The Vanity Case by Carolyn Wells

Author:Carolyn Wells [Carolyn Wells]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: F
ISBN: 9788726894837
Publisher: SAGA Egmont
Published: 2021-08-23T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 11

An Artist Or A Woman

While the confab was going on in the Heath studio, Mrs. Prentiss was sitting at her window, wondering whether to go over to the Heaths’ house or not.

Her curiosity was as strong as usual and her inclination was to go, but a strange sense of caution held her back.

She felt, intuitively, that she could do no good over there and might do harm. Moreover, she could have a report of what had transpired, when her nephew and her guest reappeared, and so, Mrs. Prentiss sat, waiting and thinking.

She thought of the strange wilfulness of the flapper of to-day, thought how wise and sophisticated Bunny was, and though the idea shocked her beyond words, she was forced to admit to herself that she could believe Bunny had killed Mrs. Heath either with or without the connivance of Perry Heath, himself.

She didn’t feel that she did believe this, but knew that if there was much more evidence against Bunny, she might have to believe it.

This did not turn her heart against the girl, on the contrary, she felt a strong impulse to protect her, to hide her, if necessary, from the clutches of the law.

For Bunny was an appealing little person. With all her flippancy and pertness, she had a sweet, loving nature, and Mrs. Prentiss, with her childless hearth and motherly heart, longed to comfort and protect the poor little thing.

The telephone rang, and Mrs. Prentiss answered it herself. This was her custom, for her quick curiosity never could wait for the intervention of a servant’s offices.

A man’s voice said, “May I speak to Miss Moore, please?”

“Who is calling?” Mrs. Prentiss responded, in a tone which she endeavored to make sound like that of a servant.

“No matter. Merely ask Miss Moore to come to the telephone. This is important.”

The voice was cold, dictatorial and impatient. Clearly, the speaker was in a temper.

Now, Mrs. Prentiss did not know Perry Heath well, but her ever present intuition hinted to her that it might be she was listening to his voice.

It didn’t sound exactly like Heath, but some voices are different on the telephone, and she couldn’t be sure.

Taking a chance, she said, still in the deferential tone of a servant:

“Is this Mr. Heath? Miss Bunny said she would not speak on the telephone to anyone else.”

Mrs. Prentiss heard the astonished gasp at the other end of the line, and grinned with satisfaction.

But the reply came: “Heath? No, this is—this is Jackson. Please tell Miss Moore I must speak with her. You may say I have important news for her.”

Suddenly Emily Prentiss felt that she was overstepping the bounds of propriety. She was a gentlewoman, not a detective, and she had no right to intercept or eavesdrop upon a private communication.

So she said simply, “Miss Moore is next door at the Heath house. If you wish, you can call her there.”

“Thank you,” was the response, and without further good-by, the voice ceased.

The advice, however, was followed, for a few moments later the telephone bell rang in the Heath studio.

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