While Mr. Priestley was not starting guiltily, Barker was opening the door. Confronting him on the landing was a tall, slim woman, exquisitely dressed, who smiled at him. The smile was of such peculiar sweetness that Barker broke another life-time’s record and smiled back. “Is Mr. Priestley in?” asked the lady, amid the shattered fragments of Barker’s record. “Yes, madam.” “Is he alone? Alone in the flat, I mean?” “Yes, madam,” said Barker, concealing any surprise he might have felt under his usual egg-like expression. “Then I should like to see him, please.” “Yes, madam. Will you step this way? What name shall I say?” The visitor smiled at him again, this time in a particularly confidential way. “It doesn’t matter about the name. Just say ‘a lady.’” “Very good, madam. Will you come in here, please?” Still somewhat upset by the smile, Barker did a thing he would never have dreamed of doing in normal circumstances and showed the caller straight into Mr. Priestley’ s study. There, regretfully, he left her. “Good-morning, Mr. Priestley,” said the lady, advancing at once with outstretched hand and apparently quite at home. “You don’t know me, but I think you know Pat Doyle, who is a friend of ours. I am Mrs. Nesbitt.” “Mrs. Nesbitt!” repeated Mr. Priestley in amazement. He became aware of the outstretched hand in a gray glove and shook it absently. It was a very nice hand, and deserved more attention. “Mrs. Nesbitt! Well, good gracious me.” “I want to speak to you very privately, Mr. Priestley,” Cynthia smiled again, and at once Mr. Priestley felt he had known her all his life. “Laura isn’t here, is she, by any chance?” “Miss Merriman?” Mr. Priestley smiled back delightedly. “Oh, do you know her too? Excellent! No, she isn’t here just now. She went out nearly an hour ago, to—er—in fact, she went out. But she’ll be back for lunch, I hope.” “Miss Merriman?” said Cynthia, puzzled. “I meant Laura Howard.” Mr. Priestley shook his head. “There’s no Miss Howard here. I don’t even know a Miss Howard. There is a Miss Merriman, Miss Laura Merriman, staying here with me.” “Staying here?” echoed Cynthia, considerably startled. She devoted one searching look at Mr. Priestley and knew him at once for what he was; then she laid back her head and laughed very heartily. “Oh, Laura!” laughed Cynthia. “Yes, it must be her. Well, it was her own fault and I’m very glad to hear it. It may do her quite a lot of good.” It was Mr. Priestley’s turn to look mystified. Also he was beginning to feel slightly alarmed. Mrs. Nesbitt’s call could only mean one thing, and that was that his connection with the business at Duffley had come to light. Probably Pat Doyle had asked her to give him a hint of warning. Oh, dear, how exceedingly awkward! “I—I’m afraid I don’t understand,” he faltered.