Superintendent Hannasyde's visit left everyone but Mrs. Kane and Timothy feeling anxious and rather alarmed. Lunch was not a comfortable meal, nor was it made more pleasant by Emily's refusal to treat Mr. Trevor Dermott with common civility. When asked by Rosemary in his presence whether she minded his staying to lunch, she said that since he would have to pay for it at his hotel, anyway, it was a pity he didn't eat it there. Dermott, whose method of dealing with old ladies was to assume the jolly air he used with children, laughed heartily and said: "Aha, Mrs. Kane, that sounds to me as though you must have Scotch blood in your veins!"
Emily glared at him for one moment and thereafter ignored him. Miss Allison, who knew that it was not one of Emily's good days, slipped out of the room to tell Pritchard on no account to put Mr. Dermott near her at the lunch table.
She herself felt a trifle jaded. She had had a trying morning with her employer, for Emily had got up in a bad temper and had been further incensed by receiving a letter of condolence on Silas' death from her great-niece in Australia.
Emily's most common reaction to the sight of a familiar handwriting on an envelope addressed to herself was to regard it with bitter suspicion and to say in her most disagreeable voice: "I wonder what she wants."
In this instance she added a rider, remarking, as she slit open the envelope: "Well, she won't get anything out of me." The fact that Maud Leighton, nee Kane, did not want anything, but wrote merely to express her sympathy for what her great-aunt must be feeling, did nothing to soothe her annoyance. She said she thought it a very extraordinary thing in Maud to have written, considering she had only laid eyes on her once in her life, and that when she was a baby; and further expressed a desire to know who had been officious enough to send the news to "that Australian lot", anyway.
Miss Allison rather unwisely advanced the suggestion that Clement had probably had the notice of Silas' death published in the colonial papers. There was no reason why Emily should object to the colonial papers publishing it, except her dislike of Clement and all his works, but she said angrily that she had never heard anything to equal it.
Having unburdened herself of various ill-natured remarks about Maud Leighton at intervals during the course of the morning, she chose the luncheon hour as a suitable time for the recountal to Jim of the whole affair of the letter, leading off with the snappish remark that she should have thought Maud could have found a better use for her money than to squander it sending letters by air mail.
"That lot never could keep twopence to rub together in their pockets," she said.
Jim, seated at the head of the table, was being told by Rosemary, on his right, that the visit of Superintendent Hannasyde had shattered the last threads of her nervous resistance. He said bracingly: "Oh, I don't think you need feel like that about it," and transferred his attention to his great-aunt at the other end of the long table. "Sorry, Aunt Emily, something about the Australian cousin?"
"I remember her parents bringing her here when she was a baby. Of course, they always liked coming here when they were in England. It saved them having to pay hotel bills," said Emily.
Miss Allison, having a shrewd suspicion that this remark was levelled at Dermott, created a diversion by asking Timothy how he had spent the morning. His answer, that he had been helping Sergeant Hemingway to hunt for clues, had the effect of making Dermott break into a diatribe against dunderheaded fellows who had the impudence to call themselves detectives.
"Really, their methods are laughable!" he said.
"I bet some people won't do much laughing by the time the superintendent's through!" retorted Mr. Harte.
"Shut up, Timothy!" said Jim.
Mr. Harte muttered: "Well, I bet they won't, that's all."
"Your Cousin Silas sent her a very handsome present when she got married," pursued Emily. "Far too generous, in my opinion. Leighton was no good at all. I told your cousin I didn't want to be mixed up with any of them. Encroaching lot!"
"I've got such a feeling that it was one of the Mansells," said Rosemary, gazing straight in front of her with the slightly narrowed eyes of one seeking to see through a fog. "I can't shake it off."
Jim, who did not think that she had tried to, said bluntly: "If you're wise, you won't say so. You've nothing to go on, and that kind of remark's likely to lead to trouble."
"I'm afraid it's too late to try and change my whole nature," replied Rosemary with a faint smile. "I've always been honest—perhaps disastrously so. I must say what I think. I dare say I should find life much easier if I didn't see things so terribly clearly. I seem to be able to detach myself in the most extraordinary way. I mean, I'm perfectly calm now, the inside of me—just as though a part of me was utterly aloof from everything that's happened. I don't say I feel it was one of the Mansells from spite or any emotional impulse whatsoever. It's just as though a voice was saying in my brain—"
"I see she's living in Melbourne now," said Emily, who had not been paying the least attention to this speech. "They used to live in Sydney. I dare say it's much the same thing."
