“It’s no good trying the happy home stunt on us,” remarked Bill Staveley lazily. “We want to know where you’ve really been and what mischief you’ve been up to.”
“I never said I’d been to Galston,” protested Cynthia, the picture of injured innocence. “It was Eve who insisted on it.”
“In spite of all your protestations,” jibed Staveley. He and Cynthia were old sparring partners and he was a worthy match for her.
“Well, did you want me to give the show away?” she asked.
“Considering that we don’t know what the show is!”
She cut him short and tackled Fayre direct.
“Did you manage to do anything about Dr. Gregg, Uncle Fayre?” she asked.
“I rang up Grey, and Bill got the station and discovered that he had caught the London train. Grey’s going to try to keep him under observation at the other end. That was all we could do.”
For answer Cynthia opened the little gold bag she carried and took from it a slip of paper. She handed it to Fayre and watched him in silence as he read it aloud.
“Care of Dr. Graham, Brackley Mansions, Victoria Street,” it ran.