"Good! Then we'll release Mother Fagin long enough to let her cook some of them."
He strolled to the bedroom door. On a chair facing it the woman sat and gazed at him with her fierce eyes.
"Would you like a little exercise?" he politely inquired. There was no change of expression in the hostile face. "Because if you would," he went on, "and if you'll give me your word not to cry out, give any kind of alarm or signal, or start anything whatever, I'll take that bandage off your mouth, and let you cook lunch for us and for yourself."
The fierce eyes set, then wavered. He waited patiently. At last the head nodded, and he expeditiously untied the bandage.
"The very best you've got, please," he instructed. "And I hope you can cook. If you can't, I'll have to do it myself. I'm rather gifted that way."
"I can cook," avowed the old woman, sullenly.
"Good work! Then go on your joyous way. But if you feel an impulse to invite into your kitchen any of the gentlemen out in the grounds, or to release the secretary, restrain it. They wouldn't like it in here. They wouldn't like it at all."
A strange grimace twisted the woman's sardonic features. He interpreted it rightly.
"I'm glad you agree with me," he said. "Now, brook-trout, please, and broiled chickens, and early strawberries and clotted cream."
She looked at him with a return of the stoic expression that was her habitual one.