Down Under by Patricia Wentworth Read Free Book Online Page B

can.”
    He gazed abstractedly at the words.
    Miller finished drawing the curtains and came back. Ananias, gratified, stretched a wing and, rising upon his toes, began to chant a forbidden ditty of the sea.
    â€œNo, Ananias—certainly not!”
    â€œThe gentleman is waiting, sir,” said Miller.
    There came into the room Oliver Loddon who had not slept for a week. That was actually the first thing Mr Smith perceived. His absent-minded gaze, which appeared to go past a guest, informed him that here was a man who had come to the end of his tether.
    Oliver himself received a most curious impression. He had come here because it was a week since Rose Anne had disappeared and there was still no news—because he had done everything else that he could think of—because it was easier to do something than to do nothing. The impression he received was one which he could not have put into words—a handsome, dignified room, an almost incredibly distinguished looking old gentleman with an absent, courteous manner. All this was on the surface, and touched only the surface of his mind, but there was something else, something undefined and indefinable, which entered his mood and changed it. He had forced himself to come, but he did not have to force himself to stay. He got no nearer to it than that. The grey parrot on the perch by the window looked over its shoulder and fixed him with a long, unwinking stare.
    â€œIf you will sit down, Captain Loddon, and tell me—er—what I can do for you—”
    Oliver sat down on the edge of a deep leather armchair. He would have preferred to stand.
    Mr Smith sank into the companion chair.
    â€œLoveday Ross,” he said—“you come from Loveday Ross?”
    Ananias lost interest in his toilet at the sound of Loveday’s name. He turned quite round and began to execute a kind of solemn dance, two steps this way and two steps that, with an arching claw and wings half spread. He said, “Loveday—Loveday—Loveday!” on a loud squawking note.
    â€œ No , Ananias!”
    Ananias dropped to a crooning whisper. An attentive listener might still have caught Loveday’s name.
    Oliver Loddon had no attention to spare. For a whole week now, night and day, his thoughts had turned and swung, now slow, now fast, about the central fact of Rose Anne’s disappearance, the same thoughts going round and round like some infernal gramophone record which he had no power to check or change. He said in a hard, strained voice,
    â€œI’m taking up your time. I came because of Loveday, but I’ve no right to be troubling you, sir.”
    Mr Smith was leaning back. The long fingers of his right hand lay pale upon the arm of the chair. The hand lifted for a moment and fell again.
    â€œIf you would—er—tell me why Loveday sent you to me—”
    â€œIt’s no use,” said Oliver. “I don’t see what you can do—what anyone can do.”
    Mr Smith began to remember a headline in one of the papers which he did not read. Garratt had brought it in and dropped it—and there had been a headline.… “Vanishing Bride”—yes, that was it—and a photograph, an incredibly bad photograph of the young man who was staring at him now. It had been labelled “Deserted Bridegroom.” He said in his pleasant, cultured voice,
    â€œI really think it would be better if you would tell me what has brought you here.”
    â€œI thought you would have seen it in the papers,” said Oliver bitterly.
    Mr Smith looked past him.
    â€œI—er—read The Times . You had better, I think, assume that I—er—know nothing of your affairs.”
    Something clicked in Oliver’s mind. “He does know something then. Why did I come? What’s the good of it anyhow? She’s gone.”
    â€œYes, Captain Loddon?”
    â€œI was to have been married a week ago today—to