“Too chilly for you?”
“By no means.”
“We’ll stroll.”
At that moment we were beside the little jutting tower between the Hall of the Moth and the glassed conservatory, with a small rockery just across the drive. I noted that the scent of flowers at that spot was remarkably strong, almost as the heady reek of the interior must be. I asked Maryvale if he did not notice it too.
“Ah, yes. But that’s because there’s no glass in that window. They’re burning some oil-heating business inside until the glazier comes.”
“Why, what’s happened?”
“You’ve not heard?”
“I think Crofts—he wasn’t at all explicit.”
“Nor could he be. It was only a matter of a crash of a splintering window, and a shout by a most hollow and bewildering voice. Then, I must admit, there were other shouts from some of us, and one or two of the ladies were not above screaming. And nothing was discovered save the fragments of glass.”
“What did the voice seem to say?”