Savile sat down, lit a cigarette, and offered one to her, which she accepted.
Her manner was rather like that of a young man who, though he dislikes it, has decided to confide in a friend.
"Look here," she said, "I've had a wire from Chetwode to say he's going to stay on at the Tregellys till next week."
"Well, what of that? That can't be all, surely?"
"You're right, it's not. I was looking in one of his innumerable carved chests for some novels, when I found a locked velvet case." She stopped a minute. He was silent.
"I found a key that fitted it," she went on.
"Did you, though?" said Savile.
"In it I found a lovely porcelain picture of a woman. Blanche Tregelly was written on the back. Where he's staying, you know. I've never seen her. I vaguely knew Tregelly was more or less married: he was at Oxford with Chetwode; but as they live so far away I've never got to know them."
"Don't see your point," said Savile.
"Why has he got that picture, and is staying on?"