"Just a minute, Jenny," he said. "What have you told her?"
"She only just started to speak. She said, 'Jennifer, I—' and that was where Dawson opened the door."
Taking the ‘phone from Jenny's hands as she moved out from under the stair-opening, Martin sat down on a low little chair and cleared his throat
"Lady Brayle? Martin Drake here."
To tell the truth, Martin was beginning to feel sorry for the old girl. True, she had brought the whole mess on herself by inviting MacDougall's Mammoth into her grounds. But H.M. was the evil genius. And, in the third round, H.M. had landed such a knockout punch that his adversary was still unconscious after the count. Or was H.M., actually, the evil genius? Martin was beginning to have other ideas. Still, the fact remained…
"Indeed," said Lady Brayle. "I was not aware, Captain Drake, that I wished to hold any conversation with you." Calm and even of voice, conscious of no interest but her own and not apparently caring who knew it, the lady with the cold grey eye spoke indifferently. "So?" muttered Martin.
"However! I have heard certain rumours, which I do not believe, concerning the Manor.' You will not trouble to comment on the facts. This would not interest me. You will merely be good enough to confirm or deny these rumours."
Martin held the telephone away from him and studied it. His temper, like a red line on a graph-paper, zig-zagged violently and then slowly soared high.
"Where are you now, Lady Brayle?"
"Really, that is not the slightest concern—"