Comes a Stranger by E.R. Punshon Read Free Book Online

the eyes showed beneath them a puffiness that suggested a tendency to self indulgence. The third member of the little group was a tall, exceedingly handsome youngster with hair that was a mass of yellow curls, features of classic perfection, that ‘schoolgirl complexion’ the advertisements talk of, a head beautifully modelled, though perhaps a little small, and set on square, athletic shoulders of a singularly graceful body. At the moment, however, these remarkable good looks of his were somewhat spoiled by a black and scowling expression and the nervous twitching of his rosebud mouth. Bobby indeed had the impression that he had just been shaking his fist at one or other or both of his companions. At the opening of the cellar door, when Olive and Bobby came in, he swung round, gave them an even blacker scowl, and then marched away. They heard Miss. Perkins’s nervous giggle, they heard the library door banged with considerable force, and in a whisper Bobby said to Olive:
    â€œWho is the film star in the naughty temper?”
    â€œNat Kayne, Miss Kayne’s cousin,” Olive answered. “He is the heir and he is always wanting to get the library sold to the Welsh University because then he would get a half share at once. The other man is Sir William Winders, the senior trustee.”
    Mr. Broast had watched Nat Kayne’s stormy exit with a kind of amused and yet regretful tenderness. He made an expressive gesture with those fine, white hands of his as if to say that to the young much must be excused and then came forward and very pleasantly introduced himself and Sir William.
    â€œWe were all quite excited,” he said smilingly, “to know Miss Olive was bringing a real live Scotland Yard detective to visit us. Evidently only a spotless conscience would allow its owner to get engaged to a detective.”
    â€œPolice,” growled Sir William, who seemed less inclined to be amiable, “used to be a very decent set of men—getting a bit above themselves now. Fussy. Cars and all that,” he concluded vaguely, from which Bobby instantly deduced that there had been some trouble about speeding or leaving a car unattended or something of the sort.
    â€œCan’t fuss too much with the deaths on the road what they are,” declared Mr. Broast with another smile at Bobby. “Sometimes I wish they would fuss a bit more. But I don’t suppose Mr. Owen has much to do with the traffic problem?”
    â€œNo, nothing at all,” agreed Bobby, and began to be aware that for all the smiling ease Mr. Broast showed, those clear, bright eyes of his were regarding his visitors with an almost fierce intensity.
    Natural enough, no doubt, that Olive’s friends should be keenly interested in the policeman on whom they probably—and reasonably—considered that she was most foolishly throwing herself away.
    â€œAnd then,” Mr. Broast continued, “I had a special reason for feeling so interested when I knew you were a detective officer. A very special, personal reason.”
    â€œOh, yes,” said Bobby, suddenly afraid that Mr. Broast, like Miss Kayne, was about to declare that he also had in the past committed the perfect murder. Bobby was quite relieved when Mr. Broast merely continued:
    â€œBecause, you see, I’m a detective, too.”
    â€œIndeed,” murmured Bobby.
    â€œMuch of my work,” explained Mr. Broast, “lies in tracking down rare editions, association books, and in identifying them by all manner of small details. I could tell you a story of how I traced the Caxton Mandeville leaves half across Europe. You start after your murderers from a dropped button or a burnt-out match, and the end is the gallows. I start—once I did so literally—from the burnt match, and I end with the discovery of a book perhaps unique.”
    â€œPrefer your sort of hunt,” growled Sir William. “Hate to think of hanging people,”