At a quarter to one he was
ready dressed, feeling very scratchy and uncomfortable about the
beard which he had not dared to remove owing to Nur-el-Din's
presence in the house. Before he left the bedroom, he paused a
moment at the desk, the documents of the Bellward case in his
hands. He had a singularly retentive memory, and he was loth to
have these compromising papers in the house whilst Nur-el-Din was
there. He took a quick decision and pitched the whole lot into
the fire, retaining only the annotated list of Mr. Bellward's
friends. This he placed in his pocket-book and, after watching
the rest of the papers crumble away into ashes, went downstairs
to lunch.
Nur-el-Din was in the drawing-room, a long room with two high
windows which gave on a neglected looking garden. A foaming,
churning brook wound its way through the garden, among stunted
bushes and dripping willows, obviously the mill-race from which
the house took its name. The drawing-room was a bare,
inhospitable room, studded here and there with uncomfortable
looking early Victorian armchairs swathed in dust-proof cloths. A
fire was making an unsuccessful attempt to burn in the open
grate.
Nur-el-Din turned as he entered the room. She was wearing a gray
cloth tailor-made with a white silk, blouse and a short skirt
showing a pair of very natty brown boots.
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