“So it’s only old Gordon, is it?” She nodded wisely. “Sit over there—old Gordon!” She pointed to a chair.
“Now look here, my dear girl.” It was a very colourless imitation of his best manner. “The whole thing can be explained. I lost my train....”
She was opening a drawer in the writing table, slowly, deliberately, her eyes never leaving his face. When her hand came to view, it held a Browning.
Click! The jacket snapped back. It was loaded.
“What are you doing, Diana?” he squeaked again.
Her eyes were now murderous.
“Will you be good enough not to call me Diana?” she asked icily. “So you’ve come, have you? And even I, who expect most things, didn’t expect you. But, my friend, you’ve come at an opportune hour!”
“Look here, old girl—” he began.
“You can omit the familiarities.” She waved him down to his chair. “Never imagine that you will deceive me—I know you!”
“You know me?” he said hoarsely. He had come to a point where he wasn’t quite certain whether he knew himself.