When it had finished, he thanked her and piloted her back to her seat.
“Daphne has been looking very beautiful to-night,” she said. “Aren’t you proud of your niece?”
He looked at her curiously, “She has an extra special reason to look nice to-night.” Then he changed the subject. “If you come now, I’ll motor you home, being a bachelor has some advantages—there’s nobody else here to-night about whom I need worry.”
“I should love it, Major,”—she accepted his offer of service with genuine enthusiasm—“Pinkie will be waiting up for me.”
“How is Pinkie these days—hale and hearty?”
“Wonderful—for her age—she’s over sixty, you know—nobody could look after me like Pinkie does.”
He drove her home. As they turned the corner of the High Street—where the Grand Hotel stood—the newsboys were calling an extra-special edition—late though the hour was.
“What is it?” she said, clutching at his arm, “it must be something frightfully important.”
He checked the car and listened. Then he turned back to her as the shouts became intelligible to his ears. “Bank Frauds’ Sensation—suicide of Sir Felix Warburton—in his cell.” He accelerated immediately. “Pretty rotten business that,” he declared with anxiety, “and the Chief Constable glad-ragging it at the Hunt Ball. I shall be in the soup properly if I’m not careful.”
But Sheila Delaney’s sympathy was not entirely for him. “Suicide,” she whispered, half to herself, “how awful.”