.. good... it is my
province. But, London... it is senseless!"
Mortimer turned his gig-lamps on the interrupter.
"You will take your orders from me as before," he said quietly.
Behrend adjusted his pince-nez.
"No. 13 is perfectly right," he remarked, "he knows his
territory, and he should be allowed to work there."
"You, too," Mortimer observed in the same calm tone as before,
"will take your orders from me!"
With a quick gesture the young man dashed his long black hair out
of his eyes.
"Maybe," he replied, "but only as long as I feel sure that your
orders are worth following.
"Do you dare..." began Mortimer, shouting.
"... At present," the other continued, as though Mortimer had not
spoken. "I don't feel at all sure that they are."
The atmosphere was getting a trifle heated, thought Desmond. If
he judged Mortimer aright, he was not the man to let himself be
dictated to by anybody. He was wondering how the scene would end
when suddenly something caught his eye that took his mind right
away from the events going forward in the room.
Opposite him, across the library, was a French window across
which the curtains had been drawn. One of the curtains, however,
had got looped up on a chair so that there was a gap at the
bottom of the window showing the pane.
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