“I am.”
“Then perhaps you can explain why you let this flat to a rebel.”
“I let the rooms to Mrs. Fitzgerald,” Mrs. Slaney corrected.
“You didn’t know who she was, I suppose? Come, Mrs. Slaney, did you know who Fitzgerald was or not?”
“I let the rooms to his wife. He only has his meals.”
“You are in a very serious position, Mrs. Slaney. Do you know the penalty for harbouring rebels?”
I was mounting the stairs with the infant Fergus, to tuck him up on our sofa, when I ran into the musical man who lived over our heads.
“Do you think they’ll search the house?” he said.
“If Mrs. Slaney annoys them enough they will.”
“I’ve a paper here—they don’t search women,” he suggested.