“There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead. She read the policeman’s rueful glance when she caught his refection in his rearview mirror. “There’s endless reasons, no doubt, why we shouldn’t,” he said. He was halfway across the ballroom, where the dancing had ceased for the musicians to take a well-earned rest, when Roding pounced on him. There were all varieties of bird-life known in these latitudes, from the bird of paradise down to the tiny scarlet-beaked love-birds. “Idiots!” she said, when she heard this pandemonium, and with particular reference to this young lady with the throaty contralto next door.
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