Problem at Pollensa Bay and Other Stories

THE LOVE DETECTIVES Little Mr Satterthwaite looked thoughtfully across at his host. The friendship between these two men was an odd one. The colonel was a simple country gentleman whose passion in life was sport. The few weeks that he spent perforce in London, he spent unwillingly. Mr Satterthwaite, on the other hand, was a town bird. He was an authority on French cooking, on ladies' dress, and on all the latest scandals. His passion was observing human nature, and he was an expert in his own special line - that of an onlooker at life. It would seem, therefore, that he and Colonel Melrose would have little in common, for the colonel had no interest in his neighbours' affairs and a horror of any kind of emotion. The two men were friends mainly because their fathers before them had been friends. Also they knew the same people and had reactionary views about nouveaux riches. It was about half past seven. The two men were sitting in the colonel's comfortable study, and Melrose was describing a run of the previous winter with a keen hunting man's enthusiasm. Mr Satterthwaite, whose knowledge of horses consisted chiefly of the time-honoured Sunday morning visit to the stables which still obtains in old-fashioned country houses, listened with his invariable politeness. The sharp ringing of the telephone interrupted Melrose. He crossed to the table and took up the receiver. "Hello, yes - Colonel Melrose speaking. What's that?" His whole demeanour altered - became stiff and official. It was the magistrate speaking now, not the sportsman. He listened for some moments, then said laconically, "Right, Curtis. I'll be over at once." He replaced the receiver and turned to his guest. "Sir James Dwighton has been found in his library - murdered." "What?" Mr Satterthwaite was startled - thrilled. "I must go over to Alderway at once. Care to come with me?" Mr Satterthwaite remembered that the colonel was chief constable of the county. "If I shan't be in the way - " He hesitated. "Not at all. That was Inspector Curtis telephoning. Good, honest fellow, but no brains. I'd be glad if you would come with me, Satterthwaite. I've got an idea this is going to turn out a nasty business." "Have they got the fellow who did it?" "No," replied Melrose shortly. Mr Satterthwaite's trained ear detected a nuance of reserve behind the curt negative. He began to go over in his mind all that he knew of the Dwightons. A pompous old fellow, the late Sir James, brusque in his manner. A man that might easily make enemies. Veering on sixty, with grizzled hair and a florid face. Reputed to be tight-fisted in the extreme. His mind went on to Lady Dwighton. Her image floated before him, young, auburn-haired, slender. He remembered various rumours, hints, odd bits of gossip. So that was it - that was why Melrose looked so glum. Then he pulled himself up - his imagination was running away with him. Five minutes later Mr Satterthwaite took his place beside his host in the latter's little two seater, and they drove off together into the night. The colonel was a taciturn man. They had gone quite a mile and a half before he spoke. Then he jerked out abruptly. "You know 'em, I suppose?" "The Dwightons? I know all about them, of course." Who was there Mr Satterthwaite didn't know all about? "I've met him once, I think, and her rather oftener." "Pretty woman," said Melrose. "Beautiful!" declared Mr Satterthwaite. "Think so?" "A pure Renaissance type," declared Mr Satterthwaite, warming up to his theme. "She acted in those theatricals - the charity matinee, you know, last spring. I was very much struck. Nothing modern about her - a pure survival. One can imagine her in the doge's palace, or as Lucrezia Borgia." The colonel let the car swerve slightly, and Mr Satterthwaite came to an abrupt stop. He wondered what fatality had brought the name of Lucrezia Borgia to his tongue. Under the circumstances - "Dwighton was not poisoned, was he?" he asked abruptly. Melrose looked at him sideways, somewhat curiously. "Why do you ask that, I wonder?" he said. "Oh, I - I don't know." Mr Satterthwaite was flustered. "I - It just occurred to me." "Well, he wasn't," said Melrose gloomily. "If you want to know, he was crashed on the head." "With a blunt instrument," murmured Mr Satterthwaite, nodding his head sagely. "Don't talk like a damned detective story, Satterthwaite. He was hit on the head with a bronze figure." "Oh," said Satterthwaite, and relapsed into silence. "Know anything of a chap called Paul Delangua?" asked Melrose after a minute or two. "Yes. Good-looking young fellow." "I daresay women would call him so," growled the colonel. "You don't like him?" "No, I don't." "I should have thought you would have. He rides very well." "Like a foreigner at the horse show. Full of monkey tricks." Mr Satterthwaite suppressed a smile. Poor old Melrose was so very British in his outlook. Agreeably conscious himself of a cosmopolitan point of view, Mr Satterthwaite was able to deplore the insular attitude toward life. "Has he been down in this part of the world?" he asked. "He's been staying at Alderway with the Dwightons. The rumour goes that Sir James kicked him out a week ago." "Why?" "Found him making love to his wife, I suppose. What the hell - " There was a violent swerve, and a jarring impact. "Most dangerous crossroads in England," said Melrose. "All the same, the other fellow should have sounded his horn. We're on the main road. I fancy we've damaged him rather more than he has damaged us." He sprang out. A figure alighted from the other car and joined him. Fragments of speech reached Satterthwaite. "Entirely my fault, I'm afraid," the stranger was saying. "But I do not know this part of the country very well, and there's absolutely no sign of any kind to show you're coming onto the main road." The colonel, mollified, rejoined suitably. The two men bent together over the stranger's car, which a chauffeur was already examining. The conversation became highly technical. "A matter of half an hour, I'm afraid," said the stranger. "But don't let me detain you. I'm glad your car escaped injury as well as it did." "As a matter of fact - " the colonel was beginning, but he was interrupted. Mr Satterthwaite, seething with excitement, hopped out of the car with a birdlike action, and seized the stranger warmly by the hand. "It is! I thought I recognized the voice," he declared excitedly. "What an extraordinary thing. What a very extraordinary thing." "Eh?" said Colonel Melrose. "Mr Harley Quin. Melrose, I'm sure you've heard me speak many times of Mr Quin?" Colonel Melrose did not seem to remember the fact, but he assisted politely at the scene while Mr Satterthwaite was chirruping gaily on. "I haven't seen you - let me see - " "Since the night at the Bells and Motley," said the other quietly. "The Bells and Motley, eh?" said the colonel. "An inn," explained Mr Satterthwaite. "What an odd name for an inn." "Only an old one," said Mr Quin. "There was a time, remember, when bells and motley were more common in England than they are nowadays." "I suppose so, yes, no doubt you are right," said Melrose vaguely. He blinked. By a curious effect of light - the headlights of one car and the red tail-light of the other - Mr Quin seemed for a moment to be dressed in motley himself. But it was only the light. "We can't leave you here stranded on the road," continued Mr Satterthwaite. "You must come along with us. There's plenty of room for three, isn't there, Melrose?" "Oh rather." But the colonel's voice was a little doubtful. "The only thing is," he remarked, "the job we're on. Eh, Satterthwaite?" Mr Satterthwaite