Frankie attacked Sylvia the following morning.
She started by saying carelessly:
“What was that man’s name you mentioned last night? Alan Carstairs,was it? I feel sure I’ve heard that name before.”
“I daresay you have. He’s rather a celebrity1 in his way, I believe. He’s aCanadian—a naturalist2 and big game hunter and explorer. I don’t reallyknow him. Some friends of ours, the Rivingtons, brought him down hereone day for lunch. A very attractive man—big and bronzed and nice blueeyes.”
“I was sure I’d heard of him.”
“He’d never been over to this country before, I believe. Last year hewent on a tour through Africa with that millionaire man, John Savage—the one who thought he had cancer and killed himself in that tragic3 way.
Carstairs has been all over the world. East Africa, South America—simplyeverywhere, I believe.”
“Sounds a nice adventurous4 person,” said Frankie.
“Oh, he was. Distinctly attractive.”
“Funny—his being so like the man who fell over the cliff at Marchbolt,”
said Frankie.
“I wonder if everyone has a double.”
They compared instances, citing Adolf Beck and referring lightly to theLyons Mail. Frankie was careful to make no further references to AlanCarstairs. To show too much interest in him would be fatal.
In her own mind, however, she felt she was getting on now. She wasquite convinced that Alan Carstairs had been the victim of the cliff tragedyat Marchbolt. He fulfilled all the conditions. He had no intimate friends orrelations in this country and his disappearance5 was unlikely to be noticedfor some time. A man who frequently ran off to East Africa and SouthAmerica was not likely to be missed at once. Moreover, Frankie noted6, al-though Sylvia Bassington-ffrench had commented on the resemblance inthe newspaper reproduction, it had not occurred to her for a moment thatit actually was the man.
That, Frankie thought, was rather an interesting bit of psychology7.
We seldom suspect people who are “news” of being people we have usu-ally seen or met.
Very good, then. Alan Carstairs was the dead man. The next step was tolearn more about Alan Carstairs. His connection with the Bassington-ffrenches seemed to have been of the slightest. He had been brought downthere quite by chance by friends. What was the name? Rivington. Frankiestored it in her memory for future use.
That certainly was a possible avenue of inquiry8. But it would be well togo slowly. Inquiries9 about Alan Carstairs must be very discreetly10 made.
“I don’t want to be poisoned or knocked on the head,” thought Frankiewith a grimace11. “They were ready enough to bump off Bobby for practic-ally nothing at all—”
Her thoughts flew off at a tangent to that tantalizing12 phrase that hadstarted the whole business.
Evans! Who was Evans? Where did Evans fit in?
“A dope gang,” decided13 Frankie. Perhaps some relation of Carstairs wasvictimized, and he was determined14 to bust15 it up. Perhaps he came to Eng-land for that purpose. Evans may have been one of the gang who had re-tired and gone to Wales to live. Carstairs had bribed16 Evans to give the oth-ers away and Evans had consented and Carstairs went there to see him,and someone followed him and killed him.
Was that somebody Roger Bassington-ffrench? It seemed very unlikely.
The Caymans, now, were far more what Frankie imagined a gang of dopesmugglers would be likely to be.
And yet—that photograph. If only there was some explanation of thatphotograph.
That evening, Dr. Nicholson and his wife were expected to dinner.
Frankie was finishing dressing17 when she heard their car drive up to thefront door. Her window faced that way and she looked out.
A tall man was just alighting from the driver’s seat of a dark-blue Talbot.
Frankie withdrew her head thoughtfully.
Carstairs had been a Canadian. Dr. Nicholson was a Canadian. And Dr.
Nicholson had a dark-blue Talbot.
Absurd to build anything upon that, of course, but wasn’t it just faintlysuggestive?
Dr. Nicholson was a big man with a manner that suggested great re-serves of power. His speech was slow, on the whole he said very little, butcontrived somehow to make every word sound significant. He wore strongglasses and behind them his very pale-blue eyes glittered reflectively.
His wife was a slender creature of perhaps twenty-seven, pretty, indeedbeautiful. She seemed, Frankie, thought, slightly nervous and chatteredrather feverishly18 as though to conceal19 the fact.
