It was a small drawing-room, apparently unused, for the furniture was sheeted with holland, and the fire-grate was empty. From here it was possible to gain access to the library through a door near the window. He switched off the light, locked the door on the inside, and tried the shutters. These were fastened by iron bars and were not, as in the case of the library, locked. He pulled them back, let the blind up, and gingerly raised a window. His second line of retreat was now prepared, and he could afford to take risks.
Kneeling down, he looked through the keyhole. The library was illuminated, and somebody was talking. A woman! Turning the handle, he opened the door the fraction of an inch, and had a view of the interior.
Gregory Penne was standing in his favourite attitude, with his back to the fire, and before him was a tray of those refreshments without which life was apparently insupportable. Seated on the low settee, drawn up at one side of the fireplace, was Stella Mendoza. She was wearing a fur coat, for the night was chilly, and about her neck was such a sparkle of gems as Michael had never seen before on a woman.
Evidently the discussion was not a pleasant one, for there was a heavy scowl on Gregory’s face, and Stella did not seem too pleased.
“I left you because I had to leave you,” growled the man, answering some complaint she had made. “One of my servants is ill and I brought in the doctor. And if I had stayed it would have been the same. It’s no good, my girl,” he said harshly. “The goose doesn’t lay golden eggs more than once—this goose doesn’t, at any rate. You were a fool to quarrel with Knebworth.”
She said something which did not reach Michael’s ears.
“I dare say your own company would be fine,” said Penne sarcastically. “It would be fine for me, who footed the bill, and finer for you, who spent the money! No! Stella, that cat doesn’t jump. I’ve been very good to you, and you’ve no right to expect me to bankrupt myself to humour your whims.”
“It’s not a whim,” she said vehemently, “it’s a necessity. You don’t want to see me going round the studios taking any kind of job I can get, do you, Gregory?” she pleaded.
“I don’t want to see you work at all, and there’s no reason why you should. You’ve enough to live on. Anyway, you’ve got nothing against Knebworth. If it hadn’t been for him, you wouldn’t have met me, and if you hadn’t met me, you’d have been poorer by thousands. You want a change.”
There was a silence. Her head was drooped, and Michael could not see the girl’s face, but when she spoke, there was that note of viciousness in her voice which told him her state of mind.