stood stock-still. Ideas leaped and flashed over him. He positively shook with excitement. "No," he cried. "No, I should have known better! There is no chance where you are concerned, Mr Quin. It was not an accident that we all met tonight at the crossroads." Colonel Melrose stared at his friend in astonishment. Mr Satterthwaite took him by the arm. "You remember what I told you - about our friend Derek Capel? The motive for his suicide, which no one could guess? It was Mr Quin who solved that problem - and there have been others since. He shows you things that are there all the time, but which you haven't seen. He's marvellous." "My dear Satterthwaite, you are making me blush," said Mr Quin, smiling. "As far as I can remember, these discoveries were all made by you, not by me." "They were made because you were there," said Mr Satterthwaite with intense conviction. "Well," said Colonel Melrose, clearing his throat uncomfortably. "We mustn't waste any more time. Let's get on." He climbed into the driver's seat. He was not too well pleased at having the stranger foisted upon him through Mr Satterthwaite's enthusiasm, but he had no valid objection to offer, and he was anxious to get on to Alderway as fast as possible. Mr Satterthwaite urged Mr Quin in next, and himself took the outside seat. The car was a roomy one and took three without undue squeezing. "So you are interested in crime, Mr Quin?" said the colonel, doing his best to be genial. "No, not exactly in crime." "What, then?" Mr Quin smiled. "Let us ask Mr Satterthwaite. He is a very shrewd observer." "I think," said Satterthwaite slowly, "I may be wrong, but I think - that Mr Quin is interested in - lovers." He blushed as he said the last word, which is one no Englishman can pronounce without self-consciousness. Mr Satterthwaite brought it out apologetically, and with an effect of inverted commas. "By gad!" said the colonel, startled and silenced. He reflected inwardly that this seemed to be a very rum friend of Satterthwaite's. He glanced at him sideways. The fellow looked all right - quite a normal young chap. Rather dark, but not at all foreign-looking. "And now," said Satterthwaite importantly, "I must tell you all about the case." He talked for some ten minutes. Sitting there in the darkness, rushing through the night, he had an intoxicating feeling of power. What did it matter if he were only a looker-on at life? He had words at his command, he was master of them, he could string them to a pattern - a strange Renaissance pattern composed of the beauty of Laura Dwighton, with her white arms and red hair - and the shadowy dark figure of Paul Delangua, whom women found handsome. Set that against the background of Alderway - Alderway that had stood since the days of Henry VII and, some said, before that. Alderway that was English to the core, with its clipped yew and its old beak barn and the fishpond, where monks had kept their carp for Fridays. In a few deft strokes he had etched in Sir James, a Dwighton who was a true descendant of the old De Wittons, who long ago had wrung money out of the land and locked it fast in coffers, so that whoever else had fallen on evil days, the masters of Alderway had never become impoverished. At last Mr Satterthwaite ceased. He was sure, had been sure all along, of the sympathy of his audience. He waited now the word of praise which was his due. It came. "You are an artist, Mr Satterthwaite." "I - I do my best." The little man was suddenly humble. They had turned in at the lodge gates some minutes ago. Now the car drew up in front of the doorway, and a police constable came hurriedly down the steps to meet them. "Good evening, sir. Inspector Curtis is in the library." "Right." Melrose ran up the steps followed by the other two. As the three of them passed across the wide hall, an elderly butler peered from a doorway apprehensively. Melrose nodded to him. "Evening, Miles. This is a sad business." "It is indeed," the other quavered. "I can hardly believe it, sir; indeed I can't. To think that anyone should strike down the master." "Yes, yes," said Melrose, cutting him short. "I'll have talk with you presently." He strode on to the library. There a big, soldierly-looking inspector greeted him with respect. "Nasty business, sir. I have not disturbed things. No fingerprints on the weapon. Whoever did it knew his business." Mr Satterthwaite looked at the bowed figure sitting at the big writing table, and looked hurriedly away again. The man had been struck down from behind, a smashing blow that had crashed in the skull. The sight was not a pretty one. The weapon lay on the floor - a bronze figure about two feet high, the base of it stained and wet. Mr Satterthwaite bent over it curiously. "A Venus," he said softly. "So he was struck down by Venus." He found food for poetic meditation in the thought. "The windows," said the inspector, "were all closed and bolted on the inside." He paused significantly. "Making an inside job of it," said the chief constable reluctantly. "Well - well, we'll see." The murdered man was dressed in golf clothes, and a bag of golf clubs had been flung untidily across a big leather couch. "Just come in from the links," explained the inspector, following the chief constable's glance. "At five-fifteen, that was. Had tea brought here by the butler. Later he rang for his valet to bring him down a pair of soft slippers. As far as we can tell, the valet was the last person to see him alive." Melrose nodded, and turned his attention once more to the writing table. A good many of the ornaments had been overturned and broken. Prominent among these was a big dark enamel clock, which lay on its side in the very centre of the table. The inspector cleared his throat. "That's what you might call a piece of luck, sir," he said. "As you see, it's stopped. At half past six. That gives us the time of the crime. Very convenient." The colonel was staring at the clock. "As you say," he remarked. "Very convenient." He paused a minute, and then added, "Too damned convenient! I don't like it, Inspector." He looked around at the other two. His eye sought Mr Quin's with a look of appeal in it. "Damn it all," he said. "It's too neat. You know what I mean. Things don't happen like that." "You mean," murmured Mr Quin, "that clocks don't fall like that?" Melrose stared at him for a moment, then back at the clock, which had that pathetic and innocent look familiar to objects which have been suddenly bereft of their dignity. Very carefully Colonel Melrose replaced it on its legs again. He struck the table a violent blow. The clock rocked, but it did not fall. Melrose repeated the action, and very slowly, with a kind of unwillingness, the clock fell over on its back. "What time was the crime discovered?" demanded Melrose sharply. "Just about seven o'clock, sir." "Who discovered it?" "The butler." "Fetch him in," said the chief constable. "I'll see him now. Where is Lady Dwighton, by the way?" "Lying down, sir. Her maid says that she's prostrated and can't see anyone." Melrose nodded, and Inspector Curtis went in search of the butler. Mr Quin was looking thoughtfully into the fireplace. Mr Satterthwaite followed his example. He blinked at the smouldering logs for a minute or two, and then something bright lying in the grate caught his eye. He stooped and picked up a little sliver of curved glass. "You wanted me, sir?" It was the butler's voice, still quavering and uncertain. Mr Satterthwaite slipped the fragment of glass into his waistcoat pocket and turned round. The old man was standing in the doorway. "Sit down," said the chief constable kindly. "You're shaking all over. It's been