Тринадцать гостей / Thirteen Guests

“It’s Earnshaw, isn’t it?” As Pratt did not respond, he added, “Hope I’m not asking too many questions; but when you’re a sort of stranger—well, it’s helpful to know things. Often saves you from making a faux pas. Curiosity’s not one of my natural vices.”

“That idea would never occur to me, Mr. Chater,” observed Pratt ironically.

The irony made no impression.

“I admit I would rather like to see that picture, though,” Chater went on. “Is one allowed in the studio?”

“I’m afraid it’s locked,” replied Pratt.

“Locked? Then how did you get in?” inquired Chater.

“I have the key,” said Pratt, “and I locked it.”

“That sounds as if you’re Leicester Pratt.”

“I am.”

“You might have warned me. Now I shall spend the rest of the evening trying to recall our conversation to see if I’ve put my foot in it! Or p’r’aps you’ll save me the trouble? Have I?”

There was something cheap, almost insulting, in Chater’s coolness, which appeared to have been deliberately acquired, whereas the sangfroid of Pratt was a natural inheritance.

“You have not even put your foot in my studio. Or—have you?”

“What, put my foot in your studio?” exclaimed Chater. “How could I have, if it’s locked?”

“It wasn’t locked ten minutes ago.”

Chater’s expression changed slightly. It was still cool, but a watchful quality entered into it.

“Ten minutes ago I was saying good-evening to a maid,” he said.

A clock struck seven as he spoke. It was a clock over the stables.

“I see,” murmured Pratt. “Then you have not been out here ten minutes?”

“I’d just come out when I met you.”

“Did you meet anybody else?”

“Excuse me, Mr. Pratt, but what’s all this about?”

Pratt shrugged his shoulders.

“Nothing important,” he replied. “See you at dinner.”

Chater turned his head as Pratt began to resume his way.

“Do we like each other?” he asked.

“Not a bit,” answered Pratt.

That was also Chater’s conviction as, after watching the artist disappear into the house, he himself turned back to the flagged path and walked towards the studio. If Pratt had not locked the studio door, he would not have seen the thirteenth guest at dinner.

Bultin was fixing an over-large white tie round his collar when Pratt rejoined him. Bultin liked large things.