“Queen Victoria?” echoed Marjorie.
“I mean, my dear, that the Flaminica was the mother of Snobocracy, the divine High Priestess of the Order, whose code is expressed in the cryptic formula, ‘It is—or is not—The Thing!’.”
The alarum of the kitchen clock startled them both. Marjorie frowned. Althea must have been naughty again. She had been distinctly forbidden to touch it.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to leave it at that, my dear,” said Raymond, as he opened his book. Its peculiar odour enveloped her like a puff of smoke. “This report is somewhat more tricky than I had anticipated. But you have the main facts of the case—haven’t you? To-morrow, I’ll bring you a book from the Library.”
As Marjorie closed the door, a sharp whirr sounded from the telephone.
“Hello,” she said, wondering whether Raymond would mind being called.
“Is Mrs. Dilling at home?” asked a mellow voice at the other end of the wire. It was a voice that vibrated, and struck some unfamiliar chord within her consciousness; a voice that unreasonably disturbed her.
“I am Mrs. Dilling,” answered Marjorie, and waited.
“My name is Sullivan,” the voice continued. “Rufus Sullivan, the Member for Morroway.”
“Oh!” cried Marjorie, startled. Then, “Oh, yes?”