"It's here, Captain Ross," replied the head of the room in her demurest treble. "Miss Howel-Jones was attending to it.... Here it is."
"Right. Thank you," said Captain Ross.
His bright dark glance took in the letter that Mrs. Newton handed him; it passed over the filed stack of other letters; it swept over the two desks, the typing-table, Miss Lennon's back, the calendar, the pinned-up Matania drawing on the wall, the green electric-light shades, the glass on the mantelpiece holding freesias, the chairs, the waste-paper basket—in short, over every object in the room but one.
For Olwen Howel-Jones, bending absorbed over her work, Captain Ross did not spare a fraction of his glance.
"Mrs. Newton, I am going out to lunch now," he announced. "Should there be any enquiries, I shall be back before two-thirty."
"Very well, Captain Ross."
(Exit Captain Ross.)
Then Mrs. Newton in Major Leefe's voice, "Wha'? Old Ferg' gone t' lunch? Bet you he's taking out some gir', Miss Howel-Jo'."
Olwen smiled undisturbed as she went to put on her her hat.
Twenty minutes later she was sitting at a table for two in a Soho restaurant, opposite to Captain Ross.