Тринадцать гостей / Thirteen Guests

“Somebody’s gone mad here,” he thought. “All in a moment.”

He recalled the moment when he had seen red in the passage outside his bedroom. Yes… it could happen.

He turned away from the canvas, to control himself. He stared round the studio. On another easel was a large painting of a stag, done by Anne herself. It was not good, saving for the terrible, dull fear she had somehow planted in the stag’s eyes—a fear she should not have known about, since she hunted. He concentrated on the stag’s eyes for a few seconds, then turned his own eyes back to the ruined canvas. The fit of trembling had passed.

“Queer game,” he said aloud. “I wonder whether I shall ever have the pleasure of painting the person who did this?”

He glanced at his watch. Five minutes to seven. He left the studio abruptly, locked the door, and put the key in his pocket. A spent cigarette-end loomed dully from the ground. He picked it up.

Some one was moving in the path. He dashed forward and grabbed. Sheer instinct had caused the sudden action. A hand banged him in the chest, and he staggered. When he had recovered, he was alone.

As he came to the end of the flagged path a figure met him off the edge of the lawn.

“Good-evening,” said the figure.

Pratt regarded the face that rose abruptly before his, and smiled.

“Good-evening, Mr. Chater,” he answered.

“That’s a good guess,” replied Chater. “We’ve not met.”

“No, that’s how I guessed,” responded Pratt. “Process of elimination. You came on the 5.56, didn’t you?”

“That’s right.”

“You’ve not been here before?”

“No, my first visit. Rather a nice place, isn’t it? I’m just having a stroll round.”

“I’m afraid you won’t see much in this darkness.”

“Enough to get one’s bearings. Where does this lead? Is that building over there the stables?”

He was gazing along the flagged path.

“No, that’s a studio,” answered Pratt.

“Oh, yes, there’s an artist here, isn’t there?”

“Well—he calls himself an artist. Are you interested in art, by any chance?”

“Me? Not particularly. Who’s the fellow?”

“What fellow?”

“The artist?”

“Leicester Pratt.”

“Oh, Leicester Pratt! He’s rather the craze just now, isn’t he?”

“Some people like his work.”

“And some don’t?”

“They all pay big prices for it.”

“Then I don’t suppose he worries! Is he painting anybody here?”

Pratt paused for a second before replying.

“I have just been looking at a picture he is painting of somebody here.”

“Good?”

“He thinks so.”

“Who’s it of?”

“Lord Aveling’s daughter.”

“Oh, not his wife.”

The remark was made carelessly, but Pratt realised that his face was being watched, and he took great pains that it should convey nothing as he answered dryly:

“I said his daughter.”

“So you did,” smiled Chater. “Rather an attractive girl, though I’ve only seen her for a moment. Isn’t she just going to be engaged or something?”

“Do I follow you?”

“Eh?”

“The ‘something?’”

Chater’s smile augmented to a laugh, and his teeth gleamed in the dusk.

“Don’t mean to insinuate anything,” he said. “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.