CHAPTER SEVEN
Mr. Atwood PerformsAs they approached, she watched them steadily; but she showed no other sign of interest until, evidently recognising Sanderson, she called out in a deep contralto voice with a rasp in it: “Where’s the boy?”
“I’m sorry to bring you bad news, Mrs. Atwood.” Sanderson was abrupt, though civil enough. “He’s dead.”
Mrs. Atwood’s expression, which seemed normally to be one of faint disgust, did not alter. She was a woman in her late thirties, thin, large-boned, with a long, narrow face. Her features were badly modelled, her teeth lightly prominent, and her hair a dull and improbable yellow; but somehow she contrived to look handsome. She had made no concession whatever to the picnic conditions about her; being dressed in a figured silk costume, pale silk stocki