a shock to you, I expect." "It has indeed, sir." "Well, I shan't keep you long. Your master came in just after five, I believe?" "Yes, sir. He ordered tea to be brought to him here. Afterward, when I came to take it away, he asked for Jennings to be sent to him - that's his valet, sir." "What time was that?" "About ten minutes past six, sir." "Yes - well?" "I sent word to Jennings, sir. And it wasn't till I came in here to shut the windows and draw the curtains at seven o'clock that I saw - " Melrose cut him short. "Yes, yes, you needn't go into all that. You didn't touch the body, or disturb anything, did you?" "Oh! No indeed, sir! I went as fast as I could go to the telephone to ring up the police." "And then?" "I told Jane - her ladyship's maid, sir - to break the news to her ladyship." "You haven't seen your mistress at all this evening?" Colonel Melrose put the question casually enough, but Mr Satterthwaite's keen ears caught anxiety behind the words. "Not to speak to, sir. Her ladyship has remained in her own apartments since the tragedy." "Did you see her before?" The question came sharply, and everyone in the room noted the hesitation before the butler replied. "I - I just caught a glimpse of her, sir, descending the staircase." "Did she come in here?" Mr Satterthwaite held his breath. "I - I think so, sir." "What time was that?" You might have heard a pin drop. Did the old man know, Mr Satterthwaite wondered, what hung on his answer? "It was just upon half past six, sir." Colonel Melrose drew a deep breath. "That will do, thank you. Just send Jennings, the valet, to me, will you?" Jennings answered the summons with promptitude. A narrow-faced man with a catlike tread. Something sly and secretive about him. A man, thought Mr Satterthwaite, who would easily murder his master if he could be sure of not being found out. He listened eagerly to the man's answers to Colonel Melrose's questions. But his story seemed straightforward enough. He had brought his master down some soft hide slippers and removed the brogues. "What did you do after that, Jennings?" "I went back to the stewards' room, sir." "At what time did you leave your master?" "It must have been just after a quarter past six, sir." "Where were you at half past six, Jennings?" "In the stewards' room, sir." Colonel Melrose dismissed the man with a nod. He looked across at Curtis inquiringly. "Quite correct, sir, I checked that up. He was in the stewards' room from about six-twenty until seven o'clock." "Then that lets him out," said the chief constable a trifle regretfully. "Besides, there's no motive." They looked at each other. There was a tap at the door. "Come in," said the colonel. A scared-looking lady's maid appeared. "If you please, her ladyship has heard that Colonel Melrose is here and she would like to see him." "Certainly," said Melrose. "I'll come at once. Will you show me the way?" But a hand pushed the girl aside. A very different figure now stood in the doorway. Laura Dwighton looked like a visitor from another world. She was dressed in a clinging medieval tea gown of dull blue brocade. Her auburn hair was parted in the middle and brought down over her ears. Conscious of the fact she had a style of her own, Lady Dwighton had never had her hair cut. It was drawn back into a simple knot on the nape of her neck. Her arms were bare. One of them was outstretched to steady herself against the frame of the doorway, the other hung down by her side, clasping a book. She looks, Mr Satterthwaite thought, like a Madonna from an early Italian canvas. She stood there, swaying slightly from side to side. Colonel Melrose sprang toward her. "I've come to tell you - to tell you - " Her voice was low and rich. Mr Satterthwaite was so entranced with the dramatic value of the scene that he had forgotten its reality. "Please, Lady Dwighton - " Melrose had an arm round her, supporting her. He took her across the hall into a small anteroom, its walls hung with faded silk. Quin and Satterthwaite followed. She sank down on the low settee, her head resting back on a rust-coloured cushion, her eyelids closed. The three men watched her. Suddenly she opened her eyes and sat up. She spoke very quietly. "I killed him," she said. "That's what I came to tell you. I killed him!" There was a moment's agonized silence. Mr Satterthwaite's heart missed a beat. "Lady Dwighton," said Melrose. "You've had a great shock - you're unstrung. I don't think you quite know what you're saying." Would she draw back now - while there was yet time? "I know perfectly what I'm saying. It was I who shot him." Two of the men in the room gasped, the other made no sound. Laura Dwighton leaned still farther forward. "Don't you understand? I came down and shot him. I admit it." The book she had been holding in her hand clattered to the floor. There was a paper cutter in it, a thing shaped like a dagger with a jewelled hilt. Mr Satterthwaite picked it up mechanically and placed it on the table. As he did so he thought, That's a dangerous toy. You could kill a man with that. "Well - " Laura Dwighton's voice was impatient. "- what are you going to do about it? Arrest me? Take me away?" Colonel Melrose found his voice with difficulty. "What you have told me is very serious, Lady Dwighton. I must ask you to go to your room till I have - er - made arrangements." She nodded and rose to her feet. She was quite composed now, grave and cold. As she turned toward the door, Mr Quin spoke. "What did you do with the revolver, Lady Dwighton?" A flicker of uncertainty passed across her face. "I - I dropped it there on the floor. No, I think I threw it out of the window - oh! I can't remember now. What does it matter? I hardly knew what I was doing. It doesn't matter, does it?" "No," said Mr Quin. "I hardly think it matters." She looked at him in perplexity with a shade of something that might have been alarm. Then she flung back her head and went imperiously out of the room. Mr Satterthwaite hastened after her. She might, he felt, collapse at any minute. But she was already halfway up the staircase, displaying no sign of her earlier weakness. The scared-looking maid was standing at the foot of the stairway, and Mr Satterthwaite spoke to her authoritatively. "Look after your mistress," he said. "Yes, sir." The girl prepared to ascend after the blue-robed figure. "Oh, please, sir, they don't suspect him, do they?" "Suspect whom?" "Jennings, sir. Oh! Indeed, sir, he wouldn't hurt a fly." "Jennings? No, of course not. Go and look after your mistress." "Yes, sir." The girl ran quickly up the staircase. Mr Satterthwaite returned to the room he had just vacated. Colonel Melrose was saying heavily, "Well, I'm jiggered. There's more in this than meets the eye. It - it's like those dashed silly things heroines do in many novels." "It's unreal," agreed Mr Satterthwaite. "It's like something on the stage." Mr Quin nodded. "Yes, you admire the drama, do you not? You are a man who appreciates good acting when you see it." Mr Satterthwaite looked hard at him. In the silence that followed a far-off sound came to their ears. "Sounds like a shot," said Colonel Melrose. "One of the keepers, I daresay. That's probably what she heard. Perhaps she went down to see. She wouldn't go close or examine the body. She'd leap at once to the conclusion - " "Mr Delangua, sir." It was the old butler who spoke, standing apologetically in the doorway. "Eh?" said Melrose. "What's that?" "Mr Delangua is here, sir, and would like to speak to you if he may." Colonel Melrose leaned back in his chair. "Show him in," he said grimly. A moment later Paul Delangua stood in the doorway. As Colonel Melrose