She paused. The vicar took a drink of coffee.
"You know," resumed Mrs. Davies very distinctly, "that I hate gossip...."
"Of course, of course, my dear," agreed the vicar hastily.
"But it is impossible not to know that the whole neighborhood is talking. I'm not asking you to pay a ceremonious call. If the people turn out to be German spies.... The feeling of everybody is that the sooner somebody finds out just what is happening at the Manor, the better. And you've got the best excuse."
Mr. Davies got up and walked about the room.
"Really, my dear," he said at last in what was (for him) quite a fierce tone, "if you're asking me to do this out of mere idle curiosity...."
"Idle fiddlesticks! Do remember there's a war on, Julian. When a great big house like that suddenly becomes full of people from nobody knows where, who never seem to come out of the grounds, and who certainly don't deal with the local tradesmen, what is one to think?"
"That they import their provisions from London," suggested the vicar.
"But they don't. The only London van that comes here is Harrods'—the FitzPeters deal there, but I know they don't call at the Manor."
"Did Miss FitzPeter tell you that?"