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"As if I'd publish it on the housetops!" she cried in infinite disdain. "It's plain you aren't much up in detective stories." "No, no," cried Mrs. Dallas, wringing her hands. "She will catch the train there and go to London. Oh, why didn't you stop her?" "I'm awfully glad," said Patricia, recovering herself first and beginning to realize the joyfulness of the astounding news. "Let me tell them, will you?".
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Patricia nodded approval. "Bah! you black parrot!" muttered Maurice scornfully and turned upon his heel. As he vanished down the walk Dido clapped her hands together with great satisfaction and began to sing in low tones. Her song was barbaric in words and strange beyond all telling in the music. It rose and fell, and moaned and drawled, in a curiously painful manner. In the drawing-room Mrs. Dallas had risen to her feet at the first deep contralto note, and now stood rocking herself to and fro with an expression of alarm on her face. Isabella was terrified in her turn by Dido's song and her mother's strange conduct, though by this time she should have been used to these eccentricities. "Time's up!" cried Patricia, jumping up. "Be on hand at the next rest, angel child. Come in the clay room 'immejit' the gong rings," and she hurried off, humming a gay little song. "And I answer for the last time that the truth is not mine to tell," replied David, coldly. "If you doubt me question Etwald.".
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