No one but Trevor Dermott felt any inclination to argue this point. He was always rather pleased when a woman made an irrational remark, because he could then correct her folly, not unkindly, but with an indulgent laugh at the limitations of the female brain. He began to tell Emily how wrong she was in her conception of Australia.
"Most people talk about having intuitions when they simply don't know the meaning of the word," continued Rosemary; "I'm not a bit like that. In fact, I think I usually mistrust my instinct. I've got a much more logical mind than most women—I'm not patting myself on the back about it; it just happens to be so. I can always see all round a question. But just occasionally—probably because I'm rather the spiritual type, if you know what I mean—I get an intuition that's like a blinding flash of light. And," she concluded impressively, "when it happens like that, it's nearly always right."
"Sez you!" murmured Mr. Harte to his plate.
"I don't suppose you know what it's like. I don't think men ever get it," said Rosemary, looking pitifully at her host.
"For God's sake stop talking about it!" said Jim. "I never heard such drivel in my life!" He pulled himself up and added: "Sorry, but I really can't do with a lot of—of—"
"Boloney," supplied Mr. Harte helpfully.
"—on top of everything else!" ended Jim, apparently accepting this suggestion.
"But don't you see, Jim, that if the Mansells didn't do it, there's only you left?" asked Rosemary.
"Not quite, I think!" struck in Miss Allison, showing her claws.
Mr. Harte looked up approvingly. "Attababy!" he applauded.
Emily, who had been sitting in somewhat toad-like immobility, staring before her, while Trevor Dermott lectured her on the size of Australia, chose at this point to demonstrate her deafness by demanding of Miss Allison what Timothy had said.
"I said Attababy, and what's more I meant it!" announced Timothy with a hostile glance at Rosemary. "Considering everything, I think it's a bit thick of Cousin Rosemary to go about saying no one but the Mansells or Jim could have murdered Cousin Clement! I can jolly well think of two other people who could have done it, and if you like I'll tell you who they are!"
"Shut up!" said Jim sharply.
"Leave the boy alone!" commanded Emily.
"Of course, I quite understand how you feel about it," said Rosemary. "But one has to face facts, you know. You mustn't think I believe it was Jim just because my reason tells me that it might have been. I'm only pointing out—"
"Really, you know—really, I wouldn't," put in Dermott uneasily. "Case of 'least said soonest mended', what?"
She turned her wide gaze upon him. "But don't you see that it's important, Trevor? I'm trying to be absolutely dispassionate. I want to know the truth. I can't bear pretence! Let us, for God's sake, be honest with each other!"
This impassioned plea drew a response only from Mr. Harte, who said: "I bet you'd be pretty sick if we were."
"Will you shut up?" said Jim.
"I don't think anyone could seriously accuse me of shrinking from facts," said Rosemary. "You none of you understand how I feel about things. I don't deny I care for Trevor; I don't deny that Clement's death hasn't touched the Essential Me. I can even see that people who don't know him might think Trevor could have done it. Only I know, inside me, that he didn't."
Trevor Dermott turned a dark red. There was an awful pause. Emily's voice broke the silence. "Very nice," she said dryly. "I'll thank you to ring the bell for my chair, Miss Allison."
It was generally felt that this request had relieved the situation. Everyone rose from the table, and Trevor Dermott was heard to draw a sigh of thanksgiving.
When Emily had left the room he and Rosemary went out into the garden. He said: "Darling, I know how frank you always are—damn it, I love you for it—but you shouldn't have said that."
"It's true," replied Rosemary. "I am not ashamed to own it."
"No, no, that's not the point! Look here! We're in a damned tight corner, and the least said about—well, about our caring for each other, the better. You dealt me a knockout on Saturday. I'm not blaming you; I do understand how you felt, and, anyway, that's all over and done with now. But don't talk about us being in love! Do you see?"
"I'm afraid I don't," said Rosemary. "I believe in being honest, and as everyone knows—"
His face darkened again; he seized her by the shoulders and gave her a shake. "Don't be such a little fool!" he said in a low, angry voice. "Do you want to get me arrested for murder?"
"Of course not. But I absolutely believe in you. Something tells me you didn't do it."
