"On my word of honour, Mr. Fleet," the other assured him gravely, "I made no more than a casual reference. Ruth will verify that."
"Then it must have been something else. She was all right at breakfast; though, come to think of it, she did look a bit disturbed and disappointed at breakfast. But nothing wrong. She keeps talking about…"
"Mr. Richard!" called a weary female voice from the doorway.
Martin recognized the voice, very quickly, as that of the maid who had answered him on the telephone, and who had evidently met more than one American G.I. She was a brown-haired girl in her twenties, combining an air of boredom with conscientiousness. Though she wore cap and apron, she lounged in the doorway with her weight on one hip.
"Yes, Phyllis?"
"Your mother," said Phyllis, "don't like trespassers. There's been a trespasser out on the lawn for one hell of a long time." "Please don't bother me, Phyllis!"
"This trespasser," continued Phyllis, jerking her thumb over her shoulder in a way which may be seen on the films, "is a fat old guy with a big stomach and a bald head. I think he's nuts, because he gave the gardener some money. Now he's arguing with the gardener about how high you can grow tomato plants and still get the best tomatoes."
That's H.M.," said Martin. "Sir Henry Merrivale."
Stannard dropped the big key on the plan beside his discarded pencil. "Merrivale!" he exclaimed.
"Does that mean anything?" asked Ruth. "I think I heard the name from Jenny, but—"