Anne Belinda by Patricia Wentworth

it?”
    â€œYes, Lewis, there is.”
    Lewis Smith whistled.
    â€œWell, I should say he was about the most obstinate devil I’ve ever come across. So the odds are he’ll go on until he gets it.”
    Mr. Carruthers gave a short, annoyed cough.
    â€œI’ve advised him very strongly to let the whole matter drop. You heard me. He seems to have some idea of offering her an allowance from the estate, and, of course, I shall be bound to pass the offer on. That’s all very well, but as far as any personal advances go, I’ve the strongest possible reasons for discouraging them. And I rely on you, Lewis, to do the same.”
    â€œYou can’t tell me why?”
    â€œNo, I’m afraid I can’t. You’ll just have to take my word for it that young Waveney had better give up any idea of meeting his cousin.”
    â€œIf he’s got the idea—and he seems to me to have got it pretty strongly—he won’t give it up.”
    â€œSurely the young man can take a hint!” Mr. Carruthers’ tone was indignant.
    Lewis said, “’M—I shouldn’t say he could—not unless he’s changed a good deal. He’s one of those strong, persevering fellows that take a notion into their heads and stick to it through thick and thin. I ought to be the last person to complain of it, because I shouldn’t be here now if he wasn’t that sort. No one else would have thought it was possible to get me in that time I was wounded at Loos. As a matter of fact, it wasn’t possible; but he did it somehow. He’s an obstinate fellow, as I told you.”

CHAPTER VII
    John had a dinner engagement that evening. His host was the publisher who was producing Peterson’s book in England, and the other guests were all men. He had not met any of them before. The talk was of Peterson, of books, and of the wild places of the earth.
    After dinner a little man with a beard and a bald head moved up beside John.
    â€œMy name,” he said, “is Fossick-Yates—Frederick Fossick-Yates. Does that recall anything to you?”
    John wasn’t sure. He temporized. There was something distantly familiar about the name, but for the life of him he couldn’t pick up the connection.
    The little man put his head on one side and regarded him with expectancy; behind his glasses his round, bright, prominent eyes were a good deal like the eyes of a bird that is watching a worm. Before John’s hesitation became an embarrassment Mr. Fossick-Yates put an end to it.
    â€œI wrote to Peterson—yes, several letters. It was about three years ago.”
    John began to remember a very persistent correspondent who had written a number of letters full of meticulous details about variations from type in European snakes.
    â€œYes, I remember,” he said.
    â€œAh! Now, may I ask whether Peterson found my contributions useful?”
    â€œHe certainly used some of them—in the sixth chapter, I think. Oh yes, and there was a footnote later on.”
    Mr. Fossick-Yates fairly beamed. He shot a cuff and scribbled upon it with a small, neat gold pencil.
    â€œAh! The sixth chapter? And a footnote? I feel very much gratified, Sir John. I suppose you can’t remember which of my data—”
    â€œAs it happens, I believe I can. The footnote refers to the case, which I think you cited, where the stripe down the viper’s back was almost white instead of black.”
    Mr. Fossick-Yates snatched off his glasses and began to polish them furiously with his table napkin.
    â€œSplendid!” he said. “Most gratifying—er—most gratifying! I assure you I feel quite overwhelmed. A footnote citing my viper. Can you remember in which chapter it occurs?”
    â€œFifteen,” said John—“the one on albinism.”
    Mr. Fossick-Yates crammed his glasses back upon his nose. The angle they assumed gave his appearance an incongruous touch of