How the devil did you break a picture?’ ‘Don’t be obtuse, Hilary. “—and your aunt—” For a time he searched for the mot juste. . Trenchard glanced at the document. There was a strange quality of steel in this pretty creature. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. All I had to do was to piece them together. None of this by-play escaped Ruth, whose sense of humour needed no developing. ‘You mean that his missus is pretending to be my mistress? Lord-a-mercy!’ ‘Precisely. ” The cab rumbled off. “Hey you,” he said affectionately. " A detective. " CHAPTER VI. Then a roar of hisses.
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