had hinted, there was something un-English about him - the easy grace of his movements, the dark, handsome face, the eyes set a little too near together. There hung about him the air of the Renaissance. He and Laura Dwighton suggested the same atmosphere. "Good evening, gentlemen," said Delangua. He made a little theatrical bow. "I don't know what your business may be, Mr Delangua," said Colonel Melrose sharply, "but if it is nothing to do with the matter at hand - " Delangua interrupted him with a laugh. "On the contrary," he said, "it has everything to do with it." "What do you mean?" "I mean," said Delangua quietly, "that I have come to give myself up for the murder of Sir James Dwighton." "You know what you are saying?" said Melrose gravely. "Perfectly." The young man's eyes were riveted to the table. "I don't understand - " "Why I give myself up? Call it remorse - call it anything you please. I stabbed him, right enough - you may be quite sure of that." He nodded toward the table. "You've got the weapon there, I see. A very handy little tool. Lady Dwighton unfortunately left it lying around in a book, and I happened to snatch it up." "One minute," said Colonel Melrose. "Am I to understand that you admit stabbing Sir James with this?" He held the dagger aloft. "Quite right. I stole in through the window, you know. He had his back to me. It was quite easy. I left the same way." "Through the window?" "Through the window, of course." "And what time was this?" Delangua hesitated. "Let me see - I was talking to the keeper fellow - that was at a quarter past six. I heard the church tower chime. It must have been - well, say somewhere about half past." A grim smile came to the colonel's lips. "Quite right, young man," he said. "Half past six was the time. Perhaps you've heard that already? But this is altogether a most peculiar murder!" "Why?" "So many people confess to it," said Colonel Melrose. They heard the sharp intake of the other's breath. "Who else has confessed to it?" he asked in a voice that he vainly strove to render steady. "Lady Dwighton." Delangua threw back his head and laughed in rather a forced manner. "Lady Dwighton is apt to be hysterical," he said lightly. "I shouldn't pay any attention to what she says if I were you." "I don't think I shall," said Melrose. "But there's another odd thing about this murder." "What's that?" "Well," said Melrose, "Lady Dwighton has confessed to having shot Sir James, and you have confessed to having stabbed him. But luckily for both of you, he wasn't shot or stabbed, you see. His skull was smashed in." "My God!" cried Delangua. "But a woman couldn't possibly do that - " He stopped, biting his lip. Melrose nodded with the ghost of a smile. "Often read of it," he volunteered. "Never seen it happen." "What?" "Couple of young idiots each accusing themselves because they thought the other had done it," said Melrose. "Now we've got to begin at the beginning." "The valet," cried Mr Satterthwaite. "That girl just now - I wasn't paying any attention at the time." He paused, striving for coherence. "She was afraid of our suspecting him. There must be some motive that he had and which we don't know, but she does." Colonel Melrose frowned, then he rang the bell. When it was answered, he said, "Please ask Lady Dwighton if she will be good enough to come down again." They waited in silence until she came. At sight of Delangua she started and stretched out a hand to save herself from falling. Colonel Melrose came quickly to the rescue. "It's quite all right, Lady Dwighton. Please don't be alarmed." "I don't understand. What is Mr Delangua doing here?" Delangua came over to her, "Laura - Laura - why did you do it?" "Do it?" "I know. It was for me - because you thought that - After all, it was natural, I suppose. But, oh! You angel!" Colonel Melrose cleared his throat. He was a man who disliked emotion and had a horror of anything approaching a 'scene'. "If you'll allow me to say so, Lady Dwighton, both you and Mr Delangua have had a lucky escape. He had just arrived in his turn to 'confess' to the murder - oh, it's quite all right, he didn't do it! But what we want to know is the truth. No more shillyshallying. The butler says you went into the library at half past six - is that so?" Laura looked at Delangua. He nodded. "The truth, Laura," he said. "That is what we want now." She breathed a deep sigh. "I will tell you." She sank down on a chair that Mr Satterthwaite had hurriedly pushed forward. "I did come down. I opened the library door and I saw - " She stopped and swallowed. Mr Satterthwaite leaned forward and patted her hand encouragingly. "Yes," he said. "Yes. You saw?" "My husband was lying across the writing table. I saw his head - the blood - oh!" She put her hands to her face. The chief constable leaned forward. "Excuse me, Lady Dwighton. You thought Mr Delangua had shot him?" She nodded. "Forgive me, Paul," she pleaded. "But you said - you said - " "That I'd shoot him like a dog," said Delangua grimly. "I remember. That was the day I discovered he'd been ill-treating you." The chief constable kept sternly to the matter in hand. "Then I am to understand, Lady Dwighton, that you went upstairs again and - er - said nothing. We needn't go into your reason. You didn't touch the body or go near the writing table?" She shuddered. "No, no. I ran straight out of the room." "I see, I see. And what time was this exactly? Do you know?" "It was just half past six when I got back to my bedroom." "Then at - say five-and-twenty past six, Sir James was already dead." The chief constable looked at the others. "That clock - it was faked, eh? We suspected that all along. Nothing easier than to move the hands to whatever time you wished, but they made a mistake to lay it down on its side like that. Well, that seems to narrow it down the butler or the valet, and I can't believe it's the butler. Tell me, Lady Dwighton, did this man Jennings have any grudge against your husband?" Laura lifted her face from her hands. "Not exactly a grudge, but - well, James told me only this morning that he'd dismissed him. He'd found him pilfering." "Ah! Now we're getting at it. Jennings would have been dismissed without a character. A serious matter for him." "You said something about a clock," said Laura Dwighton. "There's just a chance - if you want to fix the time - James would have been sure to have his little golf watch on him. Mightn't that have been smashed, too, when he fell forward?" "It's an idea," said the colonel slowly. "But I'm afraid - Curtis!" The inspector nodded in quick comprehension and left the room. He returned a minute later. On the palm of his hand was a silver watch marked like a golf ball, the kind that are sold for golfers to carry loose in a pocket with balls. "Here it is, sir," he said, "but I doubt if it will be any good. They're tough, these watches." The colonel took it from him and held it to his ear. "It seems to have stopped, anyway," he observed. He pressed with his thumb, and the lid of the watch flew open. Inside the glass was cracked across. "Ah!" he said exultantly. The hand pointed to exactly a quarter past six. "A very good glass of port, Colonel Melrose," said Mr Quin. It was half past nine, and the three men had just finished a belated dinner at Colonel Melrose's house. Mr Satterthwaite was particularly jubilant. "I was quite right," he chuckled. "You can't deny it, Mr Quin. You turned up tonight to save two absurd young people who were both bent on putting their heads into a noose." "Did I?" said Mr Quin. "Surely not. I did nothing at all." "As it turned out, it was not necessary," agreed Mr Satterthwaite. "But it might