“Where is she?”
“In the kitchen, I think. Come into the salon.”
McLean flung off his coat. Peter closed the door behind him and stood just inside. He had his pipe as usual. “I came to see her, not you, Byrne.”
“So I gather. I'll let you see her, of course, but don't you want to see me first?”
“I want to take her away from here.”
“Why? Are you better able to care for her than I am?”
McLean stood rigid. He had thrust his clenched hands into his pockets.
“You're a scoundrel, Byrne,” he said steadily. “Why didn't you tell me this this afternoon?”
“Because I knew if I did you'd do just what you are doing.”
“Are you going to keep her here?”