“Say, I’m sorry I riled you, Sergeant,” said Imbrie with a grin. “I was a bit carried off my feet by the situation. I’ll be more careful hereafter. Untie this damned rope, will you?”
Stonor slowly shook his head. “I think we’re both better off with a little distance between us.”
Imbrie repented of his honeyed tones. His lip curled back. But he made an effort to control himself. “Aren’t you afraid your spotless reputation will suffer?” he asked, sneering.
“Not a bit!” said Stonor promptly.
Imbrie was taken aback. “Well—can I speak to my wife for a minute?” he asked sullenly.
Stonor observed, wincing, how he loved to bring out the word “wife.” “That’s up to her,” he answered. “I’ll put it to her.”
Returning to Clare, he said: “He wants to speak to you.”
She shrank involuntarily. “What should I do, Martin?”
“I see nothing to be gained by it,” said Stonor quickly.