She knew when she said it that it was a waste of words, and the scapegrace slant of his brows was sufficient answer.
"Of course not, darling," he said. "These are my new pajamas."
"But you're doing just what they want you to do!"
"Maybe. But do they know that I know it? I don't think so. That phone call was as straightforward as a baby's prayer — to the guy who was checking up on it. Only Valerie knows that she never gave me a cloakroom ticket, and she knows I know it. She's on the spot in her own flat, and that was the only way she could tip me off and call for help. Do you want me to stay home and knit?"
Patricia stood up. She kissed him.
"Be careful, boy," she said. "You know I look terrible in black."
Peter Quentin finished his drink and rose. He buttoned his coat with a deep sigh.
"I suppose this is the end of our chance of a night's rest," he said pessimistically. "I ought to have stayed in Anford." He saluted Patricia. "Will you excuse Hoppy and me if we trot along to take care of the dragons while your problem child is striking attitudes in front of the heroine? We don't want anything to happen to him — it would make life so horribly quiet and peaceful."
Simon stopped at the door.
"Just a minute," he said. "There may be policemen and other emissaries of the ungodly prowling around outside. We'd better not take chances. Will you call down to Sam Outrell, Pat, and tell him to meet me in the garage?"