CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVENWhen Charles Forrest went into her sitting-room Myra Constantine was not in the big padded chair. She was up on her feet and stumping about the room, catching at the furniture as she went, letting it take her weight for a moment, and then rolling on again. There was a horrid resemblance to a bus that had got out of control—one of those brightly coloured buses. She had just turned at the window end when he opened the door. She came charging back to the middle of the room, bumped into the back of a chair, clutched it, and said in a voice like an angry gong,
“What have you been doing? Where have you been? Why didn’t you come up when I sent for you?”
Myra’s rages were legendary. Charles had seen her in one before. The soft answer, so far from turning away wrath, encourage
