“Does she live alone in Grosvenor Street?”
“A young lady, Miss Barbara Turner, lives with her.”
“And who is she?”
“She is the daughter of an old pal of Vanderstein’s. A man who used to train his racehorses at Newmarket. He was a bad lot and had to fly the country long ago. Dead now, I believe.”
“Has Miss Turner any money of her own?”
“Old Vanderstein left her a good large sum, £30,000 I think it is, but Mrs. Vanderstein has a life interest in it. The girl has nothing as long as she lives with Mrs. Vanderstein, who, however, I have no doubt, is most generous to her.”
“I suppose you know Miss Turner well? What is she like?”
“Oh, she’s a very ordinary girl, rather pretty some people think, apparently. I don’t admire the robust, muscular type that is fashionable nowadays. Mrs. Vanderstein is very fond of her.”
“That means you don’t like her yourself?”
Sir Gregory hesitated. It was not in him, really, to dislike anyone without very much provocation, but he always had an idea that Barbara was laughing at him, and he cherished his dignity.