“In his wake, so to speak.” He shot a questioning look at her. “Everyone appears to be out this afternoon.”
“Yes.” Millicent carefully turned her back to the dormer window and sat down on the arm of her easy-chair. “You haven’t answered my question, Hugh—where have you been ever since the inquest?”
“At the club.” Wyndham helped himself to another sandwich. “Awfully sorry I couldn’t get in touch with Dorothy Deane and deliver your message. I was sorry to disappoint you.”
“But I wasn’t disappointed. She received the message in time and came last night.”
Wyndham seemed to have some difficulty swallowing his coffee.
“Is she still here?” he inquired as soon as he could speak.
“Yes. Mother insisted that she could run her social column from here as well as from her boarding-house. Most of the social news is gathered over the telephone,” explained Millicent vaguely. “And mother promised to motor in to the office every afternoon and bring her out again in the evening.”
Wyndham set his coffee-cup back on its saucer with small regard for its perishable qualities.
“I might have known that she would come,” he said, half to himself; then louder: “Intimate friends don’t have to be told when they are needed.”
“Dorothy has so much tact—”