“In the meantime, Miss Vanrenen, the information stored in those little red books is growing rusty.”
She settled the dispute at once by asking her companion which side of the car she preferred, and the other woman was compelled to say graciously that she really had no choice in the matter, but, to avoid further delay, would take the left-hand seat. Cynthia followed, and Medenham, still ready to deal harshly with Marigny if necessary, adjusted their rugs, saw to the safe disposal of the camera, and closed the door.
At that instant, the hall-porter hurried down the steps.
“Beg pardon, mum,” he said to Mrs. Devar, thrusting an open telegram between Medenham and Cynthia, “but there’s one word here——”
She snatched the form angrily from his outstretched hand.
“Which one?” she asked.
“The word after——”
“Come round this side. You are incommoding Miss Vanrenen.”
The man obeyed. With the curious fatality which attends such incidents, even among well-bred people, not a word was spoken by any of the others. To all seeming, Mrs. Devar’s cramped handwriting might have concealed some secret of gravest import to each person present. It was not really so thrilling when heard.