A peal of boy's laughter floated in at the open window.
"Who's that?" said I.
"Love," said Miss Childe. "The locksmiths are here, and he's laughing at them. I think it's rather unkind myself. Besides——"
A burst of machine-gun fire interrupted her.
As the echoes died down—
"You smell of potpourri," said I.
"Probably. I made three bags full this morning. Bead bags. Do you mind putting some coal on the fire? If there aren't any tongs, use the telephone."
There was no fireplace and no coal-scuttle, so I took off my right boot and put it in the bottom drawer of the tallboy instead.
"Number, please," said Miss Childe, who had entered the closet and was standing a-tiptoe before a mirror to adjust a patch beneath her left eye.
"Lot 207," said I.