10I put down the telephone. “Colonel Primrose has the measles.”
“Oh, for Heaven’s sake.” Dorothy Hallet spoke with the complete disgust one usually reserves for the inevitable perversity of dogs, children, inanimate objects and one’s own husband. “What else?”
She meant the rest of my conversation with the Colonel’s guard, philosopher and friend Sergeant Buck . . . if the brass-bound monosyllables I got in reply to my semi-hysterical demands could be so called.
“I’m to keep out of it—the Colonel won’t like it,” I said. “He assumes I’m in it alone. He wanted to know if anybody saw me. I said I didn’t think anybody did. He’s going to call the police, so that lets us out for the moment.—Or does it?” I added uncertainly. “I don’t know.”
“I don’t either.”
Dorothy bit her lower lip and drumm
