“Is Mr. Priestley in?” asked the lady, amid the shattered fragments of Barker’s record.
“Yes, madam.”
“Is he alone? Alone in the flat, I mean?”
“Yes, madam,” said Barker, concealing any surprise he might have felt under his usual egg-like expression.
“Then I should like to see him, please.”
“Yes, madam. Will you step this way? What name shall I say?”
The visitor smiled at him again, this time in a particularly confidential way. “It doesn’t matter about the name. Just say ‘a lady.’”
“Very good, madam. Will you come in here, please?”
Still somewhat upset by the smile, Barker did a thing he would never have dreamed of doing in normal circumstances and showed the caller straight into Mr. Priestley’ s study. There, regretfully, he left her.
“Good-morning, Mr. Priestley,” said the lady, advancing at once with outstretched hand and apparently quite at home. “You don’t know me, but I think you know Pat Doyle, who is a friend of ours. I am Mrs. Nesbitt.”