“She’s not, Mr. Stewart. She’s not the kind. She meant something—I’ll take my Bible oath on that.”
Stewart shook his head as though unconvinced. “Women are whimsical, Sergeant.”
“I know. None better. I’ve been married seventeen years and I’m still learning things—but there you are! I’d like to see this butler of yours now—what’s his name, Butterworth?”
“Right! In here?”
“No—in the library. I’ll get along in there again. Bring Butterworth, will you, Mr. Stewart?”
“Well, Potter,” said the Sergeant as he regained the library door, “everything O. K.?”
Potter touched his helmet—satisfaction oozing from his finger-tips. “Yes, Sergeant—nobody’s crossed the threshold since you left, Sergeant. A young lady came across the corridor just now and wanted me to let her pull down the blinds or something—she said the sun ruined the carpet at this time of the day—but I explained as genteelly as I could about orders being orders.” He beamed at this account of his devotion to duty. Clegg scratched his chin. The plot was getting thicker!
“What sort of a young lady, Potter?”
“On the small side, Sergeant. A regular dainty piece she was and no mistake!”
“How long ago was this?”