While he was still at table, Toff appeared, with profound mystery in his manner, and discreet confidence in the tones of his voice. “Here’s another one, sir!” the Frenchman announced, in his master’s ear.
“Another one?” Amelius repeated. “What do you mean?”
“She is not like the sweet little sleeping Miss.” Toff explained. “This time, sir, it’s the beauty of the devil himself, as we say in France. She refuses to confide in me; and she appears to be agitated—both bad signs. Shall I get rid of her before the other Miss wakes?”
“Hasn’t she got a name?” Amelius asked.
Toff answered, in his foreign accent, “One name only—Faybay.”
“Do you mean Phoebe?”
“Have I not said it, sir?”
“Show her in directly.”
Toff glanced at the door of Sally’s room, shrugged his shoulders, and obeyed his instructions.
Phoebe appeared, looking pale and anxious. Her customary assurance of manner had completely deserted her: she stopped in the doorway, as if she was afraid to enter the room.