“And then kindly pack that very small bag of mine with things for the night.”
But when Parker had brought the drinks to the library he came up close to Stacey. “Excuse me, sir,” he said in a low tone. “There’s a young lady who’s called to see you.”
Stacey opened his eyes wide, but he rose immediately. “Just a minute, Whittaker,” he remarked. “Be back at once. Pour yourself a drink.”
“Who is it?” he asked Parker, when they were in the hall.
The man looked perturbed. “She wouldn’t give me her name, sir, and that’s why I thought I’d better speak to you quietly.”
“You did perfectly right. Where is she?”
“In the little drawing-room, sir.”
“Most likely a book agent,” said Stacey, and walked down the hall.
But it was not a book agent. It was Irene Loeffler. She stood waiting, an expression of mingled fear and determination on her face, across which the color came and went oddly.
“Hello!” said Stacey brusquely. “What are you doing here?” He did not offer to shake hands; nor did she.