Тринадцать гостей / Thirteen Guests

His expression of surprise changed to a smile, and he walked up to the man. The man had an unlit cigarette in his mouth.

“Want a light?” inquired Mr. Chater.

The man looked livid. Mr. Chater struck a match. The man blew it out.

“See you presently,” he muttered.

“I wouldn’t,” answered Mr. Chater quietly.

Two seconds later, Mr. Chater was entering the car.

About to follow, Bultin changed his mind and strolled casually up to the man.

“You might as well,” he remarked, taking out his lighter.

“You’re supposed to burn one end, you know.”

The man switched round violently. Ten years previously Bultin would have dreamt of the expression in the man’s eyes. Now he merely found it undoubtedly interesting.

“I am Lionel Bultin,” he said. “I am spending the week-end at Bragley Court. I shall be there till Monday morning. I pay for material—provided, of course, that I use it.”

For the second time that evening, the man escaped a brainstorm by the breadth of a hair.

The first time it had nearly been caused by a penn’orth of mechanical music.

“Bragley Court,” he repeated, suddenly calm. “You’re going there, too, eh?” He bent forward and accepted the light. As he withdrew his head he added, “You’ll get something to write about.”

Chapter VI. Spottings of a Leopard

The drive to Bragley Court was stiff and uncomfortable. Bultin never did anything to put people at their ease, and Zena Wilding’s forced vivacity was as unhelpful as Bultin’s silence.

The one subject that most vitally interested the majority of the party was studiously avoided.

“Don’t you think there’s always a sort of a thrill, going to a new country house?” exclaimed Zena, trying nervously to be brilliant. “Something like the curtain going up on a play?”

“Yes,” answered Mrs. Chater dutifully.

It was not encouraging, but Zena prattled on:

“And then the guests—they’re like the characters—and you wonder what’s going to happen.

Of course, nothing particular ever really does happen. Just as well! Suppose it did—a fire, or a burglary, or a murder! No, thank you, we’ll leave that to the dramatists!”

She glanced at Bultin. She was speaking partly for his benefit, though partly also to drive her mind from the disturbing moment just before she had entered the car. If she made her conversation scintillating, Bultin might report it.