‘God bless my blood pressure! This,’ she added, ‘is not going to be an agreeable day.’‘Who’s next, Miss Phryne?’ asked Jane.‘The last missing girl, thank God. Julie Reilly. Seventeen years old, wanted to be a teacher, sent to work in a wool mill, not welcome home again in her shameful condition.’Dot considered it fortunate, in view of Miss Phryne’s disintegrating temper, that the Reilly house was locked and there was a To Let sign on the front fence. The children scattered in search of information. Bert got out and leaned on the cab door, smoking his rollie and staring at the horizon. He was thinking. Phryne found the flask she always popped into any picnic basket and poured herself a tot.‘I might just go into that milk bar,’ suggested Dot. ‘See if they know where the Reillys have gone.’‘Why not?’ asked Phryne. She was dealing with a rush of hatred. This always gave her a headache. Had she been armed, she thought, which luckily she was not, she might have shot that appalling little man in his too-neat house.
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