Jenny had gone rather white. "Yes," she acknowledged, and pressed Martin's arm. "After all, someone tried to kill Mr. Drake."
"And did kill that Puckston girl," said Martin. "I wanted to ask—" Jenny began. "Will you come upstairs, please?"
She led them to an octagonal room, of white walls framed in dark oak, above the front door. Here was the big oriel window with its three leaded panes — two slantwise, the other facing straight out — which looked down the gravel drive with its crowd, its gaudy exhibits, the oak-trees, and the green lawns.
Geraniums in flower-pots, as a homely touch, stood just inside the ledges of the diamond-paned windows. The dark oak window-seat ran round all sides of the octagonal room as well; like the chairs, it had flattish flowered cushions. With one window-light partly open, the babble now sounded at its loudest
"Mr. Masters," Jenny began.
Jenny, in white, her knees crossed, sat at one side of the window. Her elbow was propped on one knee, her chin in her hand.
"I think," she smiled, "I like H.M. far better than Martin likes Grandmother. But doesn't he ask the oddest questions sometimes?"
"Does he, miss?" inquired Masters, who was at his blandest card-sharper's air as he put down hat, brief-case, and folder.
‘He talked to me for ages yesterday at Fleet House: First all about certain things," her eyes moved towards Martin, who was sitting beside her, "when he hadn't been present Then, if you please, something that seemed to be about Grandmother's influence over me"
"Is that so, now, miss?" inquired Masters, as though hearing a mildly surprising revelation.