Mr. Jarrad made a little noise in his throat. “There’s not much to disagree about. Shall we arbitrate?”
“Of course!”
The older man felt in his pocket, produced a coin, and tossed it.
“Heads,” said Dawkins.
“It’s tails,” Mr. Jarrad smiled blandly. “Make a note of that, will you?”
Dawkins moved back to the table and began to scribble. The next moment he became aware that some one had entered the room and stopped short. Mr. Jarrad was regarding a woman who stood just inside the door and surveyed them with grim attention. Neither man had heard her come. Her face was well formed but sallow; the chin rather square, the nose long and thin. Her lips were immobile and slightly compressed. It was the eyes that held the two appraisers, being large and black and filled with a kind of slow, smoldering light. Her figure, tall, spare, and angular, carried with it an odd suggestion of menace. Her air was one of distinct animosity. Dawkins gave a slight start. A short silence followed, and he wondered how long she had been there, also how much she had seen and heard.
“Mr. Derrick is just coming up the drive,” she said crisply.
Mr. Jarrad rubbed his hands as though they were cold.
“Excellent,” he replied with obvious relief. “My colleague and I have just completed our work. I understand you are the housekeeper, Miss Perkins?”
“No, I am the housemaid; at least, I was.”