The Ex-Detective

Cynthia Gossett, even in the flamboyantly furnished, eight-roomed house of Medlar's Row, Hammersmith, at eight o'clock in the morning, was an extraordinarily beautiful young woman. Her hair was one of those rare shades between yellow and golden, her eyes were of an alluring blue, her lips invited continual caresses and her slim body was exactly of that outline which the devil and a certain male dressmaker invented to make more difficult the life of a man with righteous inclinations....
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Cynthia Gossett, even in the flamboyantly furnished, eight-roomed house of Medlar's Row, Hammersmith, at eight o'clock in the morning, was an extraordinarily beautiful young woman. Her hair was one of those rare shades between yellow and golden, her eyes were of an alluring blue, her lips invited continual caresses and her slim body was exactly of that outline which the devil and a certain male dressmaker invented to make more difficult the life of a man with righteous inclinations. She sat on the arm of her husband's chair at breakfast time, the newspaper slipped from his hand, and he forgot that the toast was slightly burnt. "Malcolm," she murmured, "I do wish that you were not a detective." Malcolm Gossett, who was rather proud of his profession and his rapid progress in it, would under any other circumstances have frowned. As it was, his smile was chastened. "Why, my dear?" he demanded. She patted his carefully brushed but obstinate hair. "I don't think that it is a nice profession, dear. I don't think the neighbours like it. When I go out to tea, I am always served last and at Mrs. Richardson's I always get the worst place at the bridge table." "That may be because you are the youngest," he suggested. She considered the matter. "I don't think so," she decided. "Yesterday there were two girls there younger than I am. They made an awful fuss over a girl whose husband was only a tramway inspector." "That shows how stupid they were," Detective Gossett pointed out. "A Scotland Yard man is anyway a government official." "So is a prison warder," she reminded him, "but they don't count for much, do they?" He caressed his wife's hand. He was still, of course, ridiculously in love with her. "What am I to do about it?" he demanded. "Tracking criminals is about the only work I'm good for."