“Inspector Poole, of Scotland Yard, wants to see you, please, Miss Saverel,” he said solemnly.
The girl looked up quickly. Her fine, arched eyebrows rose slightly, but no expression, either of alarm or excitement, appeared on her attractive face. She sat for a moment, as if in thought, her eyes fixed on the centre button of Mr. Blagge’s black coat.
“All right,” she said. “I’ve just got this to get off—then I’ll go and see him.” She tapped a few bars on her typewriter, whisked the paper out, scribbled a signature, folded and placed the letter in an envelope and addressed it. Rising, she went out into the narrow passage and opened the door into the clerks’ room.
“Take that round at once, please, Smithers,” she said, then closing the door, walked down the short passage to the Board Room.
“You want to see me?” she asked lightly.
Poole found himself admiring the calmness and poise of this woman, who, if she was what he thought her, must know herself to be face to face with deadly peril—at the very least, an appalling ordeal. He could not be certain that she was the girl Inez Fratten had pointed out to him on Friday evening and who had slipped him at Charing Cross. He had not had a close view of “Daphne,” who, in any case, was wearing a hat and an overcoat. This girl was certainly of much the same build, a slim, graceful figure, with short, fair hair and extremely attractive brown eyes. She was dressed in a black skirt and grey silk shirt, with a touch of white at her throat.
“I have to ask you one or two questions, Miss Saverel,” he said, “some of them routine questions—in connection with the death of Sir Garth Fratten. You perhaps know that Sir Garth was invited by your Chairman, Sir Hunter Lorne, to join the Board of the Company; we have reason to believe that that invitation was not acceptable to every member of the Board; can you confirm that?”
“I can’t,” replied Miss Saverel calmly.
“You mean you don’t know?”
“How should I?”