Free Walk with Care by Patricia Wentworth Page A

show—and dancing at the Green Faggot to wind up with. I just love Cruffles. Don’t you? And I never believe that he really cheats at cards—too scandalous, though of course he does hold the most marvellous hands. You know the Monties are getting a divorce. His temper! My dear, too fiendish! When he saw her last bill from Marthe he shook her—she had a bruise for days. Her maid, Paterson, told my Louise. If you hear they’ve patched it up, don’t believe a word. People will say anything, as you know. My dear, too gossip-loving! I make it a rule not to believe anything I hear. Darling, good-bye! And remember about Asphodel—Number One Tilt Street.” She blew a kiss from the door and went out, still talking.
    Rosalind opened both the windows. The scent of Mimosa’s powder, and Mimosa’s lipstick, and Mimosa’s special cigarettes was suddenly more than she could bear. She let a cold buffeting wind blow into the room.
    Mrs Vane did not go at once to her cocktail party. She first entered a telephone box and dialled a number which she did not have to look up in the directory. When a voice which seemed very far away said “Hullo!” she glanced over her shoulder as if to make sure that no one was listening and then said,
    â€œIt is Mimosa.”
    The answer came, still in those faint tones:
    â€œAsphodel speaking.”
    Mimosa became quite animated.
    â€œMy dear, I’ve done it! I’ve just been having tea with her. … No. Too gross—isn’t it? … Oh yes, she’ll come. But I had to say Gilbert had been to you. … Yes, I know, my dear, but I just had to. … She wouldn’t have come. … Yes, I think she’s sure to now. If she doesn’t, I can always have another try. I can say Gilbert keeps sending her a message, or something like that—but it won’t be necessary. … My dear, too intrigued really, but pretending not to be. … You’ve got the photographs I sent you? They’re quite good—you’ll recognize her at once. And I thought the others would come in useful for local colour. And, my dear, I’d be glad of that cheque. Anything like my card luck at the moment! My dear, simply too heart-shaking!”
    She rang off and went on her way to Vinnie Hambleton’s.

CHAPTER IX
    JEREMY HAD A TERRIBLE day on Saturday. Mannister was going to Bournemouth for the week-end. Deane was still absent. There were two speeches on the stocks, and everybody in Europe seemed to have written to Bernard Mannister. The waste-paper basket overflowed. Notes had to be taken, draft replies roughed out. And in the middle of it all Mannister kept locking and unlocking the safe and delivering dissertations on the extremely confidential nature of his correspondence, the care that must be taken in dealing with it, the supreme gifts of tact and discretion required in a secretary, and the privileges attached to service in that capacity.
    Jeremy said “Yes, sir,” at intervals. Every now and then the right answer was not yes, but no. As the day wore on, Jeremy became increasingly certain that sooner or later he would slip up and say yes in the wrong place.
    The mid-day post brought a foreign letter of some extra-super-hyper-important kind. Mannister delivered an oration over it. Standing in an Albert Hall attitude before the safe, he declaimed a lot of rolling sentences about the Peace of Europe.
    â€œTrying out his voice for to-night, I suppose,” was Jeremy’s irreverent thought.
    There was nothing wrong with the voice; there was nothing wrong with the sentiments. They were both perhaps a little too big for the library of a house in Marsh Street.
    â€œAlbert Hall!” said Jeremy to himself; and then, “Oh Lord—I wish he was catching the earlier train!”
    The speech which was to be delivered at Bournemouth that evening was finished. Mannister made a feature of Saturday evening speeches. He