Stephen’s patience was wearing thin. “If you’ll excuse me now, Aunt Caroline——”
“Of course—you have a great deal to do, and I have too; the servants get worse and worse. Servants! They’re not servants; war impostures, I call them. Well, I’ll leave you now.” But at the door she turned again. “Stephen!”
“Yes.” He tried not to say it too impatiently.
“There isn’t anything of great value in this room, is there?”
“Why, no,” he said nervously.
“That’s odd.”
“Why—odd?” His voice was tense, and he did not look at her.
“Three times since Richard died, burglars have tried to force their way through the windows in this room.”
“Oh!” Pryde managed to say, and it was all he could manage to say.
“Always the same windows, you understand. Each time, fortunately, we frightened them away.”