"I said he was no gentleman, Miss Flockhart." Mrs Macfarlane entered the room before the echoes of the slammed door had time to fade. "Blackmail is it?"
"Were you listening at the door?"
"Yes," Mrs Macfarlane nodded without a trace of shame. "I don"t know what hold he has on you, Miss Flockhart, and it"s not my business." She paused, obviously waiting for enlightenment that I was not inclined to give. "I can help you."
"There"s nothing you can do," I said.
"Macfarlane can help," Mrs Macfarlane folded her arms and stood beside me in my drawing room. About fifty years old, not much over five foot tall, she looked as immobile as the granite of Ben Lomond, the mountain that overlooked her birthplace.
"Macfarlane?" I queried the name.
"My husband, Macfarlane." Mrs Macfarlane had not budge
