“Nonsense,” she said with determination. “There has got to be a place.”
“But there ain’t one,” wailed Alfred.
Never had a room shown itself more unpropitious for concealment. Dingy blinds were drawn down over the dirty window panes, and there were no curtains. The windowsill outside, which Bundle examined, was about four inches wide! Inside the room there were the table, the chairs and the cupboards.
The second cupboard had a key in the lock. Bundle went across and pulled it open. Inside were shelves covered with an odd assortment of glasses and crockery.
“Surplus stuff as we don’t use,” explained Alfred. “You can see for yourself, my lady, there’s no place here as a cat could hide.”
But Bundle was examining the shelves.
“Flimsy work,” she said. “Now then, Alfred, have you got a cupboard downstairs where you could shove all this glass? You have! Good. Then get a tray and start to carry it down at once. Hurry—there’s no time to lose.”
“You can’t, my lady. And it’s getting late, too. The cooks will be here any minute now.”
“ Mr. Mosgo-whatnot doesn’t come till later, I suppose?”
“He’s never here much before midnight. But oh, my lady—”
“Don’t talk so much, Alfred,” said Bundle. “Get that tray. If you stay here arguing, you will get into trouble.”
Doing what is familiarly known as “wringing his hands,” Alfred departed.