“Oh, yes—we know Alma very well,” replied the visitor. “Of course, I haven’t seen her since I was quite a little girl—she’s a dear.”
She looked round the laboratory with curious interest.
“What a nasty-smelling place!” she said, her nose upturned. “And how do you like old—er—Mr. Oberzohn?”
“Do you know him?” asked Mirabelle, astounded at the possibility of this coincidence.
“My brother knows him—we live together, my brother and I, and he knows everybody. A man about town has to, hasn’t he, dear?”
“Man about town” was an expression that grated a little; Mirabelle was not of the “dearing” kind. The combination of errors in taste made her scrutinize the caller more closely. Joan Newton was dressed beautifully but not well. There was something . . . Had Mirabelle a larger knowledge of life, she might have thought that the girl had been dressed to play the part of a lady by somebody who wasn’t quite sure of the constituents of the part. Captain Newton she did not know at the time, or she would have guessed the dress authority.
“I’m going to take you back to Chester Square after Mr. Oberzohn—such a funny name, isn’t it?—has done with you. Monty insisted upon my bringing the Rolls. Monty is my brother; he’s rather classical.”
Mirabelle wondered whether this indicated a love of the Greek poets or a passion for the less tuneful operas. Joan (which was her real name) meant no more than classy: it was a favourite word of hers; another was “morbid.”
Half an hour later the inquisitive chauffeur put his foot on the starter and sent his car on the trail of the Rolls, wondering what Mirabelle Leicester had in common with Joan Alice Murphy, who had brought so many rich young men to the green board in Captain Newton’s beautiful drawing-room, where stakes ran high and the captain played with such phenomenal luck.