"Oh, to hell with that rubbish!" he said. "Keep your mouth shut, that's all I ask of you!"
She said in a voice of ice: "Indeed! Well, that's interesting, at all events."
"I didn't mean that!" he answered quickly, releasing her. "But it seems to me you don't realise how serious this is. Of course I didn't do it—naturally I didn't!—but when I left you I went back to the Royal and had one or two, and like a fool started to drive up to town. Got pinched about ten miles from here. You see how suspicious it looks? Then there's that little swine, Timothy, yapping to the police about having seen me drive off from here in a flat spin. All lies, of course, and so I told that thick-headed superintendent."
"Why do you say that to me?" asked Rosemary calmly. "You were quite beside yourself. I don't blame you, but it's quite useless to tell me that you were—"
"All right, go and tell the police I was crazy with the shock of having lost you! Go on, tell them, if you're so damned keen on the truth!"
"Whatever else I am," said Rosemary, "I am loyal."
Miss Allison would have enjoyed the unconscious humour in this remark, but Dermott saw nothing absurd in it and replied at once: "I know, I know! Fact of the matter is, the whole thing's a bit on top of me. You must be guided by me." He gave an unconvincing laugh. "That pretty little head of yours wasn't made for all this brainwork, darling. Just do as I say, and everything will be all right."
He left her, and after vainly trying to engage Miss Allison in a discussion on the affair, with particular reference to her own spiritual reactions, Rosemary rang up Mrs. Pemble and begged her to come to tea. "I feel stifled here!" she announced. "There's no one I can talk to. I feel if I have to bottle it all up much longer I shall go out of my mind."
Betty was suitably flattered by this invitation and made haste to assure Rosemary how well she understood what she meant. "The only thing is, it's Nanny's afternoon off, and I can't leave the children," she said.
Rosemary was not very fond of children, but the prospect of acquiring a sympathetic listener was too enticing to be foregone. She at once included Jennifer and Peter in her invitation, consoling herself with the thought that Timothy could quite well amuse them.
Timothy, however, did not see the matter in the same light and said so with more frankness than civility.
Rosemary somewhat unwisely retorted that he would do as he was told, whereupon Timothy went off immediately in search of his stepbrother, whom he found in the library with Miss Allison, and enlisted his support.
Jim was sufficiently annoyed to hear that Rosemary had invited a comparative stranger to tea at such a time to uphold Timothy. Miss Allison went farther and said darkly that one of these days Rosemary would get what was coming to her. At this point Rosemary came in, also to enlist Jim's support. Jim said in a rather cold voice that he wanted Timothy to go on an errand to Portlaw. This led to a spirited and slightly acrimonious dialogue, during the course of which Jim requested Rosemary to remember that this was hardly the moment to invite strangers to tea, Miss Allison advised her not to indulge in any indiscreet conversation with a garrulous woman like Betty, and Rosemary supposed, viciously, that she ought to have asked Jim's permission to invite anyone to his house.
Before he could reply, Pritchard came into the room to tell him that Mr. Paul Mansell wished to speak to him on the telephone. He said: "All right; I'll come"; and to Rosemary: "Aunt Emily's permission is the one you should have asked."
"I think," said Rosemary as he went out, "that as Clement's widow I am entitled to some consideration!"
"Considering you have just informed us all that you are in love with Mr. Dermott, I think the less you say about being Clement's widow the better it will be!" retorted Miss Allison.
Rosemary looked at her. "You don't understand me a bit, do you?" she said. "I've always had the feeling that you disliked me."
Miss Allison deigned no response to this, so Rosemary went away.
"Say, sister!" quoth Mr. Harte; "you're a peach!"
Miss Allison laughed. "Oh, Timothy, I'm afraid I'm merely a cat. I suppose you couldn't take those ghastly children down to the lake and push them in?"
"Nope!" said Mr. Harte. "I don't want the cops to have the drop on me."
"I expect you're right," agreed Miss Allison.
Jim came back into the room. "Can you lose yourself, or do you want me to give you a real errand?" he inquired of his stepbrother.
"I'm going to Portlaw to see James Cagney's new film," replied Timothy. "You can give me an errand if you like."
"Well, buy me a box of matches, or a local paper or something," said Jim. Mr. Harte said that he would if he remembered, and vanished.
"What did Paul Mansell want?" asked Patricia.
