From
the top of his trimly-cut grey crown to his neatly-shod silent feet he
exuded deference and respectability. His impassive mask of a face was
incapable--apart from the faint query note in the eyes--of betraying
any of the feelings or emotions which ruffle the countenances of
common humanity.
On the way downstairs, Hill saw Police-Constable Flack in conversation
with a lady at the front door. The lady was well-known to the butler as
Mrs. Holymead, the wife of a distinguished barrister, who had been one of
his master's closest friends. She seemed glad to see the butler, for she
greeted him with a remark that seemed to imply a kinship in sorrow.
"Isn't this a dreadful thing, Hill?" she said.
"It's terrible, madam," replied Hill respectfully.
Mrs. Holymead was extremely beautiful, but it was obvious that she was
distressed at the tragedy, for her eyes were full of tears, and her
olive-tinted face was pale. She was about thirty years of age; tall,
slim, and graceful. Her beauty was of the Spanish type: straight-browed,
lustrous-eyed, and vivid; a clear olive skin, and full, petulant, crimson
lips. She was fashionably dressed in black, with a black hat.
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