Chapter XIIAt a quarter to seven that same evening Charles Moray rang the bell of Miss Langton’s tiny flat. Margaret opened the door and stood facing him across the threshold.
‘Charles!’ Her voice betrayed no pleasure.
She had left the sitting-room door open behind her. At the first glance the effect was one of colour—dark red curtains; bright coloured cushions; Margaret a silhouette, in her black dress with the light behind her. She kept her hand on the door and did not move to let him in.
‘Well?’ said Charles. ‘Now that you’re quite sure it’s me, couldn’t we come in?’
Margaret dropped her hand, turned and walked past the table to the hearth. A handful of sticks just lighted crackled there. She bent and put a lump of coal on them.
Charles came in behind her and shut the door. He was
