'If you please, ma'am, Mr Critchett says he doesn't know Dr
Ferguson, his name's not in the Directory, and there must be
something wrong with the message, and he's sorry, but he must
have it in writing because there was more even in the first
packet than he ought by rights to send. What shall I do, if you
please?'

Still looking at her husband. Sheila listened quietly to the end,
and then, as if in inarticulate disdain, she deliberately
shrugged her shoulders, and went out to play her part unaided.



CHAPTER SEVEN

Her husband turned wearily once more, and drawing up a chair sat
down in front of the cold grate. He realised that Sheila thought
him as much of a fool now as she had for the moment thought him
an impostor, or something worse, the night before. That was at
least something gained. He realised, too, in a vague way that the
exuberance of mind that had practically invented Dr Ferguson, and
outraged Miss Sinnet, had quite suddenly flickered out. It was
astonishing, he thought, with gaze fixed innocently on the black
coals, that he should ever have done such things. He detested
that kind of 'rot'; that jaunty theatrical pose so many men
prided their jackdaw brains on.

And he sat quite still, like a cat at a cranny, listening, as it
were, for the faintest remotest stir that might hint at any