Robin Greve’s question rang out sharply. It was an affirmation more than a question.
“Yes, sir, leastways I suppose so, sir ...”
“Which window?”
“Why, the one Mr. Parrish always liked to have open in the warm weather, sir, ... the one opposite the desk. The other window was never opened, sir, because of the dictaphone as stands in front of it. The damp affects the mechanism ...”
“Thank you, Bude,” said the young man.
With his accustomed majesty the butler wheeled to go. In the turn of his head as he moved there was a faint suggestion of a shake ... a shake of uncomprehending pity.
CHAPTER XI.
“... SPEED THE PARTING GUEST!”
Dr. Romain was just finishing his breakfast as Robin Greve entered the dining-room, a cosy oak-panelled room with a bow window fitted with cushioned window-seats. Horace Trevert stood with his back to the fire. There was no sign of either Lady Margaret or of Mary. Silence seemed to fall on both the doctor and his companion as Robin came in. They wore that rather abashed look which people unconsciously assume when they break off a conversation on an unexpected entry.
“Morning, Horace! Morning, Doctor!” said Robin, crossing to the sideboard. “Any sign of Lady Margaret or Mary yet?”
The doctor had risen hastily to his feet.