"And might I ask, Matilda, without intending discourtesy," said Jack, eyeing Mr. Pyecroft with disfavor, "how long your brother and sister intend to remain?"
"Matilda invited us for the summer," said Mr. Pyecroft apologetically.
"For the summer!" repeated Jack in dismay. Then he spoke to Matilda, caustically: "I suppose it's all right, Matilda, but has it been your fixed custom, when we've been away for the summer, to fill the house with your family?"
"Please, Mr. Jack, please," imploringly began Matilda, and could utter nothing further.
"Great God!" Jack burst out in exasperation. "Not that I'd object ordinarily to your relatives being here, Matilda. But running this place just now as a hotel, who knows but it may let out the fact that we're here!"
Mr. Pyecroft's eyebrows went up—ever so little.
"Ah, I understand. You wish your presence in the house to be a secret."
"Of course! Hasn't Matilda told you?"
"I only just arrived. She hasn't had time. But of course she would have done so. You are—ah"—his tone was delicate—"evading the police?"
"The police! We don't care a hang about the police, though, of course, we don't want them to know. It's the infernal reporters we care about."