It was one of the favourite luncheon places of Drost’s daughter.
The revue in which she had been appearing and in which, by the way, Ortmann was financially interested in secret, had finished its season, and the theatre had closed its doors for the summer. Consequently Ella had taken a tiny riverside cottage near Shepperton-on-Thames, though she still kept open her pretty flat in Stamfordham Mansions, her faithful French maid, Mariette, being in charge.
“You seem worried, darling,” Kennedy whispered, as he bent across the table to her. “What’s the matter?”
“I’ve already told you.”
“But you really don’t take it seriously, do you?” asked the well-known air-pilot. “Surely it’s only a mere suspicion.”
“It is fortunate that I succeeded in obtaining for you an impression of the key of the laboratory,” was the girl’s reply.
“Yes. It was. Your father never dreams that we know all that is in progress there. It’s a real good stunt of yours to keep in with him, and stay at Barnes sometimes.”
“Well, I’ve told you what I ascertained the night before last. Ortmann was there with the others. There’s a big coup intended—a dastardly blow, as I have explained.”
And in the girl’s eyes there showed a hard, serious expression, as she drew a long breath. It was quite plain to her lover that she was full of nervous apprehension, and that what she had related to him was a fact.
Another deeply-laid plot was afoot, but one so subtle and so daring that Kennedy, with his cheerful optimism and his high spirits, could not yet fully realise its nature.