Next morning the storm broke.
Roger went down the village to fetch the papers, and on returning saw, with some surprise, a taxi-cab standing in the road below the cottage.
In the tiny hall, almost blocking it up, stood a big, burly man, whom he instantly discerned as a policeman in plain clothes, and who greeted him with a civil “Good morning.”
He had the impression that Miss Culpepper was fluttering nervously in the background, by the kitchen door, with Cleopatra beside her, staring with her big, luminous eyes at the intruder.
“Do you wish to speak to me?” he asked.
The man merely motioned towards the half-open parlour door, and, with a curious sense of impending disaster upon him, Roger entered.
Grace was standing there, her fair face as white as the big cooking apron she had donned, and with her was a little, wiry man, a stranger.
“This is my husband, Mr. Carling,” said Grace quietly. “Roger, this gentleman wishes to speak to you.”
“Just so—and alone, if you please, ma’am,” said Snell.