"He's coming up to see me—to talk things over. I told him I really hadn't had time to get my bearings, but that didn't seem to deter him."
"The Australian business," she said. She raised her eyes to his face. "Jim, let them do what they want!"
"My dear good child, I can't decide on a matter like that at a moment's notice!" he replied. "I haven't gone into it. All I know is that Silas and Clement were dead against it!"
"Jim!" She laid a hand on his and clasped it. "Never mind that! It can't matter to you how much money you have to put up for it. Let them do as they like!"
He looked down at her, half smiling. "I thought you wanted to marry a very rich man?"
"Don't be silly. I'm serious, Jim. Let the Mansells have it as they want! You'll still be a very rich man."
"True, my love; but that isn't quite the point. I'm not a bit interested in Kane and Mansell's nets, but Silas and Clement were, and I shouldn't like to let them down. I can't possibly decide a question of that size offhand."
"Jim, couldn't you get out of having anything to do with the firm?"
"Yes; what I rather think I should like to do, if the Mansells would consent, is to turn the whole thing into a public company."
"Would they like that?"
"Depends on who had control. They might."
"Then do it. I—Jim, I'm frightened!"
"Pat, you cuckoo!"
"I know. But I'm still frightened. I don't want to sound like Rosemary, but there's some awful feeling of—of danger hanging over this place. You can say I'm overwrought if you like, and perhaps I am. I've tried to shake it off, but I can't. I tell you, Jim, I can hardly bear to let you out of my sight for fear something may happen to you."
He put his arm round her comfortingly. "My sweet, you've let this get on top of you."
"Yes. I know. But don't tell Paul Mansell you won't consent to the Australian scheme! Please don't, Jim!"
"No, of course I shan't. I don't propose to commit myself in any way till I've had time to look into it."
"They want an answer at once. Jim, don't you realise that there's someone utterly ruthless at work?"
His arm slackened about her. The smile faded from his face. "Go on. What are you getting at?"
"First Mr. Kane and now Clement," she said, nervously rolling her handkerchief between her hands. "It sounds fantastic—I know it sounds fantastic; but that Scotland Yard man thinks Mr. Kane's death was murder. He asked me question after question."
"Are you seriously suggesting that the Mansells did away with Silas and Clement all because of a split on a matter of business policy?"
"Not old Mr. Mansell, no. But Paul could. You don't know him, Jim. He's horrible."
"I don't want to be rude, darling, but have you been consorting much with Timothy of late?"
"Oh, Jim, don't laugh! I'm so sure it's serious!"
"Well, I promise I won't turn down the Australian scheme today. Will that do?"
"I wish you'd consent to it."
"Not really, Pat."
She reflected. "No, I suppose not. Sorry. Do as you think best. I've gone a trifle over at the knees."
"What you want is a good stiff blow," said Jim. "How would you like one in the Seamew? I rather thought of having her out tomorrow."
"I should probably be scared white," replied Miss Allison candidly. "However, I quite see that if I mean to go through with this marriage I shall have to get used to racing cars and speedboats. I'll go with you if Mrs. Kane doesn't want me."
Shortly after three o'clock Paul Mansell arrived at Cliff House, bringing with him his sister and her two children. Betty Pemble had been inspired to array her offspring in their best clothes, undeterred by any consideration of the unsuitability of jade-green silk for garden wear. Peter, who was a strong-minded-looking child of three, wore in addition to his jade knickers a frilled shirt of primrose yellow. Judging from his expression, which was forbidding, he did not regard his gala raiment with favour. Jennifer, on the other hand, who was three years his senior, was looking pleased and rather smug. She had beguiled the tedium of the drive out from Portlaw with a flow of innocent prattle which made her uncle wonder savagely why no one had had the sense to stifle her at birth. Upon arrival at Cliff House she skipped out of the car and offered to embrace her hostess. "How do you do, Mrs. Kane? Look, Mrs. Kane, I've got my party frock on! Do you know, Peter was awfully naughty, Mrs. Kane, and he screamed because he didn't want to have his clothes changed? I wasn't naughty. I'm three years older than Peter, Mrs. Kane. He's only a silly baby."
"Hush, darling!" said her mother fondly. "Give Auntie Rosemary a nice kiss, Peter dear."
"No," said Peter, with a lowering look at Rosemary. "Don't want to."
