He chuckled.
“They’d be sorry for themselves, I’ll bet,” he added.
He put down his cigarette and took out another slowly, leisurely. Lady Holme longed to strike him. His conceited composure added fuel to the flame of her anxiety.
“Well, anyhow, I don’t care to run these risks in a place like London, Fritz,” she said almost angrily. “Have you locked up or not?”
“Damned if I remember,” he drawled.
She did not know whether he was deliberately trying to irritate her or whether he really had forgotten, but she felt it impossible to remain any longer in uncertainty.
“Very well, then, I shall go down and see,” she said.
And she laid the book of poems on a table and prepared to get up from the sofa.
“Rot!” said Lord Holme; “if you’re nervous, I’ll go.”
She leaned back.