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But, listen as she might, the conversation presented no clue.
Boris and Mrs. Vandemeyer talked on purely indifferent subjects:
plays they had seen, new dances, and the latest society gossip.
After dinner they repaired to the small boudoir where Mrs.
Vandemeyer, stretched on the divan, looked more wickedly
beautiful than ever. Tuppence brought in the coffee and liqueurs
and unwillingly retired. As she did so, she heard Boris say:
"New, isn't she?"
"She came in to-day. The other was a fiend. This girl seems all
right. She waits well."
Tuppence lingered a moment longer by the door which she had
carefully neglected to close, and heard him say:
"Quite safe, I suppose?"
"Really, Boris, you are absurdly suspicious. I believe she's the
cousin of the hall porter, or something of the kind. And nobody
even dreams that I have any connection with our--mutual friend,
Mr. Brown."
"For heaven's sake, be careful, Rita. That door isn't shut."
"Well, shut it then," laughed the woman.
Tuppence removed herself speedily.
She dared not absent herself longer from the back premises, but
she cleared away and washed up with a breathless speed acquired
in hospital. Then she slipped quietly back to the boudoir door.
The cook, more leisurely, was still busy in the kitchen and, if
she missed the other, would only suppose her to be turning down
the beds.
Alas! The conversation inside was being carried on in too low a
tone to permit of her hearing anything of it. She dared not
reopen the door, however gently. Mrs. Vandemeyer was sitting
almost facing it, and Tuppence respected her mistress's lynx-eyed
powers of observation.
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