The first part of their conversation need not be recorded here. Doubtless Sir Henry Merrivale would have described it as mush, adding that Jenny and Martin seemed to have achieved the seemingly impossible feat of getting into an intimate embrace over a telephone. But there seemed to be a faintly odd note in Jenny's voice.
"You haven't forgotten," he asked, "that this is the day you and I are going to London?"
"We — we can't. Not yet, anyway. Tonight we might."
A sense of impending disaster crept into him. "Why not?"
"Martin," breathed Jenny, "why does your H.M. insist on persecuting my poor grandmother?"
(I knew it! By all cussedness and the ten finger-bones of Satan, I knew it!)
"But what's he doing to her now, Jenny? He's here! In the drawing-room!"
Martin, do you know where I am?" asked Jenny.
"What's that?"
"I'm under the main staircase, with a thick oak door closed so I can speak to you. Hold on a second, and I'll push the door open. Listen!"