“What’s your name?” he asked abruptly.
“Anne Beddingfeld.”
“Does nothing frighten you, Anne Beddingfeld?”
“Oh, yes,” I said, with an assumption of coolness I was far from feeling. “Wasps, sarcastic women, very young men, cockroaches, and superior shop assistants.”
He gave the same short laugh as before. Then he stirred the unconscious form of Pagett with his feet.
“What shall we do with this junk? Throw it overboard?” he asked carelessly.
“If you like,” I answered with equal calm.
“I admire your whole-hearted, blood-thirsty instincts, Miss Beddingfeld. But we will leave him to recover at his leisure. He is not seriously hurt.”
“You shrink from a second murder, I see,” I said sweetly.
“A second murder?”