He took out his note-book as if to compare her answer with an address in his book. The girl looked at him keenly, then moved towards the window.
“It’s dark in here with that blind down,” she said, “you can hardly see your book.”
She pulled the blind up the few inches that it had dropped, then turned back towards him. Poole realized that she now had her back to the light, whilst he had it in his eyes, his back to the door into the outer lobby. He thought, however, that he could still see her face sufficiently well to make it unnecessary for him to manœuvre for position.
“It’s very charming of you to take such an interest in me,” she said. “I live in Bloomsbury Lane—94; fashionable neighbourhood—in my grandmother’s time.”
“You haven’t ever lived in the Fulham Road, have you?”
There was the merest fraction of a pause before the answer came.
“The Fulham Road? No, never. You must be getting me mixed up with Captain Wraile, one of the directors—he lives there.”
“But you haven’t lived there yourself?”
“No, I told you I hadn’t.”
“But you go there sometimes?” persisted Poole.