“Sir Archibald, George? Lo, he is here!” She flashed a quick glance to the piano as she added, “If only I had known you were about to enter, uncle, I would have treated you to a few crashing bars of stage-life entree-music.”
“Go away with your nonsense!” laughed the old man.
“Nonsense, indeed!” the girl laughed as merrily as the old man. Then, with a sudden, swift movement, she crossed to the piano, struck one sharp note upon it, and whispered in well-feigned hoarseness, “Slow music for the three conspirators as they retire to plot the destruction of London’s press, and the accumulation of untold millions by their own special journalistic production!”
Her fingers moved over the ivory keys, and low, weird, creepy music filled the room with its eerie notes.
Sir Archibald and George Carlyon fell in with the girl’s mood, and crept doorwards on tiptoe.
“Number three,” hissed the girl.
And Tom Hammond laughingly followed with the two other men.
“She is a treat, is Madge!” laughed George Carlyon, as the three men passed through the doorway and made for the study-like room of Sir Archibald.