“You know Mrs. Nesbitt, don’t you?” he asked casually, when the perfect impression was complete.
“No,” said Mr. Foster, with mild surprise at the irrelevance. “I believe my wife’s called on her, and I know Nesbitt at the club, of course, but I’ve never met his wife personally. Why?”
“Nothing!” snapped the Colonel, and took a curt departure. Colonel Ratcliffe was in a very bad temper indeed.
It was unfortunate that his way took him past the station at the very moment when Cynthia was leaving it on her return from London. He crossed the road and dabbed at his hat as if grudging the courtesy of removing it.
“Evening, Mrs. Nesbitt,” he said, on the impulse of the moment. “Will you come over to the police-station, please?”
“Certainly,” Cynthia agreed charmingly. “Are you going to arrest me?”
“Jolly good mind to,” growled the Colonel, who was not going to beat about bushes any longer. “I’ll pay you one compliment, though, Mrs. Nesbitt. You don’t look as if you’d been spending the day in a tool-shed and scrambled out through the roof, I must say.”
“What!” exclaimed the astonished Cynthia, who had anticipated certain unpleasant topics of conversation but certainly not tool-sheds.
“You look,” amplified the Colonel, making his point clearer, “as if you’d just come back from a day in London.”
“But that’s just what I have done!”