"A person from the—" Jenkins blinked. "In fact, a police person—" his chin went up and he so far forgot himself as to indulge in a sniff—"come to see you about—" his eyebrows angled a lofty protest at the housekeeper's strained poise—"h'm—to see you about—you know!"
I was dashed if I knew—but not so Miss Warfield! She gave a sudden gasp and whirled herself in front of me, hands up and clasped like the other woman in a jolly play you know.
"Oh, sir!" she tremuloed, "Please—please—"
"Eh?" I said in alarm and stepping back, for, dash it, I didn't know what she wanted; and for a moment I had an awful thought she wanted me to—you know! But the next second, I had her right.
"Um!" I said, tightening my lips. "Well, I'll see!" And she looked so white—white as the driven what's-its-name, you know—that I felt my devilish heart go out to her a bit. "All right," I added soothingly, "you just go on about your duties and sit tight, you know, and I'll see if I can—er—fix things!"
And, by Jove, I got past just in time to keep her from catching my hand and wringing herself over it.
"What the deuce—" I began outside, as Jenkins steered me toward the porte-cochère.
He looked warily at the footman waiting to serve us at the door—dashed if he didn't almost lay his hand on my arm!
Then, behind his hand: "It's about the pajamas, sir!"
"Eh?" I gasped, falling back.