like Frederick Ingram. He isn't here, surely?"

      Tark did not reply.

      "I didn't know you knew him," Haliburton went on.

      "I met him abroad," came the casual reply. Moy thought again how his voice suggested lack of use. Yet the man did not look an anchorite. Or did he? Moy, for one, had a feeling as though Tark lived in a cell—windowless, doorless, dark and utterly lonely.

      "Probably through no fault of your own," Haliburton said excusingly.

      Tark gave the half-smile, half-sneer that was his nearest to showing merriment.

      "I didn't realize that he was a brother of the mathematician Ingram. By the way, isn't he coming to stay here at the house too?"

      "Certainly not," was the instant rejoinder. "I believe Ingram has taken him on in a sort of semi-demi-secretarial position, but neither he nor Gilmour are fond of Frederick. Like most people." And with that Haliburton seemed to lose himself in the game again.

      "What's the matter with Ingram's play!" he ejaculated after another moment.

      "Miss Pratt," came the reply. Haliburton's eyes, following the other's, now saw Gilmour walking stolidly along, his eyes on the grass, like a worried owner thinking of re-turfing, and beside him, her face turned up to his downbent one, which did not even glance at her, pattered the little white shoes of Miss Pratt.

      Haliburton frowned and watched Ingram serve another fault.

      "Women always want what they can't get," Haliburton said at length, and for once his good nature sounded a trifle forced. "Miss Pratt has all the rest of us at her feet, and just because Gilmour holds out, she means to have his scalp."

      Moy came closer. He overheard the words. "She's a dreadful flirt," he threw in lightly. Moy wanted to hear what Haliburton would reply. Motives and cross currents, just now, were to Moy what rats are to a terrier. He could not pass them by.

      "I wouldn't call her a flirt," Haliburton said uneasily.

      Moy laughed at him.

      "You wouldn't call her anything but perfection." Haliburton reddened. He had a trick of that.

      "Oh, I don't know," he spoke awkwardly, "I don't mind owning that I wish she would stop trying to sweep Gilmour off his feet. There's no harm in her trying, of course, but—" He stopped, not quite sure how he intended to finish the sentence.

      "She'll soon tire of her effort," Moy now said soothingly, and in silence the three watched Ingram miss a ball that he could have caught with his eyes shut had he been his usual nimble-footed self. He won in the end, it was true, but the games he had lost he had given away. He now made for Miss Pratt, and Gilmour at once stepped back, waving them towards the house for drinks. Miss Pratt would have lingered, but Gilmour fairly swept them on their path and stood smiling a little as they went.

      Mrs. Pratt touched his arm. She, too, was smiling, but her eyes were not gay.

      "A word with you, Mr. Gilmour. Suppose we have a look at the malmaisons?" They turned a corner of the artificially intricate little garden. It cut them off from the courts. As they stood before the flowers she went on:

      "Mr. Gilmour, I think I must speak plainly to you."

      "By all means." His sunburned face smiled encouragingly down into her worn one. Mrs. Pratt had been as lovely as Winnie in her day, but no one would have guessed it now.

      "I want you to stop throwing my daughter at Mr. Ingram's head." She lifted her chin as she spoke and looked him straight in the eyes. For the first time, Gilmour really noticed her. He saw energy and will power in that face—qualities that he always admired. He saw more—the determination that makes things come to pass—another of his own likings.

      "I don't agree with your way of putting it," he said now, quietly, "but if you mean, that because Ingram is my friend, I want him to have the girl he loves, you're right. I do. He'll make her a splendid husband. Any mother could hand her daughter to Charles Ingram with confidence. I've known him for years, and I assure you that he——"

      She made an impatient snap with the fingers that hung down at her side.

      "Winnie is going to marry Mr. Haliburton. That was why I got out of all our other engagements to come here for this month. But your friend, Mr. Ingram, is quite another matter. I do not think she would be happy with him."

      He looked his dissent.

      "Please, Mr. Gilmour," the mother said to that, "please don't try to encourage your friend. He hasn't a hope of marrying her. She really does love Mr. Haliburton. She told me as much herself."

      "When?" he asked skeptically. "Months ago? But that's over, or nearly over."

      "Winnie's affections have a way of circling round," the mother, too, spoke a trifle dryly. There was a short silence.

      "As for your own conduct," she went on frankly, "it's splendid. But then, you're a born realist."

      "What's that?" he asked.

      "I mean by that, a person who goes for the substance and not for the shadow. Winnie is born to go for shadows. You have the good sense and cleverness to know that she's only making a fuss over you in order to tease poor Basil Haliburton."

      Gilmour liked being thought clever. "Is that it?" he asked. He looked genuinely relieved—and was.

      "It makes it damned awkward for me sometimes," he said honestly. "I wish she wouldn't!"

      For a second the mother's eyes flashed. And Mrs. Pratt's eyes could shoot fire on occasions, he saw to his surprise.

      "You're the first man who has ever complained about it," she said, and he grinned at once placatingly and ruefully.

      "I don't suppose I would either, but for—" He hesitated. "I'm giving you confidence for confidence, Mrs. Pratt. There's a certain girl whom I hope very much will some day be my wife. I want her to come up to The Tall House for a couple of days—"

      "That's just what I told Winnie!" she said almost jubilantly. "I felt sure there was something like that. I do congratulate you, Mr. Gilmour. What's her name?"

      "Alfreda Longstaff. But it's not settled—unfortunately. It's only a hope," he put in hastily.

      "Do have her up here," she begged. "I'll chaperone her with pleasure. But now to come back to my first, my only grievance," she smiled at him now with genuine kindliness, "please don't try to wreck your friend's life—for if he were really to fall in love with my daughter, it would be such a pity!"

      "It's too late to say that," Gilmour replied gravely. "He is deeply in love with her."

      "He'll have to get over it," she said bruskly.

      "I still don't see why he should have to." Gilmour's face was that of a man who would not easily give up his chosen path. "I don't in the least see why he should."

      There was no mistaking the change in Mrs. Pratt's look. For a second she stood pressing her lips together, then she said slowly:

      "Does Mr. Haliburton strike you as a man of unlimited patience? He doesn't