“I cannot thank you, Sir John,” she said. “You might at least,” she murmured, “have invented a more romantic reason. The baby did not strike at Sebastian. You seemed, he thought, to have some grievance which you would not explain and which he thought must arise from a misunderstanding. “Perhaps that is only sleeping,” he said. ‘I take it that you like this great-niece of mine?’ ‘One cannot help but do so. “How could it not have hurt?” His analytical side started putting in overtime. Well, this is OUR thing. There's nothing on the card to indicate it, but I'm a detective. No breakfast, he’s had no dinner, hardly a mouthful of soup— since yesterday at tea.
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