have been. It was touch and go, you know. I shall never forget the moment when Lady Dwighton said, 'I killed him.' I've never seen anything on the stage half as dramatic." "I'm inclined to agree with you," said Mr Quin. "Wouldn't have believed such a thing could happen outside a novel," declared the colonel, for perhaps the twentieth time that night. "Does it?" asked Mr Quin. The colonel stared at him, "Damn it, it happened tonight." "Mind you," interposed Mr Satterthwaite, leaning back and sipping his port, "Lady Dwighton was magnificent, quite magnificent, but she made one mistake. She shouldn't have leaped to the conclusion that her husband had been shot. In the same way Delangua was a fool to assume that he had been stabbed just because the dagger happened to be lying on the table in front of us. It was a mere coincidence that Lady Dwighton should have brought it I down with her." "Was it?" asked Mr Quin. "Now if they'd only confined themselves to saying that they'd killed Sir James, without particularizing how - " went on Mr Satterthwaite - "what would have been the result?" "They might have been believed," said Mr Quin with an odd smile. "The whole thing was exactly like a novel," said the colonel. "That's where they got the idea from, I daresay," said Mr Quin. "Possibly," agreed Mr Satterthwaite. "Things one has read do come back to one in the oddest way." He looked across at Mr Quin. "Of course," he said, "the clock really looked suspicious from the first. One ought never to forget how easy it is to put the hands of a clock or watch forward or back." Mr Quin nodded and repeated the words. "Forward," he said, and paused. "Or back." There was something encouraging in his voice. His bright, dark eyes were fixed on Mr Satterthwaite. "The hands of the clock were put forward," said Mr Satterthwaite. "We know that." "Were they?" asked Mr Quin. Mr Satterthwaite stared at him. "Do you mean," he said slowly, "that it was the watch which was put back? But that doesn't make sense. It's impossible." "Not impossible," murmured Mr Quin. "Well - absurd. To whose advantage could that be?" "Only, I suppose, to someone who had an alibi for that time." "By gad!" cried the colonel. "That's the time young Delangua said he was talking to the keeper." "He told us that very particularly," said Mr Satterthwaite. They looked at each other. They had an uneasy feeling as of solid ground failing beneath their feet. Facts went spinning round, turning new and unexpected faces. And in the centre of the kaleidoscope was the dark, smiling face of Mr Quin. "But in that case - " began Melrose " - in that case - " Mr Satterthwaite, nimble-witted, finished his sentence for him. "It's all the other way round. A plant just the same - but a plant against the valet. Oh, but it can't be! It's impossible. Why each of them accused themselves of the crime." "Yes," said Mr Quin. "Up till then you suspected them, didn't you?" His voice went on, placid and dreamy. "Just like something out of a book, you said, colonel. They got the idea there. It's what the innocent hero and heroine do. Of course it made you think them innocent - there was the force of tradition behind them. Mr Satterthwaite has been saying all along it was like something on the stage. You were both right. It wasn't real. You've been saying so all along without knowing what you were saying. They'd have told a much better story than that if they'd wanted to be believed." The two men looked at him helplessly. "It would be clever," said Mr Satterthwaite slowly. "It would be diabolically clever. And I've thought of something else. The butler said he went in at seven to shut the windows - so he must have expected them to be open." "That's the way Delangua came in,' said Mr Quin. "He killed Sir James with one blow, and he and she together did what they had to do - " He looked at Mr Satterthwaite, encouraging him to reconstruct the scene. He did so, hesitatingly. "They smashed the clock and put it on its side. Yes. They altered the watch and smashed it. Then he went out of the window, and she fastened it after him. But there's one thing I don't see. Why bother with the watch at all? Why not simply put back the hands of the clock?" "The clock was always a little obvious," said Mr Quin. "Anyone might have seen through a rather transparent device like that." "But surely the watch was too far-fetched. Why, it was pure chance that we ever thought of the watch." "Oh, no," said Mr Quin. "It was the lady's suggestion, remember." Mr Satterthwaite stared at him, fascinated. "And yet, you know," said Mr Quin dreamily, "the one person who wouldn't be likely to overlook the watch would be the valet. Valets know better than anyone what their masters carry in their pockets. If he altered the clock, the valet would have altered the watch, too. They don't understand human nature, those two. They are not like Mr Satterthwaite." Mr Satterthwaite shook his head. "I was all wrong," he murmured humbly. "I thought that you had come to save them." "So I did," said Mr Quin. "Oh! Not those two - the others. Perhaps you didn't notice the lady's maid? She wasn't wearing blue brocade, or acting a dramatic part. But she's really a very pretty girl, and I think she loves that man Jennings very much. I think that between you you'll be able to save her man from getting hanged." "We've no proof of any kind," said Colonel Melrose heavily. Mr Quin smiled. "Mr Satterthwaite has." "I?" Mr Satterthwaite was astonished. Mr Quin went on. "You've got a proof that that watch wasn't smashed in Sir James's pocket. You can't smash a watch like that without opening the case. Just try it and see. Someone took the watch out and opened it, set back the hands, smashed the glass, and then shut it and put it back. They never noticed that a fragment of glass was missing." "Oh!" cried Mr Satterthwaite. His hand flew to his waist-coat pocket. He drew out a fragment of curved glass. It was his moment. "With this," said Mr Satterthwaite importantly, "I shall save a man from death." NEXT TO A DOG The ladylike woman behind the Registry Office table cleared her throat and peered across at the girl who sat opposite. "Then you refuse to consider the post? It only came in this morning. A very nice part of Italy, I believe, a widower with a little boy of three and an elderly lady, his mother or aunt." Joyce Lambert shook her head. "I can't go out of England," she said in a tired voice; "there are reasons. If only you could find me a daily post?" Her voice shook slightly - ever so slightly, for she had it well under control. Her dark blue eyes looked appealingly at the woman opposite her. "It's very difficult, Mrs. Lambert. The only kind of daily governess required is one who has full qualifications. You have none. I have hundreds on my books - literally hundreds." She paused. "You have someone at home you can't leave?" Joyce nodded. "A child?" "No, not a child." And a faint smile flickered across her face. "Well, it is very unfortunate. I will do my best, of course, but - " The interview was clearly at an end. Joyce rose. She was biting her lip to keep the tears from springing to her eyes as she emerged from the frowsy office into the street. "You mustn't," she admonished herself sternly. "Don't be a snivelling little idiot. You're panicking - that's what you're doing - panicking. No good ever came of giving way to panic. It's quite early in the day still and lots of things may happen. Aunt Mary ought to be good for a fortnight anyway. Come on, girl, step out, and don't keep your well-to-do relations waiting." She walked down Edgware Road, across the park, and then down to Victoria Street, where she turned into