The girl beat her hands together. 'My dear man,' she cried, 'you don't understand. You're judging those devils by your own standard. They suspect everything—and everybody.'
'What a distressing habit,' he murmured. 'Is it chronic, Or merely due to liver? I must send 'em a bottle of good salts. Wonderful thing—good salts. Never without some in France.'
The girl looked at him resignedly. 'You're hopeless,' she remarked— 'absolutely hopeless.'
'Absolutely,' agreed Hugh, blowing out a cloud of smoke. 'Wherefore your telephone message? What's the worry?'
She bit her lip and drummed with her fingers on the arm of her chair. 'If I tell you,' she said at length, 'will you promise me, on your word of honour, that you won't go blundering into The Elms, or do anything foolish like that?'
Cream: What A Bringdown (Link)
Text: Sapper, Bulldog Drummond (1920)
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