CHAPTER XVII
MR. FOSS MAKES A SUGGESTIONImmersed in her beloved script, Adele Leamington sat on her bed, a box of marron glacé by her side, her knees tucked up, and a prodigious frown on her forehead. Try as hard as she would, she found it impossible to concentrate upon the intricate directions with which Foss invariably tortured the pages of his scenarios. Ordinarily she could have mastered this handicap, but, for some reason or other, individual thoughts which belonged wholly to her and had no association with her art came flowing forth in such volume that the lines were meaningless and the page, for all the instruction it gave to her, might as well have been blank.
What was Michael Brixan? He was not her idea of a detective, and why was he staying in Chichester? Could it be . . . ? Sh
