“For Heaven's sake, Stewart, tell me what you mean! Who was in the garden?”
Stewart was amused and interested. It was not for him to belittle a situation of his own making, an incident of his own telling.
“I lost my way in your garden, wandered among the trees, broke through a hedgerow or two, struck a match and consulted the compass—”
Peter's fingers closed.
“Quick,” he said.
Stewart's manner lost its jauntiness.
“There was a girl there,” he said shortly. “Couldn't see her. She spoke English. Said she didn't live here, and broke for the gate the minute I got to the path.”
“You didn't see her?”
“No. Nice voice, though. Young.”
The next moment he was alone. Peter in his dressing-gown was running down the staircase to the lower floor, was shouting to the Portier to unlock the door, was a madman in everything but purpose. The Portier let him out and returned to the bedroom.