Chapter 14
To the sleek room, in tone dull-red and white and dark gold, these dim lamps lent at once an intimacy and a kind of religious hush. In a far corner stood a grand piano, with Sir George Fleet's framed photograph on its dull-gleaming top.
The questions which rushed from Martin—"Who was murdered? Where in the prison? When?" — were shushed by a particularly meaning look from H.M. Martin sank down into a deep sofa, feeling the pain-throbs above his eyes. All of them beard the nonchalant maid, Phyllis, saunter through the hall to open the front door.
"It's the cops again, m’lady," rose the bored voice of Phyllis from outside.
The cops, on this occasion, were represented only by Chief Inspector Masters. Masters, holding a brown cardboard file in his left hand as well as the brief-case in his right, coughed with discomfort at the door of the drawing-room. His bowler hat was held under his arm.
Aunt Cicely responded automatically. Though clearly still frightened and shocked, it was apparent she had resigned herself to the belief that somebody, somehow, would take care of this matter. In white, with flowing sleeves, vivid against a Burgundy carpet, she turned to the newcomer.
"Mr. Masters! It was so kind of you to come’
"Well, all—" said Masters, completely off balance by this reception of a police officer, "I'm not here, on official business, as you might say. I just wanted to pick up Sir Henry."
"Do please make yourselves at home!" urged Aunt Cicely, with such sincerity that even Masters believed it "I shall have to run along to bed now, but do make yourselves comfortable. Have you got the Ovaltine, Phyllis? That's a good girl! And I must have someone to talk to before I. Phyllis! Where is Lady Brayle?"
"Gone home, mlady. Long ago."