Her grip was firm as she shook my hand. She had grey eyes and there was a curious tenseness about her that communicated itself even in that atmosphere of a crowded bar. 'What are you having?' I asked her.
'A light ale, please,' she said. Her voice was soft, almost subdued.
'Well,' I said when I had given the order, 'what can we do for you, Miss Somers?'
'I want you to take me to Norway with you.' The tenseness was in her voice now.
'To Norway? But we're not going to Norway. Dick should have warned you. We're going to the Mediterranean. I suppose you've been reading that damned newspaper story?'
'I don't understand,' she said. 'I haven't see any newspaper story. Sir Clinton Mann phoned me this morning. He told me so come along and see you. He said you were sailing for Norway Tommorow.'
'Well, he's wrong.' The sharpness of my voice seemed to wit her. 'Why do you want to get to Norway?' I asked in a gentler tone.
'Sir Clinton said you were going over to investigate the death of — of George Farnell.' Her eyes had an expression of pain in them. 'I wanted to come, too. I wanted to see his grave and — know how he died.'
I was watching her face as I passed over her beer. 'You knew Farnell?'
She nodded her head. 'Yes,' she said.