"And now?"
"Now—?" In a flash of pantomime Singleton with one hand suggested the knotting round the throat. His quick fingers carried the invisible cord above his head. He dangled the phantom felon in the air. "And the beauty of it is, she's done it herself."
"I wonder," said Napier.
"You wouldn't if you knew Grindley!" Singleton smiled comfortably as he lay back in the high carved chair. "Frightfully intelligent boy, Grindley. You see,"—suddenly he bent over the table again—"it's like this. They send about a devilish lot of their information in the form of brokers' orders. I dare say, if you've noticed, she'll pretend to read the 'Financial Times.'"
He waited only a second for the verification Napier withheld. But the familiar picture sprang up at call: Miss Greta half coquettish, half girlishly—appealing, "I must see what's happened to my poor little earnings." Sir William amused, pleasantly malicious, "As if you'd know, even if they told you! You'd far better ask me."
"Thank you immensely, but women oughtn't to be so dreadfully dependent. I'd like to make myself understand. Perhaps in time—"
And Sir William's laughter: "When rivers run uphill and kittens cry to-whitt, to-whoo!"
Singleton had taken out a note-book and scribbled two or three lines.
"She'll telegraph something like that." He held the book open on the table under Napier's eyes. "She wouldn't care a button if the post-office people gave that up or whose hands it fell into."
Certainly in Napier's hands it would have made Miss Greta no trouble.