"Why did we come?" Holmes' crooked eyebrow slid upward as his face
registered mock reproof. "My, my, what a warm welcome, my dear." He
shook his head and Charity laughed in spite of herself.
"Don't mind my bearishness," she made half apology. "You know what
pleasant moods I fall into while working. And this rain is depressing."
"But Miss Biglow is right." Creighton smiled his rare, shy smile.
Brusque and impatient as he was when on business bent, he was awkwardly
uncomfortable in ordinary company. The man, Val sometimes thought
privately, lived, ate, slept books. Save when they were the subject of
conversation, he was as out of his element as a coal-miner at the
ballet. "We should explain the reason for this--this rather abrupt
call." He fingered his brief-case, which he still clutched, nervously.
"Down to business already." Holmes seated himself on the arm of Ricky's
chair. "Very well, out with it."
Creighton smiled again, laid the case across his knees, and looked
straight at Ricky. For some reason he talked to her, as if she above all
others must be firmly convinced of the importance of his mission.
"It is a very queer story, Miss Ralestone, a very queer--"
"Said the mariner to the wedding guest." Holmes snapped his fingers at
Satan, who contemptuously ignored him. "Or am I thinking of the Whiting
who talked to the Snail?"
"Perhaps I had better begin at the beginning," continued Creighton,
frowning at Holmes who refused to be so suppressed.
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