He had got precisely as far as the drawing-room door, when a voice reached his ears from the upper story. “Mrs. Ilam! Mrs. Ilam! He’s eaten his ham and eggs. What about the marmalade?”
Carpentaria dashed into the hall and looked up the stairs, and he saw the head of Juliette over the banisters.
Behind him he heard a suppressed sigh from Mrs. Ilam.
CHAPTER IX—The Dead Dog
Carpentaria ran up the stairs. If he had not had flame-coloured hair, and the fiery temper that goes with it, he would probably have pursued the more dignified course of calling Juliette down and interrogating her in privacy. But he was Carpentaria. She knew his moods, and she fled before him into a sitting-room, where Ilam, a dressing-gown covering his suit of Sunday black, reclined in an easy-chair by the side of a small table bearing an empty plate and a knife and fork.
She cowered down on the floor.
“Oh, Carlos!” she exclaimed under her breath.
Carpentaria made the obvious demand: