"No, not exactly," she articulated, slowly; and, after a pause: "Poor old Milly's trying to come back, that's all."
She paused again; then:
"You look a bit worried, old man."
He tossed back his head with a gesture he had kept from the days when the crest of raven-black hair had been wont to grow too long and encroach on his forehead. It was grizzled now, and much less intrusive.
"I'm about tired out," he said, shortly.
"Look here," she continued, "if you really want Milly back, just say so. She's kind of knocking at the door, and I believe I could let her in if I tried."
He dropped wearily into a chair.
"For Heaven's sake, Miss Timson, don't put the responsibility on me!"
"I can't help it," returned Tims. "She's managed to get this through to me—" She handed Milly's scrawled message to Ian.
He read it, then read it again and handed it back.