“Thanks.” Ned Beaumont pulled the chair out more directly in the fire’s glow and sat down.
Shad O’Rory was lighting a cigarette. When he had finished he took it from between his lips and asked: “How are you feeling, Ned?”
“Pretty good, Shad.”
“That’s fine.” O’Rory turned his head a little to speak to the two men on the bench: “You boys can go back to town tomorrow.” He turned back to Ned Beaumont, explaining blandly: “We were playing safe as long as we didn’t know for sure you weren’t going to die, but we don’t mind standing an assault-rap.”
Ned Beaumont nodded. “The chances are I won’t go to the trouble of appearing against you, anyhow, on that, but don’t forget our friend Jeff’s wanted for West’s murder.” His voice was light, but into his eyes, fixed on the log burning in the fireplace, came a brief evil glint. There was nothing in his eyes but mockery when he moved them to the left to focus on Mathews. “Though of course I might so I could make trouble for Mathews for helping you hide out.”
Mathews said hastily: “I didn’t, Mr. Beaumont. I didn’t even know they were here until we came up today and I was as surprised as–” He broke off, his face panicky, and addressed Shad O’Rory, whining: “You know you are welcome. You know that, but the point I’m trying to make”–his face was illuminated by a sudden glad smile–“is that by helping you without knowing it I didn’t do anything I could be held legally responsible for.”
O’Rory said softly: “Yes, you helped me without knowing it.” His notable clear blue-grey eyes looked without interest at the newspaper-publisher.
Mathews’s smile lost its gladness, flickered out entirely. He fidgeted with fingers at his necktie and presently evaded O’Rory’s gaze.
Mrs. Mathews spoke to Ned Beaumont, sweetly: “Everybody’s been so dull this evening. It was simply ghastly until you came.”
He looked at her curiously. Her dark eyes were bright, soft, inviting. Under his appraising look she lowered her head a little and pursed her lips a little, coquettishly. Her lips were thin, too dark with rouge, but beautiful in form. He smiled at her and, rising, went over to her.
Opal Madvig stared at the floor before her. Mathews, O’Rory, and the two men on the bench watched Ned Beaumont and Mathews’s wife.
He asked, “What makes them so dull?” and sat down on the floor in front of her, cross-legged, not facing her directly, his back to the fire, leaning on a hand on the floor behind him, his face turned up to one side towards her.
“I’m sure I don’t know,” she said, pouting. “I thought it was going to be fun when Hal asked me if I wanted to come up here with him and Opal. And then, when we got here, we found these–” she paused a moment–said, “friends of Hal’s,” with poorly concealed dubiety–and went on: “here and everybody’s been sitting around hinting at some secret they’ve all got between them that I don’t know anything about and it’s been unbearably stupid. Opal’s been as bad as the rest. She–”
Her husband said, “Now, Eloise,” in an ineffectually authoritative tone and, when she raised her eyes to meet his, got more embarrassment than authority in his gaze.
“I don’t care,” she told him petulantly. “It’s true and Opal is as bad as the rest of you. Why, you and she haven’t even talked about whatever business it was you were coming up here to discuss in the first place. Don’t think I’d’ve stayed here this long if it hadn’t been for the storm. I wouldn’t.”
Opal Madvig’s face had flushed, but she did not raise her eyes.
Eloise Mathews bent her head down towards Ned Beaumont again and the petulance in her face became playful. “That’s what you’ve got to make up for,” she assured him, “and that and not because you’re beautiful is why I was so glad to see you.”
He frowned at her in mock indignation
She frowned at him. Her frown was genuine. “Did your car really break down?” she demanded, “or did you come here to see them on the same dull business that’s making them so stupidly mysterious? You did. You’re another one of them.”