He had a fair idea why she wanted to see him. After a little while he saw her tall, gaunt figure, wrapped up in a huge cape of gentian violet, trundling along the footpath from the Dower House, her head bent. Poor old girl, she’s getting on, he thought. It was with solicitude that he welcomed her, took her shawl, and ordered her a glass of sherry. Her sagging cheeks waggled in pleasure as she took the glass. She had gray hair, a beaklike nose that always turned red in the cold, and a pair of mischievous blue eyes that lent an air of youth to her lined face. “Just what I need,” she told him in her deep voice, and knocked the sherry off at a gulp, holding out her glass for a refill. “Good stuff. Now, down to business. Tell me, Max, what is to be done about it?” This cryptic question was apparently clear to deVigne. “Something must be done at once. He was foxed again last night. That Miss Milne you hired to look after Roberta came dashing over here at nine o’clock close to hysterics, and the silly chit hadn’t even the sense to bring Robbie with her.
