“Who?”
“A man, a—a—gentleman, I suppose. He looks as if he has been drinking, though.”
“A nice sort of visitor for a Sunday evening. What is his name, Con?”
“Slotman.”
“Don’t know it. I suppose I’d better see him. Wait, I’ll light the lamp. If Ellice isn’t back soon I shall go and hunt for her. Do you know which direction she went in?”
“I—I think—” Connie hesitated; she was never any good at concealment. “I think she went towards Starden.”
“Then when we’ve got rid of this fellow I’ll get out the car and go and find her. Show him in, Con.”
Mr. Philip Slotman, looking shaken, bearing on his face several patches of court plaster, which were visible, and in his breast a black fury that was invisible, came in.
“Mr. Slotman?”
“Yes, you are Mr. Everard?”