‘Did I what, Aunt Em?’
‘Make guys?’
‘No.’
‘We used to go out singin’ carols, too, with our faces blacked. Wilmet was the corker. Such a tall child, with legs that went down straight like sticks wide apart from the beginning, you know – angels have them. It’s all rather gone out. I do think there ought to be somethin’ done about it. Gibbets, too. We had one. We hung a kitten from it. We drowned it first – not we – the staff.’
‘Horrible, Aunt Em!’
‘Yes; but not really. Your father brought us up as Red Indians. It was nice for him, then he could do things to us and we couldn’t cry. Did Hubert?’
‘Oh! no. Hubert only brought himself up as a Red Indian.’
‘That was your mother; she’s a gentle creature, Dinny. Our mother was a Hungerford. You must have noticed.’
‘I don’t remember Grandmother.’
‘She died before you were born. That was Spain. The germs there are extra special. So did your grandfather. I was thirty-five. He had very good manners. They did, you know, then. Only sixty. Claret and piquet, and a funny little beard thing. You’ve seen them, Dinny?’
‘Imperials?’
‘Yes, diplomatic. They wear them now when they write those articles on foreign affairs. I like goats myself, though they butt you rather.’
‘Their smell, Aunt Em!’
‘Penetratin’. Has Jean written to you lately?’
In Dinny’s bag was a letter just received. ‘No,’ she said. The habit was growing on her.
‘This hidin’ away is weak-minded. Still, it was her honeymoon.’
Her Aunt had evidently not been made a recipient of Sir Lawrence’s suspicions.
Upstairs she read the letter again before tearing it up.
Poste restante, Brussels.
DEAR DINNY,
All goes on for the best here and I’m enjoying it quite a lot. They say I take to it like a duck to water. There’s nothing much to choose now between Alan and me, except that I have the better hands. Thanks awfully for your letters. Terribly glad of the diary stunt, I think it may quite possibly work the oracle. Still we can’t afford not to be ready for the worst. You don’t say whether Fleur’s having any luck. By the way, could you get me a Turkish conversation book, the pronouncing kind? I expect your Uncle Adrian could tell you where to get it. I can’t lay hands on one here. Alan sends you his love. Same from me. Keep us informed by wire if necessary.
Your affte
JEAN.
A Turkish conversation book! This first indication of how their minds were working set Dinny’s working too. She remembered Hubert having told her that he had saved the life of a Turkish officer at the end of the war, and had kept up with him ever since. So Turkey was to be the asylum if –! But the whole plan was desperate. Surely it would not, must not come to that! But she went down to the Museum the next morning.
Adrian, whom she had not seen since Hubert’s committal, received her with his usual quiet alacrity, and she was sorely tempted to confide in him. Jean must know that to ask his advice about a Turkish conversation book would surely stimulate his curiosity. She restrained herself, however, and said:
‘Uncle, you haven’t a Turkish conversation book? Hubert thought he’d like to kill time in prison brushing up his Turkish.’
Adrian regarded her, and closed one eye.
‘He hasn’t any Turkish to brush. But here you are – ’ And, fishing a small book from a shelf, he added: ‘Serpent!’
Dinny smiled.
‘Deception,’ he continued, ‘is wasted on me, Dinny, I am in whatever know there is.’
‘Tell me, Uncle!’
‘You see,’ said Adrian, ‘Hallorsen is in it.’
‘Oh!’
‘And I, whose movements are dependent on Hallorsen’s, have had to put two and two together. They make five, Dinny, and I sincerely trust the addition won’t be needed. But Hallorsen’s a fine chap.’
‘I know that,’ said Dinny, ruefully. ‘Uncle, do tell me exactly what’s in the wind.’
Adrian shook his head.
‘They obviously can’t tell themselves till they hear how Hubert is to be exported. All I know is that Hallorsen’s Bolivians are going back to Bolivia instead of to the States, and that a very queer padded, well-ventilated case is being made to hold them.’
‘You mean his Bolivian bones?’
‘Or possibly replicas. They’re being made, too.’
Thrilled, Dinny stood gazing at him.
‘And,’ added Adrian, ‘the replicas are being made by a man who believes he is repeating Siberians, and not for Hallorsen, and they’ve been very carefully weighed – one hundred and fifty-two pounds, perilously near the weight of a man. How much is Hubert?’