“No, sir. If she’s anything like your housemaid, I’m glad I didn’t, or I should have been chucked into the road. I had the deuce of a job to reach the lawn. Had I ordered dinner I might now have been in the village lockup.”
Grant hurried away, and placated Mrs. Bates after a stormy interlude. Precisely at 7.30 p. m. Minnie came and said that “Mr. Hawkshaw” had arrived.
“Bring him out here,” said Grant. “Fetch some sherry and glasses, and give us five minutes’ notice before dinner is served.”
“Please, sir,” tittered Minnie, “the gentleman prefers to stay indoors. He said his complexion won’t stand the glare.”
“Very well,” smiled Grant, rising. “Put the sherry and bitters on the sideboard.”
“Say,” murmured Hart, “is this chap really a detective?”
“Yes. He stands high at Scotland Yard.”
“Never more than five feet four, I’ll swear. But I wouldn’t have missed this for a pension. I have a revolver in my hip pocket, of course. One would feel lonely without it, even in England. But I hope you can stage a few knives and daggers, and a red light. I can cut masks out of a strip of black velvet. That girl will have a piece stowed away somewhere.”
The two entered the dining-room study, where the table was now laid for dinner. Furneaux was seated on the edge of a chair in the darkest corner. His eyes gleamed at them strangely.
“Can you trust Bates?” he said to Grant.