“Not a thing,” Bruce agreed rather ruefully. “I thought you were the detective!”
He held out his hand to take his leave with a smile. He was a charming-looking boy with a remarkably serene expression which went well with close-cropped golden hair.
Mary Trevert did not take his hand for an instant. Looking down at the point of her small black suede shoe she said shyly:
“Mr. Wright, you are a friend of Mr. Greve, aren’t you?”
“Rather!” was the enthusiastic answer.
“Do you see him often?”
The boy’s eyes narrowed suddenly. Was this a cross-examination?
“Oh, yes,” he replied, “every now and then!”
Mary Trevert raised her eyes to his.
“Will you do something for me?” she said. “Tell Mr. Greve not to trust Manderton. He will know whom I mean. Tell him to be on his guard against that man. Say he means mischief. Tell him, above all things, to be careful. Make him go away ... go abroad until this thing has blown over ...”