He picked up his tray and stalked off towards the kitchen, and the girl stared after him in puzzlement. Orace, though a martinet, was only actually rude to Tiger Cubs and detectives: she had already seen through his mask of ferocity and discovered the kindly humanist underneath. On the last occasion of his escorting her home his manner had been even paternal, for Simon Templar’s friends were Orace’s friends. But this, now, was a ruffled Orace.
She followed him to the kitchen.
“Can I help with anything?” she inquired cheerfully.
“Naow, don’t think sa, miss,” he replied gruffly. “I’m use ter mannidging alone—thanks.”
“Then could you tell me where Mr. Templar’s gone? I could walk on and meet him.”
Orace hammered the point of a tin-opener into a can of salmon with quite unnecessary violence.
“Dunno anythink about it,” he said. “You can betcha life, miss, ’e’ll be ’ome when ’e said ’e would, if ’e can ’umanly possibly do ut. Most thunderin’ punctual man alive, ’e is, an ’e’ll come in the door just when the clock strikes. So yer got nuffin ta worry about.”
He ended on a more gentle note, but there was no doubt that he was very upset.
“Why—has anything happened to make you think I’d be likely to worry?” Patricia queried, with her heart thumping a little faster. “Was he going to do anything special this afternoon?”
“Naaow!” snarled Orace, unconvincingly derisive, and went on hacking at the tin.