the Army and Navy Stores. She went to the lounge and sat down glancing at her watch. It was just half-past one. Five minutes sped by and then an elderly lady with her arms full of parcels bore down upon her. "Ah! There you are, Joyce. I'm a few minutes late, I'm afraid. The service is not as good as it used to be in the luncheon room. You've had lunch, of course?" Joyce hesitated a minute or two, then she said quietly: "Yes, thank you." "I always have mine at half-past twelve," said Aunt Mary, settling herself comfortably with her parcels. "Less rush and a clearer atmosphere. The curried eggs here are excellent." "Are they?" said Joyce faintly. She felt that she could hardly bear to think of curried eggs - the hot steam rising from them - the delicious smell! She wrenched her thoughts resolutely aside. "You look peaky, child," said Aunt Mary, who was herself of a comfortable figure. "Don't go in for this modern fad of eating no meat. All fal-de-lal. A good slice off the joint never did anyone any harm." Joyce stopped herself from saying "It wouldn't do me any harm now." If only Aunt Mary would stop talking about food. To raise your hopes by asking you to meet her at half past one and then to talk of curried eggs and slices of roast meat - oh! cruel - cruel. "Well, my dear," said Aunt Mary. "I got your letter - and it was very nice of you to take me at my word. I said I'd be pleased to see you anytime and so I should have been - but as it happens, I've just had an extremely good offer to let the house. Quite too good to be missed, and bringing their own plate and linen. Five months. They come in on Thursday and I go to Harrogate. My rheumatism's been troubling me lately." "I see," said Joyce. "I'm so sorry." "So it'll have to be for another time. Always pleased to see you, my dear." "Thank you, Aunt Mary." "You know, you do look peaky," said Aunt Mary, considering her attentively. "You're thin, too; no flesh on your bones, and what's happened to your pretty colour? You always had a nice healthy colour. Mind you take plenty of exercise." "I'm taking plenty of exercise today," said Joyce grimly. She rose. "Well, Aunt Mary, I must be getting along." Back again - through St. James's Park this time, and so on through Berkeley Square and across Oxford Street and up Edgware Road, past Praed Street to the point where the Edgware Road begins to think of becoming something else. Then aside, through a series of dirty little streets till one particular dingy house was reached. Joyce inserted her latchkey and entered a small frowsy hall. She ran up the stairs till she reached the top landing. A door faced her and from the bottom of this door a snuffling noise proceeded succeeded in a second by a series of joyful whines and yelps. "Yes, Terry darling - it's Missus come home." As the door opened, a white body precipitated itself upon the girl - an aged wire-haired terrier very shaggy as to coat and suspiciously bleary as to eyes. Joyce gathered him up in her arms and sat down on the floor. "Terry darling! Darling, darling Terry. Love your Missus, Terry; love your Missus a lot!" And Terry obeyed, his eager tongue worked busily, he licked her face, her ears, her neck and all the time his stump of a tail wagged furiously. "Terry darling, what are we going to do? What's going to become of us? Oh! Terry darling, I'm so tired." "Now then, miss," said a tart voice behind her. "If you'll give over hugging and kissing that dog, here's a cup of nice hot tea for you." "Oh! Mrs. Barnes, how good of you." Joyce scrambled to her feet. Mrs. Barnes was a big, formidable-looking woman. Beneath the exterior of a dragon she concealed an unexpectedly warm heart. "A cup of hot tea never did anyone any harm," enunciated Mrs. Barnes, voicing the universal sentiment of her class. Joyce sipped gratefully. Her landlady eyed her covertly. "Any luck, miss - ma'am, I should say?" Joyce shook her head, her face clouded over. "Ah!" said Mrs. Barnes with a sigh. "Well, it doesn't seem to be what you might call a lucky day." Joyce looked up sharply. "Oh, Mrs. Barnes - you don't mean - " Mrs. Barnes was nodding gloomily. "Yes - it's Barnes. Out of work again. What we're going to do, I'm sure I don't know." "Oh, Mrs. Barnes - I must - I mean you'll want - " "Now don't you fret, my dear. I'm not denying but that I'd be glad if you'd found something - but if you haven't - you haven't. Have you finished that tea? I'll take the cup." "Not quite." "Ah!" said Mrs. Barnes accusingly. "You're going to give what's left to that dratted dog - I know you." "Oh, please, Mrs. Barnes. Just a little drop. You don't mind really, do you?" "It wouldn't be any use if I did. You're crazy about that cantankerous brute. Yes, that's what I say - and that's what he is. As near as nothing bit me this morning, he did." "Oh, no, Mrs. Barnes! Terry wouldn't do such a thing." "Growled at me - showed his teeth. I was just trying to see if there was anything could be done to those shoes of yours." "He doesn't like anyone touching my things. He thinks he ought to guard them." "Well, what does he want to think for? It isn't a dog's business to think. He'd be well enough in his proper place, tied up in the yard to keep off burglars. All this cuddling! He ought to be put away, miss - that's what I say." "No, no, no. Never. Never!" "Please yourself," said Mrs. Barnes. She took the cup from the table, retrieved the saucer from the floor where Terry had just finished his share, and stalked from the room. "Terry," said Joyce. "Come here and talk to me. What are we going to do, my sweet?" She settled herself in the rickety armchair, with Terry on her knees. She threw off her hat and leaned back. She put one of Terry's paws on each side of her neck and kissed him lovingly on his nose and between his eyes. Then she began talking to him in a soft low voice, twisting his ears gently between her fingers. "What are we going to do about Mrs. Barnes, Terry? We owe her four weeks - and she's such a lamb, Terry - such a lamb. She'd never turn us out. But we can't take advantage of her being a lamb, Terry. We can't do that. Why does Barnes want to be out of work? I hate Barnes. He's always getting drunk. And if you're always getting drunk, you are usually out of work. But I don't get drunk, Terry, and yet I'm out of work. "I can't leave you, darling. I can't leave you. There's not even anyone I could leave you with - nobody who'd be good to you. You're getting old, Terry - twelve years old - and nobody wants an old dog who's rather blind and a little deaf and a little - yes, just a little - bad-tempered. You're sweet to me, darling, but you're not sweet to everyone, are you? You growl. It's because you know the world's turning against you. We've just got each other, haven't we, darling?" Terry licked her cheek delicately. "Talk to me, darling." Terry gave a long lingering groan - almost a sigh, then be nuzzled his nose in behind Joyce's ear. "You trust me, don't you, angel? You know I'd never leave you. But what are we going to do? We're right down to it now, Terry." She settled back further in the chair, her eyes half closed. "Do you remember, Terry, all the happy times we used to have? You and I and Michael and Daddy. Oh, Michael - Michael! It was his first leave, and he wanted to give me a present before he went back to France. And I told him not to be extravagant. And then we were down in the country - and it was all a surprise. He told me to look out of the window, and there you were, dancing up the path on a long lead. The funny little man who brought you, a little man who smelt of dogs. How he talked. 