“My—my tools?” echoed Mr. Priestley in bewilderment. Surely he had not been mistaken for a plumber?
“Yes, I should love to see them. But I suppose you don’t carry them with you usually, do you?”
“Oh, very seldom,” said Mr. Priestley firmly. “Very seldom, indeed.” A dim recollection came to him. “My—er—mate, you know,” he murmured.
“What a pity! Still, it doesn’t really matter, because you won’t be wanting them to-night, as I told you. I can show you a very easy way into the house.”
Mr. Priestley’s blood, already somewhat chilled, dropped several further degrees. For a moment he stared dumbly at his pretty companion. Then he took his bull by its horns.
“Perhaps you had better tell me the—the whole story,” he said a little huskily.
The girl’s eyes widened in innocent surprise. “But I told you everything, in my letter!”
“Yes. Oh, yes,” mumbled Mr. Priestley. “Quite. But I—I think you had better tell me again, you see. Letters are never very satisfactory, are they? I mean, perhaps I should understand it all rather more clearly if you—if you told me again, you know!”
“I thought I’d made it clear enough,” said the girl in puzzled tones. “We were to meet here to discuss anything necessary, and then go down in my car to break into the house while they’re away for the week-end. What else is there you want me to tell you?”
Mr. Priestley’s blood retired a little farther into cold storage. His mild blue eyes remained fixed on his companion’s face in a horrified stare. “To—to break into the house?” he repeated faintly.