Bundle gasped. The thing was like a fantastic nightmare. Was it possible that she, Bundle Brent, was being asked to join a murderous secret society? Had the same proposition been made to Bill, and had he refused indignantly?
"I can't do that," she said bluntly.
"Do not answer precipitately."
She fancied that Mosgorovsky, beneath his clock mask, was smiling significantly into his beard.
"You do not as yet know, Lady Eileen, what it is you are refusing."
"I can make a pretty good guess," said Bundle.
"Can you?"
It was the voice of 7 o'clock. It awoke some vague chord of memory in Bundle's brain. Surely she knew that voice?
Very slowly No. 7 raised a hand to his head and fumbled with the fastening of the mask.
Bundle held her breath. At last—she was going to know.