Horace Trevert walked abruptly into Mary’s Chinese boudoir. Lady Margaret and the girl were standing by the fire.
“Well,” said Horace, dropping into a chair, “he’s gone!”
“Who?” said Lady Margaret.
“Robin,” answered the boy, “and I must say he took it very well ...”
“You don’t mean to tell me, Horace,” said his mother, “that you have actually sent Robin Greve away ...?”
Mary Trevert put her hand on her mother’s arm.
“I wished it, Mother. I asked Horace to send him away ...”
“But, my dear,” protested Lady Margaret.
Mary interrupted her impatiently.
“Robin Greve was impossible here. I had to ask him to go. I suppose he can come back if ... if they want him for the inquest ...”