The Studio Crime Read Online Free Page A

one!”
    She turned towards Merewether, who had gone back to his place at the mantelpiece; and at that moment she herself had a sensation, one of those sensations that were the breath of life to her as a novelist. On the doctor’s calm and rather arrogant face there were tiny beads of sweat, and the cigarette he was holding between his fingers was quite flattened out by the pressure of his half-clenched hand.
    â€œDr. Merewether,” she said softly.
    He turned towards her with a smooth, courteous movement, and smiled. But at her steady, thoughtful glance a queer expression came momentarily into his eyes—a look half appealing, half inimical, as though he defied her to read his thoughts. Serafine, whose curiosity about her fellow-creatures was insatiable, and who, at first sight of him, had thought the doctor easily the most unusual and interesting person in the room, beckoned him to her side. With a good deal of the novelist’s complacent interest in other people’s troubles and a little of the sympathy of a kindly if hard-headed woman, she wanted to hear him talk. He came, his face an agreeable if rather melancholy mask.
    â€œTell me,” said Serafine, making room for him on the settee, “something about Gordon Frew. What’s he like?”
    Merewether paused, then replied expressionlessly:
    â€œTall, with a black beard.”
    â€œHave you read the book about Persia he published a month or two ago?”
    â€œNo. Have you?”
    â€œSome of it. I thought it rather dull, to tell the truth.”
    â€œOh.”
    â€œWhat does he do besides collecting rugs?”
    The doctor smiled.
    â€œCollects bronzes.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œCollects Buddhas.”
    Serafine laughed.
    â€œAnd is that all you can tell me?”
    Merewether smiled politely, but his glance strayed as though this personal conversation displeased or bored him.
    â€œWhy, yes, that’s all. I hardly know him, except—” He stopped a moment and went on levelly: “Except in my professional capacity.”
    â€œOh,” said Serafine, noting his restless glance and maliciously prolonging the conversation to punish him for it. “Now I’ll tell you what you’ve told me. He’s travelled a lot. He’s acquisitive, like all of us. He has money, unlike most of us. And—you don’t like him.”
    Merewether said nothing. The lines of his face seemed to harden for a moment. Then a formal, constrained smile appeared upon his lips, and turning with cold politeness towards Miss Wimpole he seemed about to make some aloof, non-committal reply. He paused, looking with a sort of intent absent-mindedness at a carved cornelian ring on his finger, and then said quietly and surprisingly:
    â€œNo. I don’t like him.”
    Serafine felt a little embarrassed at this unexpected honesty, and her heart warmed to the doctor. He said no more, and she was rather relieved when Laurence summoned them all to the door. She took John’s arm as they all went leisurely up the dim-lit staircase to Mr. Frew’s studio. The fanlight over the door was open, and through it the fog drifted thinly in and up the staircase. Serafine sniffed.
    â€œI hate the smell of fog. It’s the worst part of it.”
    â€œWorse than the murders?” asked Laurence, greatly daring, over his shoulder.
    Serafine laughed. The little man was thawing.
    On the landing Mrs. Wimpole withdrew her hand from Laurence’s arm and stood panting gently with closed eyes.
    â€œOh dear!” stammered Laurence, almost perspiring with compunction. “I’ve rushed you up too fast.”
    â€œOh dear no!” murmured Imogen on a fluttering breath. “But if I might... just take a rest... before going in...”
    Her voice died away on a sighing breath in which Laurence thought he could distinguish something about the importance of a good first impression. Watching the lady’s gentle