The Bungalow Mystery by Annie Haynes Read Free Book Online

girl’s big, terrified eyes, the passion in her voice. Had she been frightened, he wondered, in that awful moment when her soul stood face to face with the Great Beyond? Or had Death come swiftly, suddenly? Had she been one of those who pass through the cold waters all unknowing?
    A sick shiver shook Roger from head to foot as he threw the paper on the table and turned to the door.
    â€œIs it one of your long days, Roger, or shall you be in to lunch?” Miss Chilton called out as he was about to close the door. She was bending over the account of the accident again, returning to the harrowing details with renewed zest.
    Roger’s temper rose.
    â€œI can’t tell where I may be.”
    â€œBut Roger—” The rest of the sentence was lost as her nephew strode down the passage into the surgery, banging the double doors that ensured his absolute seclusion.
    He drew his case-book towards him from force of habit, and ran his fingers down the list for the day; but though he was apparently regarding every particular with the deepest attention, in reality he could not have repeated one word from the page before him. He shuddered as he thrust his books aside; and, dropping heavily into the straight-backed chair beside him, sat with his elbows on his knees, his eyes fixed unseeingly straight before him.
    At last he rose, and, as if moving without his own volition, opened a drawer, took out a time-table, and turned over its pages rapidly. Yes, there it was—“Sutton Boldon, 10.45; Sheffield, 12.20; Northchester, 1.38.” There was ample time for him to get to Northchester and back, ample time to ascertain who had been killed in the Northchester disaster. A very few minutes for deliberation, and his mind was made up. The fact that his friend, Sir James Courtenay, was among the injured was excuse enough for his action if excuse was needed, and when the 10.45 steamed out of Sutton Boldon Station, Roger Lavington was snugly ensconced in a corner seat of a first-class smoking compartment.
    No sooner, however, was he fairly on his way, than, manlike, he began to think he had done wrong in coming, to call himself a fool for his pains. What was it to him what became of the girl? he asked himself savagely. With her departure from Freshfield, the responsibility which had been thrust upon him ceased, the episode was closed.
    Opposite him two men were discussing the accident, dwelling on the ghastly details with gusto, it seemed in his irritation. In vain he lighted the meerschaum that had been his unfailing resource since his college days, and tried to detach his thoughts. Scraps of their conversation would reach his ears.
    â€œOne poor thing was found with her head jammed back against the woodwork; her neck was broken.”
    â€œWas that the woman that they say was wanted for the Bungalow murder?”
    â€œNo. She was in the front of the train; this one I’m speaking of was behind. Queer thing that is too. I notice they do not say in the papers what the clue was they have discovered; it might defeat the ends of justice, I suppose. But I see in the late edition that she is quite young, a mere girl. Well, well, I dare say it is best it should end like that. Though, mind you, there was more in that Bungalow murder than meets the eye. I can read between the lines.”
    The speaker was a short, squat-figured man of middle age, with a white, flat, flabby face bordered by sandy side-whiskers; his expression was one of exasperating complacence. With a muttered exclamation Roger thrust his head out of the window. Withdrawing it presently he became aware that his travelling companions were still engaged in the discussion of the same topic.
    â€œA girl like that does not commit a murder for nothing, I say. Probably Rheinhart thoroughly deserved his fate.”
    His companions carried on their conversation, casting curious glances at Roger now and then. Roger had an uncomfortable feeling that they thought