She said gustily:

“I can speak to you, yes, please, no?”

Miss Blacklock sighed.

“Of course, Mitzi, what is it?”

Sometimes she thought it would be preferable to do the entire work of the house as well as the cooking rather than be bothered with the eternal nerve storms of her refugee “lady help.”

“I tell you at once—it is in order, I hope? I give you my notices and I go—I go at once!”

“For what reason? Has somebody upset you?”

“Yes, I am upset,” said Mitzi dramatically. “I do not wish to die! Already in Europe I escape. My family they all die—they are all killed—my mother, my little brother, my so sweet little niece—all, all they are killed. But me I run away—I hide. I get to England. I work. I do work that never—never would I do in my own country—I—”

“I know all that,” said Miss Blacklock crisply. It was, indeed, a constant refrain on Mitzi’s lips. “But why do you want to leave now?”

“Because again they come to kill me!”

“Who do?”

“My enemies. The Nazis! Or perhaps this time it is the Bolsheviks. They find out I am here. They come to kill me. I have read it—yes—it is in the newspaper!”

“Oh, you mean in the Gazette?”

“Here, it is written here.” Mitzi produced the Gazette from where she had been holding it behind her back. “See—here it says a murder. At Little Paddocks. That is here, is it not? This evening at 6:30. Ah! I do not wait to be murdered—no.”

“But why should this apply to you? It’s—we think it is a joke.”

“A joke? It is not a joke to murder someone.”

“No, of course not. But my dear child, if anyone wanted to murder you, they wouldn’t advertise the fact in the paper, would they?”

“You do not think they would?” Mitzi seemed a little shaken. “You think, perhaps, they do not mean to murder anyone at all? Perhaps it is you they mean to murder, Miss Blacklock.”

“I certainly can’t believe anyone wants to murder me,” said Miss Blacklock lightly. “And really, Mitzi, I don’t see why anyone should want to murder you. After all, why should they?”

“Because they are bad peoples … Very bad peoples. I tell you, my mother, my little brother, my so sweet niece….”

“Yes, yes.” Miss Blacklock stemmed the flow, adroitly. “But I cannot really believe anyone wants to murder you, Mitzi. Of course, if you want to go off like this at a moment’s notice, I can’t possibly stop you. But I think you will be very silly if you do.”

She added firmly, as Mitzi looked doubtful:

“We’ll have that beef the butcher sent stewed for lunch. It looks very tough.”

“I make you a goulash, a special goulash.”

“If you prefer to call it that, certainly. And perhaps you could use up that rather hard bit of cheese in making some cheese straws. I think some people may come in this evening for drinks.”