“Ought we to keep you any longer, Owen? I’ll ring for the lift.” The suggestion took them both out of the room, and she closed the door after her.
“What is it you’re doing?” said Quentillian, his urgency too great for a choice of words.
She leant against the passage wall, white and rather breathless, but spoke low and very distinctly, as though to impress her facts upon him.
“Listen—I want you to be quite clear about it. The appointment with Mrs. Carey is for tomorrow—Friday morning. I’m going to her house. I’m certain from her letter, that she’s not a woman to be trusted. I don’t know why she wants to see us, but I think it’s to tell us things—things about David. I shall know when I’ve seen her.”
“But your father thinks the appointment is for Saturday?”
“I told him it was. I wrote the letter to arrange it.”
“And how are you to prevent his going there on Saturday?”
“She leaves for Scotland on Friday night.”
“You know that for certain?”
“Of course I do, Owen. One doesn’t leave these things to chance. But I shall telephone on Saturday and find out if she’s really left.”