“You must leave that to me,” said Miss Girton, in a low inhuman voice that sent an involuntary tingle of dread crawling up Patricia’s spine.
The girl rose and walked to another part of the room, to get away from the dull frightening eyes of Agatha Girton. At any other time she would have known better how to deal with the revelation that had been made to her, but now all her thoughts were with the Saint, and she could not concentrate on this new problem—and, if she had been able to, she would not have dared to tackle it, for fear of creating a situation which might prevent her carrying out his instructions if he failed to put in an appearance at the appointed time. Miss Girton was as strong as an ordinary man, and her temper that night was not to be trusted.
Fifteen minutes still to go—three quarters of an hour since she left the Saint in the garden.
“What’s the matter with you, child?” Agatha Girton’s rasping voice demanded sharply. “Why do you keep looking at your watch?”
“To see the time.”
She felt an absurd desire to smile. The retort would have tickled the Saint to death—she could visualise his impish delight—but Agatha Girton was less easily satisfied.
“Why should you bother about the time?”
“I’m not going to be badgered like this!” flamed Patricia unexpectedly.
Her patience had worn very thin during the last quarter of an hour, and she knew that her anxiety was desperately near to driving her into indiscreet anger or a flood of tears for relief. She faced Miss Girton mutinously.
“I’ll see you to-morrow,” she said, and left the room without another word.