Betty bent over him and said in a coaxing voice: "Darling, you know you promised Mummy you'd be a good boy. You love Auntie Rosemary, don't you?"
Master Pemble, exasperated, thrust her off with one fat clenched fist. "I don't want to!" he repeated loudly.
"Oh, please don't worry about it!" begged Rosemary. "I can never see why children should be expected to kiss everyone. Really, I don't in the least want him to!"
"No, Peter must do what he's told," said Betty firmly. "I always insist on them obeying me, you know: it's the only way. Now, darling, listen! You wouldn't like Mummy to take you home again, would you?"
"I want to go home!" replied Master Pemble. "I want to go home now! I do want to go home! I do!"
His mother interrupted this steady crescendo, saying: "Oh, Peter! Don't you know how sad it makes Mummy when you behave like this?"
"I'm not naughty, Mummy, am I?" asked Jennifer, jumping from one foot to the other with more energy than grace. "I kissed Mrs. Kane without being told to, didn't I, Mummy?"
"Yes, darling; but don't jump about like that! You'll get so hot."
Master Pemble, pardonably annoyed, saw fit at this point to deal his ecstatic sister a shrewd blow in the ribs. Jennifer at once complained of his brutality in a whining voice, and by the time Betty had reminded her that Peter was only a very little boy, after all, and told Peter that boys never, never hit girls, the original cause of the dispute had been forgotten. Rosemary, who by no means enjoyed the unenviable role of one waiting to be embraced by a reluctant child, made haste to conduct the party on to the south lawn below the terrace.
"You don't know how glad I am to see you!" she told Betty. "Honestly, if you hadn't come I think I should have gone mad!"
"My dear, I was only too pleased to come. I know so well what you must be—no, Peter dear, you mustn't pick the pretty flowers! Just look at them, but not touch! Aren't they lovely? I'm sure Auntie Rosemary wouldn't mind you smelling them. Jennifer darling, you show Peter how to smell the pretty flowers." She turned to Rosemary. "Jennifer's got the most extraordinary love of beauty. Of course, it's just heaven to her to be in this perfect garden. She'll talk of nothing else for weeks. I do so believe in bringing them up to have only beautiful thoughts, don't you?"
"I don't know," said Rosemary impatiently. "I don't know anything about children. I suppose they'll be all right playing about by themselves, won't they?"
"Oh, perfectly!" Betty assured her, sitting down in one of the deck chairs under a large cedar. "As long as they don't go out of sight, or anything. Run along, darlings, and play quietly together."
"There isn't anything to play with, Mummy," objected Jennifer.
"Never mind, darling; just run along and amuse yourselves! Mummy wants to talk to Auntie Rosemary."
"But, Mummy—"
"Pussy!" suddenly exclaimed Master Pemble as the kitchen cat crossed the lawn. "I want the pussy!"
Both children immediately launched themselves in the direction of the cat, screaming: "It's my pussy! I saw it first. You're not to have it." A fight to the death seemed inevitable; but the cat, after one horrified look, made for the shelter of the nearest hedge like a streak of lightning. The children, after vainly trying to lure it out again, returned disconsolately to their elders, and Peter informed Rosemary that he had had a pussy once.
"Yes, and do you know what happened to him, Auntie Rosemary?" asked Jennifer eagerly. "He got out on to the road, and a motorcar came and killed him flat!"
"He was squashed!" corroborated Peter with enthusiasm.
"I can't think who told them that!" said Betty in an annoyed voice. "I mean, I've always been so careful not to let them know anything about Death and that sort of thing."
For the next quarter of an hour all conversation between the two ladies was punctuated by admonitions from Betty to her children and answering whines from them that there was nothing to do. Fortunately for Rosemary's temper she caught sight of one of the gardeners and had the happy thought of consigning the children to his care. They went off with him, followed by a fire of affectionate reminders not to get hot, or cold, or overtired, or dirty, and were not seen again until teatime, the entertainment offered by the gardener being of a high order, namely, the plucking and drawing of a fowl killed that morning.
While Rosemary was unburdening herself to Betty Pemble in the garden, Jim Kane was confronting Paul Mansell in the library and thinking privately that he was a fairly nasty piece of work.
