“Six months,” said Mr. Thursby; “six months, then we went off to France. I wanted to see some of the places where they used my grenades.”
“Did you make that stuff?” asked Derrick, amused.
“Tons of it. Ever use them?”
Derrick smiled. “Rather, but,” he put in hastily as his visitor brightened and prepared to talk shop, “one doesn’t say anything on that score now.”
“I’d be awfully obliged if Mrs. Thursby would show me something about the house up-stairs,” said Edith.
Thursby laughed. “Your sister is as practical as my wife, Mr. Derrick, so I’ll take the opportunity of showing you one or two things outside that may be useful.”
He seemed in an odd way glad to get out of the room, and Derrick listened to a disquisition on roses and mulch, Thursby being an authority on both. Beech Lodge had a reputation for its roses.
Meanwhile Mrs. Thursby, left alone with her hostess, glanced at the latter rather uncertainly.
“As to Perkins, Miss Derrick, I really don’t know that I can tell you very much. She isn’t the sort about whom one can say much.”
“I’d really be very grateful for anything you can tell me. Might I ask how long you had her?”