"A newspaper chap, Miss Fairweather. To interview Mr. Bingle about
the--"(here he sighed faintly)--"about the Christmas jollities."
Miss Fairweather sent another futile look in the direction of the
library. She was plainly distressed by her failure to see through the
walls that intervened.
"What--what name did he give?"
"I can't say, Miss. I didn't quite catch it myself."
"But you must have announced him. He gave you his card or--something,
didn't he?"
"No, Miss. He announced 'imself over the telephone this afternoon. It
sounded like Blinkers, or, even more nearly, on his repeating it, like
Rasmussen. At any rate, Mr. Bingle was expecting 'im, and came out
into the 'all before I had the chance to learn his name proper, so to
speak, Miss."
She bit her lip, annoyed. "Was it Flanders, Diggs?"
Mr. Diggs reflected. "It was," said he. "Now that you mention it, it
was. Richard, I think."
Miss Fairweather lowered her eyes suddenly and grasped the back of a
chair as if to steady herself. The next instant, she had recovered,
except that a queer, hunted look had settled in her eyes.
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