“None too much for him,” Crespin snapped between his teeth.
“When he locked that door,” Traherne reminded him, “he put the key in his trousers pocket. We must remember to get it before—” He broke off, because a woman was listening, but his eyes spoke—they spoke short shrift for Watkins, the valet.
“But,” Mrs. Crespin broke in, “if you kill him, and still don’t remember the call, we shall be no better off than we are now.”
“We shall be no worse off,” Traherne said grimly.
“Better, by Jove!” Crespin exclaimed. “For, if I can get three minutes at that instrument, the Raja can’t tell whether we have communicated or not.” He ended with a short exultant laugh, and strode to the revolving book-shelves where the glassful of liquor he’d poured out still stood. He took it up, with a sort of animal sob.
“Oh, Antony!” Lucilla cried.
Traherne held out a hand to beg her silence. The physician knew.
“Don’t be a fool, Lu,” Crespin said roughly.
“The soda’s all flat,” she said weakly.
“The soda be damned!” Antony Crespin swore. “It’s not the soda I want. And I put damned little soda in it.”