Aunt Cicely fretted. "Then I wonder… Mr. Masters! Is Ricky over at the Dragon?"
"Not there now, Lady Fleet It's been closed for half an hour."
"Then I suppose," Aunt Cicely said, "he must be with Susan Harwood." And she gave a bright, inquiring smile at Martin Drake.
(Careful, now! But you don't know anything about Susan except that Ricky wants to marry her and Ruth says he's deeply enamoured, so you're safe in admitting ignorance. Besides, the maddening questions…)
"Susan is a dear girl," said Aunt Cicely. "But of course — I" She laughed deprecatingly. "I mean; her father being a farmer. Not serious; and what matter? No woman can resist Ricky. I’ve always told him so. And I must confess," her attractive laughter rang again, "I've always been rather proud of it. It seems to reflect credit on me, somehow. What was I thinking of? Oh, yes! Retiring. Of course. Will you say good-night for me to everyone?"
Radiating charm with her smile, giving a whisk of the loose sleeve, Aunt Cicely left them.
It was just as well, Martin thought, that a harmless if somewhat feather-headed siren had gone. The tension which invaded that room, when H.M. and Masters faced each other, set his nerves tingling again.
"Got the stuff?" demanded H.M.
"All of it," Masters growled. "I'm fair sick of interviews, and that's a fact" He dropped hat, brief-case, and cardboard file into a chair.
Murder.