Afterwards, when Roberta had time to review the events of that incredible day, she remembered that until Alleyn appeared an image of a fictitious detective had hung about at the back of all her thoughts; an image of a man coldly attentive, with coarse hands and a large, soapy-shining face. Alleyn was so little like this image that for a moment she thought he must be some visitor, fantastically de trop, who had dropped in to see the Lampreys. The sight of Fox disabused her of this idea. There was no mistake about Fox.
The new Lord Wutherwood put his glass in his waistcoat pocket and, with his usual air of punctilious courtesy, hurried forward. He shook hands, bending his elbow sharply and holding his hand out at a right angle to his fore-arm — a modish, diplomatic handshake.
“Do come in,” he said. “We have left you very much to yourselves out there but I hoped if there was anything we could do you would let us know.”
“There was nothing, thank you so much,” said Alleyn, “until now. I felt I should go over the information Fox had already got before I bothered all of you. But now—”
“Yes, yes, of course. My wife and my small son are not here at the moment but this is the rest of the family… My eldest son you have already met. My daughter…”
The introductions were solemnly performed. Alleyn bowed to each of the Lampreys. Roberta on her footstool was so much in shadow that Lord Charles forgot her, but Alleyn’s dark eyes turned gravely to the small figure.
“I beg your pardon, Robin, my dear,” said Lord Charles. “Miss Grey is a New Zealand friend of ours, Mr. Alleyn.”
“How do you do,” said Roberta.
“New Zealand?” said Alleyn.
“Yes. I only got here yesterday,” said Roberta and wondered why he looked so gently at her before he turned to Lord Charles.