The colour rushed up into his face; he looked very much discomposed, but after a moment blurted out: "Of both of us, I suppose."
"Yes," said Mathilda. "I like you so much better when you're honest, Mr. Roydon."
"I wasn't aware that I had ever been anything else," he said stiffly.
She saw that she had deeply offended him, and was not sorry that Paula should choose that moment to stalk into the room.
"Why," demanded Paula, in her deep, throbbing voice, "are the police letting us alone this morning?"
"I can't think. I was merely thankful," replied Mathilda.
"There's nothing to be thankful for. I believe it means Scotland Yard."
Roydon gazed at her with something of the expression of a fascinated rabbit. "Why should it mean that?"
"My dear Willoughby, can't you see how obvious it was from the start that Scotland Yard would be called in? Think! Uncle Nat was murdered in a locked room! Do you imagine that the local police can cope with that? If I weren't so closely connected with the crime, I think I should find it absorbingly interesting," she added, considering the matter dispassionately.
"Anyone is welcome to my ring-seat," said Mathilda. "I do hope you're wrong about Scotland Yard."