“By the way, Nesbitt,” said Mr. Doyle loudly, “I wish you’d do me a favour. Please don’t tell anybody about Dora being here this week-end. She particularly doesn’t want her name mentioned in connection with this affair, as it would be so bad for her at the theatre. The management are very much down on any of the girls getting mixed up in murder mysteries; they think it’s bad for business. If it leaked out, Dora would probably get the sack.”
“Of course, my dear chap,” said Guy gravely. “I quite understand. Nobody else knows?”
“So far, no. Not even the police. Particularly not the police, I should say. And we’re going to smuggle her up to London to-morrow in time for the show. Thanks so much, Nesbitt, thanks so much.”
Alan was staring at Dora with round eyes. “I say,” he said, in tones to match them, “you’re not on the stage, are you?”
“I am,” Dora smiled, “yes.”
“Coo! What are you in?”
“Well, as there’s no Shakespeare season on at the moment, I’ve been keeping my hand in up to a few weeks ago in ‘Thumbs Up!’ at the Jollity.”
“And legs, dearest,” murmured Mr. Doyle sotto voce. “Be honest.”
“I say, were you really? I saw that last hols. Topping show!” Mr. Spence continued to stare with round eyes. His manner had changed considerably. In place of his former air of confident and slightly contemptuous assurance he now wore one of respect verging almost upon diffidence.
George looked at his sister with envy. There would clearly be no frogs in her bed.