Millicent Splay had three preoccupations that afternoon but none pressed upon her with so heavy a load of anxiety as her preoccupation concerning Joan Whitworth.

Martin crossed the room to Joan and sat upon the couch beside her.

“Didn’t I see you in London, Miss Whitworth, on Monday afternoon?” he asked.

Joan met his gaze steadily.

“Did you?  It was possible.  I was in London on Monday.  Where did you think you saw me?”

“Coming out of a picture gallery in Green Street.”

Joan did not flinch, nor drop her eyes from his.

“Yes, you saw me,” she replied.  Then with a challenge in her voice she added distinctly, so that the words reached, as they were meant to reach, every one in that room.  “I was with Mario Escobar.”

The room suddenly grew still.  Two years ago, Martin Hillyard reflected, Harold Jupp or Dennis would have chaffed her roundly about her conquest, and she would have retorted with good humour.  Now, no one spoke, but a little sigh, a little movement of uneasiness came from Millie Splay.  Joan did not take her eyes from Hillyard’s face.  But the blood mounted slowly over her throat and cheeks.

“Well?” she asked, and the note of challenge was a trifle more audible in her quiet voice.  And since he was challenged, Hillyard answered: 

“He is a German spy.”

The words smote upon all in the room like a blow.  Joan herself grew pale.  Then she replied: 

“People say that nowadays of every foreigner.”

The moment of embarrassment was prolonged to a full minute—­during which no one spoke.  Then to the relief of every one, Sir Chichester Splay entered the hall.  He had been sitting all day upon the Bench.  He had to attend the Flower Show in Chichester during the next week.  Really the life of a country notable was a dog’s life.

“You are going to make a speech at Chichester, Sir Christopher?” Jupp inquired.

“Oh no, my boy,” replied Sir Chichester.  “Make a speech indeed!  And in this weather!  Nothing would induce me.  Me for the back benches, as our cousins across the Atlantic would say.”

He spoke pompously, yet with a certain gratification as though Harold Jupp had asked him to dignify the occasion with a speech.

“Have the evening papers not arrived yet?” he asked, looking with suspicious eyes on Dennis Brown.

“No, I am not sitting on them this time,” said Dennis.

“And Colonel Luttrell?”

After the evening papers, Sir Chichester thought politely of his guests.  Millie Splay replied with hesitation.  While the others of the company were shaking off their embarrassment, she was sinking deeper into hers.

“Colonel Luttrell has not come yet.  Nor—­nor—­the other guest who completes our party.”