CHAPTER VII
LORD PETER PROMISES A SOLUTION
Sunday supper at Galvin House was a cold meal timed for eight o'clock; but allowed to remain upon the table until half-past nine for the convenience of church-goers.
Patricia had dawdled over her toilette, realising, however, to admit that she dreaded the ordeal before her in the dining-room. When at last she could find no excuse for remaining longer in her room, she descended the stairs slowly, conscious of a strange feeling of hesitancy about her knees.
Outside the dining-room door she paused. Her instinct was to bolt; but the pad-pad of Gustave's approaching footsteps cutting off her retreat decided her. As she entered the dining-room the hum of excited conversation ceased abruptly and, amidst a dead silence, Patricia walked to her seat conscious of a heightened colour and a hatred of her own species.
Looking round the table, and seeing how acutely self-conscious everyone seemed, her self-possession returned. She noticed a new deference in Gustave's manner as he placed before her a plate of cold shoulder of mutton and held the salad-bowl at her side. Having helped herself Patricia turned to Miss Wangle, and for a moment regarded her with an enigmatical smile that made her fidget.
"How clever of you, Miss Wangle," she said sweetly. "In future no one will ever dare to have a secret at Galvin House."
Miss Wangle reddened. Mr. Bolton's laugh rang out.
"Miss Wangle, Private Enquiry Agent," he cried, "I——"
"Really, Mr. Bolton!" protested Mrs. Craske-Morton, looking anxiously at Miss Wangle's indrawn lips and angry eyes.