“Which is damned all!” George growled.
He walked towards the table in the corner.
On reaching it he started to pour the champagne, which was open in the ice cooler, into two glasses.
“Now that problem is settled, George, dear,” Sybil Shenley said in a cooing voice, “we can enjoy ourselves.”
George Hunter handed her a glass of champagne.
“Let us hope this calms my nerves,” he said, “but I have an uncomfortable feeling, Sybil, that you thrive on crime.”
“That is a very unkind thing to say,” Sybil complained, but she did not sound angry.
“I have been wondering,” George replied, “if poor old Arthur really died a natural death. It certainly puzzled the doctors as to why he should pop off at sixty.”
“Then let it puzzle you too,” Sybil said. “All you have to concern yourself with is me an
