“It is always a woman. How you men must loathe us in your sane moments, if you ever have any.”
“I flatter myself that I am sane, yet how could I say that I loathe your sex, Mrs. Carshaw?”
“I wonder if your flattery will bear analysis. But there! No serious talk until I am refreshed. Do ring for some biscuits; sandwiches are apt to be slow in the cutting.”
Thus by pretext she kept him from direct converse until a tea-tray, with a film of paté de fois coyly hidden in thin bread and butter, formed, as it were, a rampart between them.
“How did you happen on my address?” he asked smilingly.
It was the first shell of real warfare, and she answered in kind: “That was quite easy. The people at the detective bureau know it.”
The words hit him like a bullet.
“The Bureau!” he cried.
“Yes. The officials there are interested in the affairs of Winifred Marchbanks.”