“Rather!” said Mr. Karslake. “You see, I’m his secretary.”
“How long—”
“Upward of eighteen months now.”
“And how long have you known I was his daughter?”
Mr. Karslake, consulting a wrist-watch, permitted himself a quiet smile.
“Thirty-eight minutes,” he announced—“say, thirty-nine.”
“But how did you find out—?”
“Your father called me up—can’t say from where—said he’d just learned you were acting as cashier at the Café des Exiles, and would I be good enough to take you firmly by the hand and lead you home.”
“And how did he learn—?”
“That he didn’t say. ’Fraid you’ll have to ask him, Princess Sofia.”