"Get out of here!" she shrilled. "Who told you to come poking in?"
"I heard a noise," said Westervelt, conscious that his voice sounded odd. "I thought it was Mr. Lydman."
"Do I look like Lydman?" demanded Parrish, not raising his voice as much as Beryl had. "There wasn't any light, was there? Did you think he'd be sitting in here in the dark?"
The possibility charged the atmosphere like static electricity. Actually, mere mention of it made Westervelt feel better because it sounded so much like what he might have found.
"How did I know?" he retorted. "I thought Beryl was with him. Why should I expect you? You said you weren't going to dig any further in here."
Beryl had been smoothing her still-perfect coiffure. Now she stiffened as much as Parrish. Westervelt sensed that his choice of words might have been unfortunate.
"Well, who is with him?" he demanded, before they could say anything.
The question galvanized Parrish into action. He stepped forward to meet Westervelt face to face.
"If you're so worried about that, why don't you go find him?" he sneered. "For my money, you two make a good match."
"Maybe I will," said Westervelt hotly. "You two don't seem to care about what's going on. If you'll just excuse me, I'll turn out the light and—"