Upon arrival at Cliff House Paul had stayed only to greet Rosemary before going into the house. Pritchard had shown him into the library, where Jim presently joined him, and after a slight interchange of civilities he had broached the object of his talk. His father and he, though averse from obtruding the matter so soon, were anxious to know what the chief shareholder's policy was to be.
Jim laughed and shook his head. "No use asking me that yet, Mansell. I haven't had time to find my feet. Nets aren't much in my line, you know."
"Quite. We quite appreciate that," smiled Paul, crossing one leg over the other and gently swinging a suede-clad foot. "I expect it would suit you best to let Dad buy you out. You don't want to be bothered by business. I know I wouldn't touch it if I were in your place."
This was the conclusion Jim had already reached, but he now felt an irrational disinclination to leave the business in the Mansells' hands. He said: "No, I don't think I want to be bought out, thanks. How would you and your father feel about turning it into a public company?"
Paul Mansell put up his brows. "Rather a large question to answer offhand, isn't it? I don't know that I think Dad would quite cotton on to the idea. I really haven't considered it. What I came about—assuming that you don't wish to get out of having anything to do with the business—was to talk over the new venture with you. I don't know whether you've been told anything about our Australian scheme?"
"A certain amount," replied Jim.
"Ah, perhaps I had better explain it to you!" Paul said languidly.
Jim heard the explanation out, merely interrupting once or twice to put a question. His questions were so pertinent that Paul began to realise that this big cheerful young man was not the fool he had supposed him to be. His eyes narrowed a little; his voice grew more suave.
"On the face of it, it looks good," Jim admitted when Paul Mansell had done. "At the same time, I know next to nothing about the business, and I want to go into things before I start making any decisions. I take it you don't expect me to give you an answer offhand?"
"I think," said Paul gently, "that it would be wisest for you to allow yourself to be guided by us."
All trace of his smile left Jim's face. The muscles about his mouth hardened, giving him a slightly pugnacious expression. He looked steadily into Paul's eyes and said with deliberation: "Do you?"
Paul made a graceful gesture with one hand. "My dear fellow, haven't you just said that you know nothing about the business?"
"Next to nothing," said Jim.
Paul smiled. "I stand corrected. There isn't really much difference, is there?"
"Not much," replied Jim. "Just that I am aware that Silas and Clement, whether rightly or wrongly, disliked the scheme."
"Your cousin Silas," countered Paul, "was an old man with strong prejudices, and your cousin Clement, if I may say so, was handicapped by a wife who could never get enough money to spend. Do forgive me if I am being too frank!"
"Not at all," said Jim with equal courtesy. "You may very likely be right in all you say of this scheme. But I'm sure you'll realise that, in the face of my cousins' known dislike of it, I should have to be a thundering fool to go into it without knowing anything more about it than what you've told me."
"You are as cautious as your cousins, I see. May I point out to you that while you are—er—acquiring a knowledge of the business, the opportunity to expand it will have gone? Roberts has been very patient, but he is not acting for himself and cannot be expected to wait for ever."
"Certainly," said Jim. "But may I in my turn remind you that I came into this inheritance without the least warning only two days ago? From what I've seen of Roberts, I should say he would be the last person to want to hustle me into the affair without going into it thoroughly first."
Paul Mansell uncrossed his legs and rose. "Then I am to tell my father that the matter must still rest in abeyance?"
"That's about the size of it," said Jim. "I shall hope to see Mr. Mansell in a day or two. There's more than this point to be discussed. You'll stay to tea, won't you?"
"I'm afraid I must get back to the office, thanks. My brother-in-law will no doubt call for his family on his way home from the golf course." He paused, and his eyes glinted a little. "By the way, I understand that I have to congratulate you on becoming engaged to Patricia Allison?"
"Thanks very much, yes," said Jim.
"You are fortunate," smiled Paul. "A charming girl—so sensible too! Do offer her my congratulations! One ought not to congratulate the lady, I believe, but in this case I really think congratulations are due to her."
"You almost overwhelm me," said Jim pleasantly and held the door open for him to pass out into the hall.
He went out into the porch to see his visitor drive away and was about to go back into the house when a taxi drove up the avenue and set down a middle-aged gentleman of lean proportions and expensive tailoring, who said placidly: "Ah, there you are! I fancy I must have forgotten to let you know I was coming."
"Hullo, Adrian!" said Jim, stepping forward to greet the newcomer. "Where on earth did you spring from? I thought you were in Scotland!"