"Was there anything unusual in the conversation--anything like a
quarrel?" Dundee prompted.
"Oh, no!" Penny protested. "Nothing happened out of the ordinary at
all--No, wait! Nita received a letter by messenger--or rather a note,
when we were about half through luncheon--"
There was a low, strangled-in-the-throat cry from someone. Who had
uttered it Dundee could not be sure, since his eyes had been on his
notebook. But what had really interrupted Penny Crain was a crash.
CHAPTER FOUR
"Pardon! Awfully sorry," Clive Hammond muttered, as he bent to pick up
the fragments of a colored pottery ashtray which he and his fiancee,
Polly Beale, had been sharing.
"Don't worry--about picking it up," Polly commanded in her brusque
voice, but Dundee, listening acutely, was sure of a very slight pause
between the two parts of her sentence.
He glanced at the couple--the tall, masculine-looking girl, lounging
deep in an armchair, Clive Hammond, rather unusually good-looking with
his dark-red hair, brown eyes, and a face and body as compactly and
symmetrically designed as one of the buildings which had been pointed
out to Dundee as the product of the young architect's genius, now
resuming his seat upon the arm of the chair. His chief concern seemed
to be for another ashtray, which Sergeant Turner, with a grin,
produced from one of the many little tables with which the room was
provided.
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