“You had an accident, I hear, Lady Frances,” said Dr. Nicholson as hetook his seat beside her at the dinner table.
Frankie explained the catastrophe20. She wondered why she should feelso nervous doing so. The doctor’s manner was simple and interested. Whyshould she feel as though she were rehearsing a defence to a charge thathad never been made. Was there any earthly reason why the doctorshould disbelieve in her accident?
“That was too bad,” he said, as she finished, having, perhaps, made amore detailed21 story of it than seemed strictly22 necessary. “But you seem tohave made a very good recovery.”
“We won’t admit she’s cured yet. We’re keeping her with us,” saidSylvia.
The doctor’s gaze went to Sylvia. Something like a very faint smile cameto his lips but passed almost immediately.
“I should keep her with you as long as possible,” he said gravely.
Frankie was sitting between her host and Dr. Nicholson. Henry Bassing-ton-ffrench was decidedly moody23 tonight. His hands twitched24, he ate nextto nothing and he took no part in the conversation.
Mrs. Nicholson, opposite, had a difficult time with him, and turned toRoger with obvious relief. She talked to him in a desultory25 fashion, butFrankie noticed that her eyes were never long absent from her husband’sface.
Dr. Nicholson was talking about life in the country.
“Do you know what a culture is, Lady Frances?”
“Do you mean book learning?” asked Frankie, rather puzzled.
“No, no. I was referring to germs. They develop, you know, in speciallyprepared serum26. The country, Lady Frances, is a little like that. There istime and space and infinite leisure—suitable conditions, you see, for de-velopment.”
“Do you mean bad things?” asked Frankie puzzled.
“That depends, Lady Frances, on the kind of germ cultivated.”
Idiotic27 conversation, thought Frankie, and why should it make me feelcreepy, but it does!
She said flippantly:
“I expect I’m developing all sorts of dark qualities.”
He looked at her and said calmly:
“Oh, no, I don’t think so, Lady Frances. I think you would always be onthe side of law and order.”
Was there a faint emphasis on the word law?
Suddenly, across the table, Mrs. Nicholson said:
“My husband prides himself on summing up character.”
Dr. Nicholson nodded his head gently.
“Quite right, Moira. Little things interest me.” He turned to Frankieagain. “I had heard of your accident, you know. One thing about it in-trigued me very much.”
“Yes?” said Frankie, her heart beating suddenly.
“The doctor who was passing—the one who brought you in here.”
“Yes?”
“He must have had a curious character—to turn his car before going tothe rescue.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Of course not. You were unconscious. But young Reeves, the messageboy, came from Staverley on his bicycle and no car passed him, yet hecomes round the corner, finds the smash, and the doctor’s car pointing thesame way he was going—towards London. You see the point? The doctordid not come from the direction of Staveley so he must have come theother way, down the hill. But in that case his car should have been point-ing towards Staverley. But it wasn’t. Therefore he must have turned it.”
“Unless he had come from Staverley some time before,” said Frankie.
“Then his car would have been standing28 there as you came down thehill. Was it?”
The pale-blue eyes were looking at her very intently through the thickglasses.
“I don’t remember,” said Frankie. “I don’t think so.”
“You sound like a detective, Jasper,” said Mrs. Nicholson. “And all aboutnothing at all.”
“Little things interest me,” said Nicholson.
He turned to his hostess, and Frankie drew a breath of relief.
Why had he catechized her like that? How had he found out all aboutthe accident? “Little things interest me,” he had said. Was that all therewas to it?
Frankie remembered the dark- blue Talbot saloon, and the fact thatCarstairs had been a Canadian. It seemed to her that Dr. Nicholson was asinister man.
She kept out of his way after dinner, attaching herself to the gentle, fra-gile Mrs. Nicholson. She noticed that all the time Mrs. Nicholson’s eyes stillwatched her husband. Was it love, Frankie wondered, or fear?
Nicholson devoted29 himself to Sylvia and at half past ten he caught hiswife’s eye and they rose to go.
“Well,” said Roger after they had gone, “what do you think of our Dr.
Nicholson? A very forceful personality, hasn’t he?”
“I’m like Sylvia,” said Frankie. “I don’t think I like him very much. I likeher better.”
