“To-morrow morning—in notes,” repeated Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence.
“Now, your man at Royan was excellent—kept his head all through—and a light hand, too. Got him with you in Paris?”
“No, I have not. To-morrow morning, about ten o’clock—in notes.”
And Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence tapped a neat gloved finger on the corner of the table with some determination.
“I remember—at dessert—you told me you wanted to realise a considerable sum of money at the beginning of the year, to put into some business venture. Is this part of that sum?”
“Yes,” returned the lady, arranging her veil.
“A venture of Dormer Colville’s, I think you told me—while we were having coffee. One never gets coffee hot enough in a private house, but yours was all right.”
“Yes,” mumbled Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, behind her quick finger, busy with the veil.
Beneath the sleepy lids John Turner’s eyes, which were small and deep-sunken in the flesh, like the eyes of a pig, noted in passing that his client’s cheeks were momentarily pink.
“I hope you don’t mean to suggest that there is anything unsafe in Mr. Colville as a business man?”