“Last night was so long ago. Won't you take a later memory?”
Once again she lay in his arms, still and content.
As they crossed the lawn, an hour or so later, they were confronted by Hedges—who hastened, in fact, to meet them.
“You are being asked for on the telephone, sir,” he announced. “It is a trunk call. I have switched it through to the study.”
“Any name?” Sir Timothy asked indifferently.
The man hesitated. His eyes sought his master's respectfully but charged with meaning.
“The person refuses to give his name, sir, but I fancied that I recognised his voice. I think it would be as well for you to speak, sir.”
Lady Cynthia sank into a chair.
“You shall go and answer your telephone call,” she said, “and leave Hedges to serve me with one of these strange drinks. I believe I see some of my favourite orangeade.”
Sir Timothy made his way into the house and into the low, oak-beamed study with its dark furniture and latticed windows. The telephone bell began to ring again as he entered. He took up the receiver.