Читать книгу The 'Phone Booth Mystery онлайн

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There was the usual bustling throng passing in and out of the station, and on the curb stood a newsboy vociferating monotonously,

“’Orrible murder of a Society lady; pyper—speshul.”

“What is it, Roger? Oh, what is it?” cried Grace, leaning forward in her turn and craning her pretty neck. The newsboy turned aside at that instant, and she did not see the placard he was exhibiting, but Roger had seen it:

LADY

RAWSON

MURDERED!

The great black letters seemed to hit him in the face. He felt for a moment as if he had received a physical and stunning blow.

“What is it?” Grace repeated, as the cab glided on.

“What? Oh, nothing at all, dear. I thought I saw someone I knew,” he muttered confusedly. But his face was ghastly, and little beads of sweat started out on his forehead.

“Here’s George!” he added, and Winston, who had gone on with the luggage, opened the door of the taxi. He also looked worried and flustered, though perhaps that was only natural since he greeted them with:

“Here you are at last! I thought you were going to miss the train. We’ve only a bare minute, but the luggage is in all right, and I’ve reserved a compartment. Come on.”