It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. “I shall probably want you to come down to the ‘Unusual’ to-morrow morning,” he said. Cathy answered the phone. ‘Have you any more pretty toys like that knife about you?’ ‘The girl’s a regular arsenal,’ Hilary snapped, giving up into his senior’s hand the nasty little weapon he had snatched. I’m okay. Worse than any man. The room was papered with green, large-patterned paper that was at worst a trifle dingy, and the arm-chair and the seats of the other chairs were covered with the unusual brightness of a large-patterned chintz, which also supplied the window-curtain. You know not in what dark places my life has been cast; with what crimes it has been stained. Ran in the family.
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