Chapter XXXIAt eight o’clock next morning Charles Moray, calm and cheerful, rang the bell of the flat. It may be said that he was the last person in the world whom Margaret expected to see. He greeted her without any sign of embarrassment.
‘Morning, Margaret—thought I’d catch you before you went off. I suppose Greta isn’t up. You might just tell her to hurry and pack anything she’s got—no, she hasn’t got anything—has she? But perhaps you won’t mind lending her what she wants for a day or two.’
‘You’re taking her away?’
It was dark in the tiny passage. The early morning cold chilled everything. He could not see her face; she was just a black shadow. A c***k of light showed through the unfastened sitting-room door.
‘Yes—I thought I’d better let you know before you went off.’
‘Where are
