“There is no reason why you shouldn’t tell everything—the full story if you like, Tab, all except—all except the new pins,” he added.
Tab was delighted. So far he had only been able to give the vaguest outlines of the story in print and the lifting of the embargo simplified his work enormously; incidentally it gave him time to see Ursula.
And she was glad to see him. She threw out two impulsive hands and gripped his as he came into her sitting-room at the Central.
“You poor hard-worked man! You look as if you haven’t slept for a week,” she said.
“I feel that way,” said Tab ruefully, “but if I yawn whilst I am with you, throw a cup at me—not necessarily an expensive cup—I respond to the commonest of crockery.”
“Of course, you are working on this new crime?” she asked, busy with the teapot. “It is dreadful. Brown is the poor fellow they were trying to discover, weren’t they? Isn’t he the man that Yeh Ling spoke about?”
Tab nodded.
“Poor soul,” she said softly, “he was from China also? I remember. And you have captured Walters. I never thought that Walters was guilty. I did not like the man; I had seen him once and felt instinctively repulsed from him, though I never thought that he would murder Mr. Trasmere.”
She turned quickly to another topic with relief.
“I have had an offer to go back to the stage, but of course, I am not going,” she said. “I wonder if you will believe me when I tell you that I hate the stage? It is full of the most unhappy memories for me.”