CHAPTER XVII
About noon the next day a couple of porters stood waiting for the service-lift at the Royal Palace hotel. Each man had a sole-leather trunk on his shoulder, a trunk so new that the initialing "G. V. S." was still wet. It was something else which halted Napier in the act of sending up his card to Miss Ellis, a glimpse of Singleton's face behind an outspread newspaper.
"Cabs full of stuff keep coming," was the gentleman's sotto voce comment.
Napier wondered drily that anybody should expect to get the stuff out of England.
"Personal wardrobe. Member of household of cabinet minister. Special privileges. And nobody knows better that avoidance of publicity is worth thousands of pounds to Sir William and, I daresay, to the Government. She's playing it for all she's worth. She's got this Mr. Julian Grant in her pocket, too. He's up with her now."
The lift came down with Nan. She made a little hurried bow, and was for escaping. Napier stood there in front of her.
"Just a minute."
"I can't; I'm sorry. I haven't got a minute."
"Yes, you have," he said bitterly, "when I tell you it's about Miss Greta's affairs."
"Oh, about Greta—"