8. FOG ON THE RIVIERA
Lofton was standing, and he began to pace nervously back and forth over a patch of bright sunlight that lay on the Persian rug. He was chewing savagely at the ends of his mustache, a habit he had when perturbed. Mrs. Luce wished he wouldn’t do it.
“I can’t believe it,” the conductor cried. “It’s incredible. One murder in the party I might admit—but not two. Unless some one is trying to wreck my business. Some one with a grudge against me.”
“It seems more likely,” the old lady said dryly, “that some one has a grudge against the members of your party. As for your believing that this second affair is murder too, listen to what I have to say, and then tell me what you think.” She sat down on the sofa. “Come,” she went on, “draw up that chair and stop pacing. You remind
