He surveyed the room. He walked towards the windows, but there the sharp-squeaking wood of the floor appeared to irritate him. After treading on it experimentally, he turned round and looked at the extreme opposite end of the room. There Arthur Fane was sitt ing, with the cardboard box on his knees.
"May we have your chair, Mr. Fane?"
Arthur got up.
The bridge lamp had a very long cord. Rich picked it up from beside the sofa, which was pushed back against the long wall opposite the fireplace. He carried the lamp across to the white easy chair where Arthur had been sitting, and tilted its shade to shine down on the chair. He pushed the chair back flat against the
"Will this suit you, Mrs. Fane?"
"Yes, that's all right," said Vicky. She followed him over and sat down.
"That's it. Just relax. The others of you I should like to sit fairly close, but not too close. Draw up your chairs sideways to her, where she can't see you. That's it."
The center of the room was now a cleared space, with Vicky sitting with her back to one wall and facing the windows from some twenty-five feet away. Rich drew the curtains on these windows. In one corner he found a telephone table, round and of polished mahogany. Removing from it the telephone, an address pad, and a cigarette box, he carried this table to the middle of the room, where he set it down.
"Now!" said Rich — and walked back to Vicky.
"Mrs. Fane," he went on, "I want you to put yourself in my hands. I want you to trust me. You do trust me, don't you?"