"It wasn't at all convenient," Napier assured him with asperity. "I got into such particularly hot water over my case against the lady that I don't at this moment know whether I am still private secretary to Sir William McIntyre or not."
"Why is that?"
"She persuaded him that I was, to put it mildly, salving my wounded feelings. Oh, she's—" Napier jumped up, and went to the door.
"Yes, she is," Singleton's voice sounded an amused agreement.
"What is she?" Napier demanded, turning round. "Does anybody know?"
"Well, what do you think we're for?"
Napier stood there, an embodied interrogation. How closely did it touch Nan Ellis, the knowledge this man had?
"We've kept an eye on her for some time. She has been unconsciously—" Singleton flicked his cigar-ash—"of considerable use to us. Oh, she's well known. Devils for Pforzheim and Engleberg."
"Engleberg? Who is Engleberg?"
"The older one, who called himself Carl Pforzheim. A slim pair, those two!"