"What could that mean?" I wondered. I had supposed the two men had come
in alone, but there must have been a third person. Who could it be? Had
Lord Mountstuart been arranging a tete-a-tete between Di and Ivor
Dundas?
The thought was like a hand on my throat, choking my life out. I must
hear what they had to say to each other.
Without stopping to think more, I rolled over and let myself sink down
into the narrow space between the low couch and the wall, sharply
pulling the clinging folds of my chiffon dress after me. Then I lay
still, my blood pounding in my temples and ears, and in my nostrils a
faint, musty smell from the Oriental stuff that covered the lounge.
I could see nothing from where I lay, except the side of the couch, the
wall, and a bit of the ceiling with the gargoyley cornice which Di had
mentioned when she wanted to seem indifferent to the subject of our
conversation. But I was listening with all my might for what was to
come.
"Better lock the door, if you please, Dundas," said a voice, which gave
me a shock of surprise, though I knew it well.
Instead of Di, it was the Foreign Secretary who spoke.
"We won't run the risk of interruptions," he went on, with that slow,
clear enunciation of his which most Oxford men have, and keep all their
lives, especially men of the college that was his--Balliol.
Pages:
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31