"Oh, indeed?" said he.
He was a little puzzled because he thought that the projected flight was a dead secret; and she guessed his thoughts.
"You won't tell Mr. Silva I told you? He begged me not to repeat it to anybody, even to you. But he's leaving to-morrow morning, isn't he?"
He nodded.
"I know an awful lot," she said, and then: "Won't you come and have supper with me? I'm starving!"
Cartwright hesitated. He had not expected so charming a diversion, and really there was no reason why he should not accept the invitation. He was not due at Bromley until early in the morning, and the girl was young and pretty and a friend of his employer. It was she who hailed the taxi and they drove to a select little restaurant at the back of Shaftesbury Avenue.
"You're not seeing Pinto—I mean Mr. Silva—again to-night, are you?" she asked.
"No, I'm not seeing him until—well, until I see him," he smiled again.
"Well, I want to tell you something."
He thought she was charmingly embarrassed, and in truth she was, to invent the story she had to tell.