“No, sir; she was out too. It was her afternoon off. There was nobody in that afternoon but Mrs. Russell herself.”
“Aha!” observed Roger all to himself. Aloud he said mechanically, “I see,” and began to rack his brains furiously for a tactful way of getting hold of a pair of Mrs. Russell’s shoes. It was not an easy problem.
Usually a problem tended to lose its interest for Roger if it were too easy, but for this one the time-limit was not sufficient. On the spur of the moment he could only see one thing to do, so he did it.
“Can you lend me a pair of Mrs. Russell’s shoes for an hour or so?” he asked blandly.
“Her shoes?” repeated the astonished maid.
“Yes; any pair of outdoor ones. I’ll let you have them back before she notices they’re gone.” And he jingled significantly the loose silver in his trouser-pocket.
“Not—not foot-prints?” twittered the maid, thrilled to the bone.
Roger made up his mind in a flash. After all, why not tell the truth? There was no doubt that the maid would appreciate it, and a spy in the enemy’s camp might be useful.
“Yes,” he nodded. “But keep this to yourself, mind. Don’t tell a soul!”
“Not even Cook?” breathed the excited girl.