Too Many Cousins

my dear,” said her husband uneasily.
“I am not going to kow-tow to that stuck-up madam just because she’s secretary to some big-wig——”
“Never mind that now, Lilian.”
The pair seemed to have forgotten Mr. Tuke. Mrs. Shearsby’s pince-nez flashed. Words began to pour out.
“You know perfectly well, Mortimer, how she’ll talk of us! Look how she behaved. Well, I suppose I oughtn’t to be surprised now. As I said before, if anyone does come asking questions——”
“Lilian/”
In his agitation the chemist almost shouted. After a moment’s stare of defiance, her lips parted, his wife closed them in a tight, angry line. Colour was Haring again in her cheeks. Harvey, who had watched this fresh display of temper with interest, turned to Mortimer Shearsby.
“I have your address, and my wife knows Mile Boulanger’s. Where does Miss Ardmore live?”
“In South Kensington,” the chemist said, passing a harassed hand over his brow. “10 Falcon Mews East is the address.”
Harvey had again taken out his watch.
“I am sorry,” he went on, “but I really have an engagement. You wanted advice, Mr. Shearsby. I have given it to you. This matter will have to be cleared up now, and after all, until it is the three of you cousins who are left will have no real peace of mind. You don’t want to go about for the rest of your lives thinking that one or other of you may have engineered these tragedies. That is what it comes to, isn’t it? It would give even your inheritance a nasty taste,” he added sardonically as he rose to his feet.
The visitors rose with him. The angry flush had not left Lilian Shearsby’s face. Her husband looked profoundly gloomy.
“There is another point,” Mr. Tuke observed as he moved to the door. “I understand that your step-great-grandmother may live for some time yet. How unpleasant it would be if another fatal accident were to occur in her lifetime. A little police supervision should at least be a deterrent.”
“You horrify me,” said the cheimst.

CHAPTER VII
AT half-past six that evening the incongruous red-brick building in Queensberry Place which is the home of the Institut Frangais du Royaume Uni, disgorged a chattering crowd into the desert of South Kensington. The crowd was preponderently French. Most of the men were in uniform. Mrs. Harvey Tuke, who seemed to know everybody, passed from group to group giving news of Paris, which she had so recently seen again. It was some minutes before the throng, which created the illusion that this desolate region was densely populated, began to disperse, allowing Mrs. Tuke to rejoin her husband, who was discussing wine with one of his own cronies, a very tough looking commandant of 73, himself not very long back in London from a little trip to organise the Maquis of the Jura.
When at length Harvey and his wife were alone, he remarked that he needed a walk.
“My legs want stretching. It was a good talk, but too long.”
“You mean your legs are.”
“Well, it comes to the same thing.”
Very elegant in black, with a small black tricorne hat, Mrs. Tuke shrugged.
“And where shall we walk—in this?”
A wave of her gloved hand embraced the depressing scene. Queensberry Place, freakishly spared, much of its glass even intact, stood amid ruins that measurably resembled those of Caen or Aachen or Cologne, the result of four flying bombs exploding within a week in an area a few hundred yards square. Roads were still blocked; demolition gangs were noisily at work; debris cascaded upon debris, and dust clouds rose and hung in the air.
“I have seen London looking tidier$” Mr. Tuke agreed. “But I thought we might stroll as far as Falcon Mews East— if it still exists, and if we can get there.”
“That is where this other cousin of Cecile’s, Miss Ardmore, lives. Why do you wish to see her mews, Harvey?”
“I really couldn’t tell you. Local colour. Background. I’m interested in that family. And it’s about time Mr. McIvory’s secretary was returning from the office. She is the only surviving cousin we haven’t seen.”
Yvette shrugged philosophically. “Do you know the way? ”
“It’s just off the Old Brompton Road. Five minutes’ walk.”
Mr. Tuke’s acquaintance with certain parts of London was extensive and peculiar. Well though his wife thought she knew South Kensington, where so many French and other exiles were living, and where the headquarters of the Service Feminin itself was situated, she was now led along a route quite strange to her. A mews brought them into Queen’s Gate: across that wide thoroughfare they dived into another; and a perfect labyrinth of these relics of Victorian carriage days emerged presently in Gloucester Road. The southern end of this being closed by more ruins, a fresh circuit was taken to the Brompton Road; and a little way along this Harvey turned into yet another mews, disguised under the title of Brampton Street. Within a hundred yards it became two more—Falcon Mews East and West. It was as they approached the junction that Mrs. Tuke exclaimed in surprise.
“Why, here is Cecile.”
Mile Boulanger, in her blue uniform, accompanied by a tall man in the blacks and greys of business or the official world, was in fact coming out of Falcon Mews West. She saw the Tukes at the same moment, paused, and came to join them.
“Bon jour, madame.”
“Bon jour, Cecile.”
“I am calling on my cousin Vivien,” Cecile added.
“And we, I am told, are in search of local colour.”
Cecile effected introductions with a touch of self-consciousness. Her companion, whose name was Mainward, was probably a little the younger of the two. He was good looking in a slightly florid way, with a high colour and large brown eyes behind horn-rims with side-pieces so thick that they resembled young hockey sticks. When he raised his black felt hat, which had a rakish curl to its brim, he revealed wavy dark hair allowed to grow a trifle long. He carried a pair of light tan gloves, and a heavy gold ring, suggesting a nugget, gleamed