"I told you his life had been one marvellous mistake after another. Go on," she replied.
But as I proceeded her calm became less and less assured. I was purposely omitting from my account such elements as might tend to agitate her, but she seemed to divine this, and perhaps she thought I suppressed more than I did. Suddenly she broke out:
"Never mind all that about ratios. I don't know anything about ratios. The point is, when does he expect the next—attack?"
"I hardly know—I rather think——" I began, now quite violently holding her hands, which she had tried to withdraw. She had also attempted to rise.
"Soon? A month? A week? To-morrow?" she demanded.
"He's not sure himself, but I'm rather afraid——"
She allowed me to say no more. She plucked her hands from mine and ran out of the studio. I heard the single faint "ting" of a telephone-receiver being lifted from its fork, and a moment later, "Is that the taxi-rank? The Boltons—Miss Oliphant—as quick as you can."
Three minutes later she reappeared. She had thrown a wrap over her tea-gown, and was hurriedly tying a scarf under her chin.
"Isn't that taxi here yet? How long should it take from here to Cambridge Circus?"
"Twenty or twenty-five minutes."