"You've g-got the Public wrong, F-Francis!" gasped Miss Fawcett.
"Possibly, but I have hidden potentialities of a domestic nature, may I remind you?" He became aware of Inspector Harding, and turned his head. "How do you do? I regret that I don't know who you are, but pray come in."
Dinah looked up. "Oh, hullo!" she said. "I'm not having hysterics: it's only Lola's manager, or whatever he is. He says we've got to hush it up."
"I should think you'll have some difficulty in doing that," replied Harding. "If someone has arrived to see Miss de Silva, he's her press-agent, I imagine. She told me she had sent for him." He looked in his grave, considering way at Francis. "Captain Billington-Smith?"
"The correct answer is, I believe, that you have the advantage of me," said Francis.
Dinah pulled herself together. "This is Mr. Harding, Francis."
"How nice!" said Francis, shaking hands. "Ought that to enlighten me?"
"Inspector Harding of Scotland Yard," explained Dinah.
"Really?" Francis's brows rose in surprise. "That certainly didn't occur to me."
There was a light footfall on the stairs; Fay cane round the bend, and stood looking down into the hall. For the first time since the discovery of her husband's murder there was a tinge of colour in her face, some shadow of eagerness in her wide eyes. "Is that the Inspector? You've been to the bank? I — I was right wasn't I? Please tell me what they said!"