CHAPTER SEVENTEENDriving Out of It
“How’re you going to telephone us out of this?” inquired Harold dispassionately. He and Gamadge each had Miss Prady by an arm; as they walked down the dark lane she occasionally bent her head to get at the handkerchief in her hand and wipe her eyes with it.
“I’m going to drive us out of it,” said Gamadge. “I have my car.”
“You certainly left me on the outside of the case this time.”
“Outside? You had the worst job of all. And how were you going to install Mrs. Gregson’s radio for her without glowering, if you knew she’d just killed Benton Locke?”
“I still don’t see how she worked it.”
“Good heavens, she was probably off the place by the time we’d begun lunch; I went up afterwards and looked complacently at a sign on an empty room. Locke telephoned h
