Mirabelle laughed softly as she opened the door and walked in. At the sound of the door closing, the man who was sitting stiffly on a deep settee in a window recess got up. He was tall and bent, and his dark face was lined. His eyes she could not see; they were hidden behind dark green glasses, which were turned in her direction as she came across the room to greet him.
“Miss Mirabelle Leicester?” he asked, in the quiet, modulated voice of an educated man.
He took her hand in his.
“Won’t you sit down?” she said, for he remained standing after she had seated herself.
“Thank you.” He sat down gingerly, holding between his knees the handle of the umbrella he had brought into the drawing-room. “I’m afraid my visit may be inopportune, Miss Leicester,” he said. “Have you by any chance heard about Mr. Barberton?”
Her brows wrinkled in thought.
“Barberton? I seem to have heard the name.”
“He was killed yesterday on the Thames Embankment.”
Then she recollected.
“The man who was bitten by the snake?” she asked in horror.