“Good-looking, but rather a little idiot,” said Roger. “She either worshipshim or is scared to death of him—I don’t know which.”
“That’s just what I wondered,” agreed Frankie.
“I don’t like him,” said Sylvia, “but I must admit that he’s got a lot of—offorce. I believe he’s cured drugtakers in the most marvellous way. Peoplewhose relations despaired utterly30. They’ve gone there as a last hope andcome out absolutely cured.”
“Yes,” cried Henry Bassington- ffrench suddenly. “And do you knowwhat goes on there? Do you know the awful suffering and mental tor-ment? A man’s used to a drug and they cut him off it—cut him off it—tillhe goes raving31 mad for the lack of it and beats his head against the wall.
That’s what he does — your ‘forceful’ doctor tortures people — torturesthem—sends them to Hell—drives them mad. .?.?.”
He was shaking violently. Suddenly he turned and left the room.
Sylvia Bassington-ffrench looked startled.
“What is the matter with Henry?” she said wonderingly. “He seems veryupset.”
Frankie and Roger dared not look at each other.
“He’s not looked well all evening,” ventured Frankie.
“No. I noticed that. He’s very moody lately. I wish he hadn’t given upriding. Oh, by the way, Dr. Nicholson invited Tommy over tomorrow, but Idon’t like him going there very much — not with all those queer nervecases and dope-takers.”
“I don’t suppose the doctor would allow him to come into contact withthem,” said Roger. “He seems very fond of children.”
“Yes, I think it’s a disappointment he hasn’t got any of his own. Probablyto her, too. She looks very sad—and terribly delicate.”
“She’s like a sad Madonna,” said Frankie.
“Yes, that describes her very well.”
“If Dr. Nicholson is so fond of children I suppose he came to your chil-dren’s party?” said Frankie carelessly.
“Unfortunately he was away for a day or two just then. I think he had togo to London for some conference.”
“I see.”
They went up to bed. Before she went to sleep, Frankie wrote to Bobby.

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1
celebrity
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n.名人,名流;著名,名声,名望 | |
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2
naturalist
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n.博物学家(尤指直接观察动植物者) | |
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3
tragic
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adj.悲剧的,悲剧性的,悲惨的 | |
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4
adventurous
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adj.爱冒险的;惊心动魄的,惊险的,刺激的 | |
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5
disappearance
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n.消失,消散,失踪 | |
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6
noted
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adj.著名的,知名的 | |
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7
psychology
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n.心理,心理学,心理状态 | |
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8
inquiry
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n.打听,询问,调查,查问 | |
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9
inquiries
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n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 );疑问;探究;打听 | |
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10
discreetly
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ad.(言行)审慎地,慎重地 | |
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11
grimace
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v.做鬼脸,面部歪扭 | |
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12
tantalizing
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adj.逗人的;惹弄人的;撩人的;煽情的v.逗弄,引诱,折磨( tantalize的现在分词 ) | |
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13
decided
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adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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14
determined
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adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
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15
bust
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vt.打破;vi.爆裂;n.半身像;胸部 | |
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16
bribed
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v.贿赂( bribe的过去式和过去分词 );向(某人)行贿,贿赂 | |
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17
dressing
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n.(食物)调料;包扎伤口的用品,敷料 | |
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18
feverishly
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adv. 兴奋地 | |
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19
conceal
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v.隐藏,隐瞒,隐蔽 | |
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20
catastrophe
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n.大灾难,大祸 | |
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21
detailed
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adj.详细的,详尽的,极注意细节的,完全的 | |
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22
strictly
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adv.严厉地,严格地;严密地 | |
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23
moody
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adj.心情不稳的,易怒的,喜怒无常的 | |
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24
twitched
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vt.& vi.(使)抽动,(使)颤动(twitch的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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25
desultory
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adj.散漫的,无方法的 | |
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26
serum
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n.浆液,血清,乳浆 | |
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27
idiotic
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adj.白痴的 | |
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28
standing
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n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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29
devoted
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adj.忠诚的,忠实的,热心的,献身于...的 | |
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utterly
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adv.完全地,绝对地 | |
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raving
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adj.说胡话的;疯狂的,怒吼的;非常漂亮的;令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话;疯话adv.胡言乱语地;疯狂地 | |
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