'The goods, that's what he is. Look at him, ma'am, ain't he a picture? I said to myself, as soon as the lady and gentleman see him they'll say: "That dog's the goods!"' "He kept on saying that - and we called you that for quite a long time - the Goods! Oh, Terry, you were such a darling of a puppy, with your little head on one side, wagging your absurd tail! And Michael went away to France and I had you - the darlingest dog in the world. You read all Michael's letters with me, didn't you? You'd sniff them, and I'd say - 'From Master,' and you'd understand. We were so happy - so happy. You and Michael and I. And now Michael's dead, and you're old, and I - I'm so tired of being brave." Terry licked her. "You were there when the telegram came. If it hadn't been for you, Terry - if I hadn't had you to hold on to..." She stayed silent for some minutes. "And we've been together ever since - been through all the ups and downs together - there have been a lot of downs, haven't there? And now we've come right up against it. There are only Michael's aunts, and they think I'm all right. They don't know he gambled that money away. We must never tell anyone that. I don't care - why shouldn't he? Everyone has to have some fault. He loved us both, Terry, and that's all that matters. His own relations were always inclined to be down on him and to say nasty things. We're not going to give them the chance. But I wish I had some relations of my own. It's very awkward having no relations at all. "I'm so tired, Terry - and remarkably hungry. I can't believe I'm only twenty-nine - I feel sixty-nine. I'm not really brave - I only pretend to be. And I'm getting awfully mean ideas. I walked all the way to Ealing yesterday to see Cousin Charlotte Green. I thought if I got there at half-past twelve she'd be sure to ask me to stop to lunch. And then when I got to the house, I felt it was too cadging for anything. I just couldn't. So I walked all the way back. And that's foolish. You should be a determined cadger or else not even think of it. I don't think I'm a strong character." Terry groaned again and put a black nose into Joyce's eye. "You've got a lovely nose still, Terry - all cold like ice cream. Oh, I do love you so! I can't part from you. I can't have you 'put away.' I can't... I can't... I can't..." she began talking to him in a soft low voice, twisting his ears gently between her fingers. The warm tongue licked eagerly. "You understand so, my sweet. You'd do anything to help Missus, wouldn't you?" Terry clambered down and went unsteadily to a corner. He came back holding a battered bowl between his teeth. Joyce was midway between tears and laughter. "Was he doing his only trick? The only thing he could think of to help Missus. Oh, Terry - Terry - nobody shall part us! I'd do anything. Would I, though? One says that - and then when you're shown the thing, you say, 'I didn't mean anything like that.' Would I do anything?" She got down on the floor beside the dog. "You see, Terry, it seems that Nursery governesses can't have dogs, and companions to elderly ladies can't have dogs. Only married women can have dogs, Terry - little fluggy expensive dogs that they take shopping with them - and if one preferred an old blind terrier - well, why not?" She stopped frowning and at that minute there was a double knock from below. "The post. I wonder." She jumped up and hurried down the stairs, returning with a letter. "It might be, if only..." She tore it open. Dear Madam, We have inspected the picture and our opinion is that it is not a genuine Cuyp and that its value is practically nil. Yours truly, Sloane & Ryder Joyce stood holding it. When she spoke, her voice had changed. "That's that," she said. "The last hope gone. But we won't be parted. There's a way - and it won't be cadging. Terry darling, I'm going out. I'll be back soon." Joyce hurried down the stairs to where the telephone stood in a dark corner. There she asked for a certain number. A man's voice answered her, its tone changing as he realized her identity. "Joyce, my dear girl. Come out and have some dinner and dance tonight." "I can't," said Joyce lightly. "Nothing fit to wear." And she smiled grimly as she thought of the empty pegs in the flimsy cupboard. "How would it be if l came along and saw you now? What's the address? Good Lord, where's that? Rather come off your high horse, haven't you?" "Completely." "Well, you're frank about it. So long." Arthur Halliday's car drew up outside the house about three quarters of an hour later. An awestruck Mrs. Barnes conducted him upstairs. "My dear girl - what an awful hole. What on earth has got you into this mess?" "Pride and a few other unprofitable emotions." She spoke lightly enough; her eyes looked at the man opposite her sardonically. Many people called Halliday handsome. He was a big man with square shoulders, fair, with small, very pale blue eyes and a heavy chin. He sat down on the rickety chair she indicated. "Well," he said thoughtfully. "I should say you'd had your lesson. I say - will that brute bite?" "No, no, he's all right. I've trained him to be rather a - a watchdog." Halliday was looking her up and down. "Going to climb down, Joyce," he said softly. "Is that it?" Joyce nodded. "I told you before, my dear girl. I always get what I want in the end. I knew you'd come in time to see which way your bread was buttered." "It's lucky for me you haven't changed your mind," said Joyce. He looked at her suspiciously. With Joyce you never knew quite what she was driving at. "You'll marry me?" She nodded. "As soon as you please." "The sooner, the better, in fact." He laughed, looking round the room. Joyce flushed. "By the way, there's a condition." she said. "A condition?" He looked at her again. "My dog. He must come with me." "This old scarecrow? You can choose any kind of a dog; I won't spare the expenses." "I want Terry." "Oh! All right, please yourself." Joyce was staring at him. "You do know - don't you that I don't love you? Not in the least." "I'm not worrying about that; I'm not thin-skinned. But no hanky-panky, my girl. If you come with me, you play fair." The colour flashed into Joyce's cheeks. "You will have your money's worth." she said. "What about a kiss now?" He advanced upon her. She kept smiling. He took her in his arms, kissing her face, her neck. She neither stiffened nor drew back. He released at last. "I'll get you a ring," he said. "What would you like, diamonds or pearls?" "A ruby," said Joyce. "The largest ruby possible - the colour of blood." "That's an odd idea." "I should like it to be a fixed in a little half loop of pearls that was all that Michael could afford to give me." "Better luck this time, eh?" he said. "You put things wonderfully, Arthur." Halliday went out chuckling. "Terry," said Joyce. "Lick me - lick hard - all over my face and my neck - particularly the neck." And as Terry obeyed, she spoke reflectively: "Thinking of something else ought do the trick - that's the only way. You'd never guess what I thought of - jam - jam in a grocer's shop. I said it over to myself. Strawberry, blackcurrant, raspberry, damson. And perhaps, Terry, he'll get tired of me fairly soon. I hope so, don't you? They say men do when they're married to you. Only Michael wouldn't have tired of me - never - never! Oh, Michael..." Joyce rose the next morning with a heart like lead. She gave a deep sigh and immediately Terry, who slept on her bed, had moved up and was kissing her affectionately. "Oh, darling - darling! We've got to go through with it. But if only something would happen. Terry darling, can't you help Missus? You would if you could, I know." Mrs. Barnes brought up some tea and bread and butter and was heartily