“No, Patricia Holm,” she said to herself, “that’s not in the book of the rules, and never has been. You would have a taste of the soup, and now you’ve fallen in you’ve jolly well got to swim. He wouldn’t say anything, I know, and he’d be as pleased as Punch—for a day or two. But after a bit he’d begin to think a heap. And then it’d all be over—smithereened! And that being so we’ll take our medicine without blubbering, even if the jam has worn a trifle thin. . . . Therefore, Patricia Holm, as our Saint would say, where do we go from here?”
Well, she’d done all she could about Lapping, and she must wait to see what he thought of the evidence. There remained Agatha Girton, and the Saint’s orders must be obeyed under that heading the same as under the other. Patricia braced herself for the ordeal, and just then her hand touched something hard in her pocket. She brought it out and took a peep at it—the automatic which Simon had given her. It was marvellously encouraging to remember that that little toy could at a touch of her finger splutter a hail of sudden death into anyone who tried to put over any funny business. She put it back in her pocket and patted it affectionately.
The housekeeper, emerging from the kitchen to see who had come in, informed her that Miss Girton had returned half an hour since, and Patricia felt her heart pounding unevenly as she went to the drawing-room.
To her surprise, the door was locked. She rattled the handle, and presently Agatha Girton answered.
“Who’s that?”
“Me—Patricia.”
“I can’t see you now.”
The girl frowned.
“It’s important,” she persisted. “I want to talk to you.”
“Well, I’m busy, and I can’t spare the time. Come back presently—or if you’re upstairs I’ll call you when I’m ready.”