Giles could not forbear casting a quick look from Randall's handsome, mocking face to Henry Lupton's grey one. The little man tried to laugh, but there was no mirth in his eyes. Superintendent Hannasyde remained immovable.
Mrs Lupton flushed. “You forget yourself, Randall. I am not going to stand here and see my husband insulted by your ill-bred notions of what is funny.”
“Oh, I wasn't insulting him,” said Randall. “Why shouldn't he have a mistress? I am inclined to think that in his place—as your spouse, my dear Aunt Gertrude—I should have several.”
Across the room Giles' eyes encountered Hannasyde's for one pregnant moment. It was evident that Randall had at last succeeded in startling the Superintendent.
Mrs Lupton seemed to swell. “You will either apologise for your impertinence, Randall, or I leave this room. Never have I been spoken to in such a manner!”
“Dear aunt!” said Randall, and kissed his fingers to her. Mrs Lupton swept round, and stalked from the room. Randall inhaled a deep breath of tobacco smoke. “I said you might need me,” he remarked, and lounged towards the door.
Henry Lupton said in a strangled voice: “Wait, Randall! What—what do you mean by this—this very questionable joke?”
Randall glanced contemptuously down at him. “My good uncle, I have got you out of one mess: get yourself out of this!” he said, and walked negligently out of the room.
Giles would have followed him, but Lupton, a tinge of colour now in his cheeks, stopped him, saying: “Please don't go, Mr Carrington! I—really, I should prefer you to remain! You are a legal man, and I —”
“I cannot undertake to advise you, Mr Lupton,” Giles said. “I am here merely as the late Mr Matthews' solicitor.”