By now, the wild beast had erupted from the interior of the motorcar and seemed to think there was some sort of game happening. It bounced and bounded, barking and darting about them with what Phyllida interpreted as delight.

“You can thank Myrtle for saving your dress,” Bradford said, bending to pick up the writhing, squirming mop.

“Whyever for?” Phyllida replied, unobtrusively resting her hand against the brick wall for support. Now that she was free, and safe, it seemed as if her entire body only wanted to fold into itself and heave and tremble.

It had been a very near thing.

Those last few moments as the bright, blaring headlights roared toward her, where she was tucked into a brick prison that she was by no means certain would protect her . . . the close heat of the engine of her would-be murderer . . . and then the jostle of metal against her middle—so close!—all were sensations burned into her mind.

“It was Myrt here who found you,” said Bradford in an unusually light voice. “Didn’t you, you little beastie?” He cooed—actually cooed—at the bundle of fur, who panted happily in Phyllida’s direction.

Phyllida glanced at those dark, glinting eyes and the lolling pink tongue and suppressed a shudder at the thought of it swiping over her hand. And surely that was a light of smug satisfaction in the creature’s eyes. “I see,” she replied.

“You would have been able to free yourself,” Bradford went on in the same blithe tone.

“Obviously.”

“Eventually. But if Myrtle hadn’t found you in time, you would have ruined your dress. Imagine if we’d come on the scene only moments after you’d sawed through the hem and released yourself—why, that would have been quite a tragedy, wouldn’t it, Mrs. Bright?”

Phyllida had the notion he was teasing her somehow, but she was far too exhausted—physically as well as emotionally—to parley with him. Instead, she merely nodded and said, “Quite. Please inform Myrtle that I am very appreciative of her intervention on behalf of my frock.” She was of the mind that one must give credit where credit was due.

“You can tell her yourself, Mrs. Bright,” he said, his eyes dancing with unconcealed glee. “All she wants is a pat on the head.”

Phyllida ground her teeth, but, again—credit where credit was due. The little beast had saved one of her favorite frocks, hadn’t it? She reached out and lightly patted the creature on the top of its warm head. “There you are,” she said, retracting her hand before that wild pink tongue could swipe at her. She was surprised at how soft and silky the thing’s hair was, but that was neither here nor there.

“Now, shall we determine whose motorcar this is?” she said. She’d given herself sufficient recovery time and now felt safe enough to step away from the support of the brick wall.