congratulatory. "There now, ma'am, to think of you going to marry that gentleman. It was a Rolls he came in. It was indeed. It quite sobered Barnes up to think of one of them Rolls standing outside our door. Why, I declare that dog's sitting out on the window sill." "He likes the sun," said Joyce. "But it's rather dangerous. Terry, come in." "I'd have the poor dear put out of his misery if I was you," said Mrs. Barnes, "and get your gentleman to buy you one of them plummy dogs as ladies carry in their muffs." Joyce smiled and called again to Terry. The dog rose awkwardly and just at that moment the noise of a dog fight rose from the street below. Terry craned his neck forward and added some brisk barking. The window sill was old and rotten. It tilted and Terry, too old and stiff to regain his balance, fell. With a wild cry, Joyce ran down the stairs and out of the front door. In a few seconds she was kneeling by Terry's side. He was whining pitifully and his position showed her that he was badly hurt. She bent over him. "Terry - Terry darling - darling, darling, darling - " Very feebly, he tried to wag his tail. "Terry boy - Missus will make you better - darling boy - " A crowd, mainly composed of small boys, was pushing round. "Fell from the window, 'e did." "My, 'e looks bad." "Broke 'is back as likely as not." Joyce paid no heed. "Mrs. Barnes, where's the nearest vet?" "There's Jobling - round in Mere Street - if you could get him there." "A taxi." "Allow me." It was the pleasant voice of an elderly man who had just alighted from a taxi. He knelt down by Terry and lifted the upper lip, then passed his hand down the dog's body. "I'm afraid he may be bleeding internally," he said. "There don't seem to be any bones broken. We'd better get him along to the vet's." Between them, he and Joyce lifted the dog. Terry gave a yelp of pain. His teeth met in Joyce's arm. "Terry - it's all right - all right, old man." They got him into the taxi and drove off. Joyce wrapped a handkerchief round her arm in an absent-minded way. Terry, distressed, tried to lick it. "I know, darling; I know. You didn't mean to hurt me. It's all right. It's all right, Terry." She stroked his head. The man opposite watched her but said nothing. They arrived at the vet's fairly quickly and found him in. He was a red-faced man with an unsympathetic manner. He handled Terry none too gently while Joyce stood by agonized. The tears were running down her face. She kept on talking in a low, reassuring voice. "It's all right, darling. It's all right... " The vet straightened himself. "Impossible to say exactly. I must make a proper examination. You must leave him here." "Oh! I can't." "I'm afraid you must. I must take him below. I'll telephone you in - say - half an hour." Sick at heart, Joyce gave in. She kissed Terry on his nose. Blind with tears, she stumbled down the steps. The man who had helped her was still there. She had forgotten him. "The taxi's still here. I'll take you back." She shook her head. "I'd rather walk." "I'll walk with you." He paid off the taxi. She was hardly conscious of him as he walked quietly by her side without speaking. When they arrived as Mrs Bernes', he spoke. "Your wrist. You must see to it." She looked down at it. "Oh! That's all tight." "It wants properly washing and tying up. I'll come in with you." He went with her up the stairs. She let him wash the place and bind it up with a clean handkerchief. She only said one thing. "Terry didn't mean to do it. He would never, never mean to do it. He just didn't realize it was me. He must have been in dreadful pain." "I'm afraid so, yes." "And perhaps they're hurting him dreadfully now?" "I'm sure that everything that can he done for him is being done. When the vet rings up, you can go and get him and nurse him here." "Yes, of course." The man paused, then moved towards the door. "I hope it will be all right," he said awkwardly. "Goodbye." "Goodbye." Two or three minutes later it occurred to her that he had been kind and that she had never thanked him. Mrs. Barnes appeared, cup in hand. "Now, my poor lamb, a cup of hot tea. You're all to pieces, I can see that." "Thank you, Mrs. Barnes, but I don't want any tea." "It would do you good, dearie. Don't take on so now. The doggie will be all tight, and even if he isn't, that gentleman of yours will give you a pretty new dog - " "Don't, Mrs. Barnes. Don't. Please, if you don't mind, I'd rather he left alone." "Well, I never - there's the telephone." Joyce sped down to it like an arrow. She lifted the receiver. Mrs. Barnes panted down after her. She heard Joyce say, "Yes - speaking. What? Oh! Oh! Yes. Yes, thank you." She put back the receiver. The face she turned to Mrs. Barnes startled that good woman. It seemed devoid of any life or expression. "Terry's dead, Mrs. Barnes," she said. "He died alone there without me." She went upstairs and, going into her room, shut the door very decisively. "Well, I never," said Mrs. Barnes to the hall wallpaper. Five minutes later she poked her head into the room. Joyce was sitting bolt upright in a chair. She was not crying. "It's your gentleman, miss. Shall I send him up?" A sudden light came into Joyce's eyes. "Yes, please. I'd like to see him." Halliday came in boisterously. "Well, here we are. I haven't lost much time, have I? I'm prepared to carry you off from this dreadful place here and now. You can't stay here. Come on, get your things on." "There's no need, Arthur." "No need? What do you mean?" "Terry's dead. I don't need to marry you now." "What are you talking about?" "My dog - Terry. He's dead. I was only marrying you so that we could be together." Halliday stared at her, his face growing redder and redder. "You're mad." "I dare say. People who love dogs are." "You seriously tell me that you were only marrying me because - Oh, it's absurd!" "Why did you think I was marrying you? You knew I hated you." "You were marrying me because I could give you a jolly good time - and so I can." "To my mind," said Joyce, "that is a much more revolting motive than mine. Anyway, it's off. I'm not marrying you!" "Do you realize that you are treating me damned badly?" She looked at him coolly but with such a blaze in her eyes that he drew back before it. "I don't think so. I've heard you talk about getting a kick out of life. That's what you got out of me - and my dislike of you heightened it. You knew I hated you and you enjoyed it. When I let you kiss me yesterday, you were disappointed because I didn't flinch or wince. There's something brutal in you, Arthur, something cruel - something that likes hurting... Nobody could treat you as badly as you deserve. And now do you mind getting out of my room? I want it to myself." He spluttered a little. "Wh - What are you going to do? You've no money." "That's my business. Please go." "You little devil. You absolutely maddening little devil. You haven't done with me yet." Joyce laughed. The laugh routed him as nothing else had done. It was so unexpected. He went awkwardly down the stairs and drove away. Joyce heaved a sigh. She pulled on her shabby black felt hat and went out. She walked along the streets mechanically, neither thinking nor feeling. Somewhere at the back of her mind there was pain - pain that she would presently feel, but for the moment everything was mercifully dulled. She passed the Registry office and hesitated. "I must do something. There's the river, of course. I've often thought of that. Just finish everything. But it's so cold and wet. I don't think I'm brave enough. I'm not brave really." She turned into the Registry Office. "Good morning, Mrs Lambert. I'm afraid we've no daily post." "It doesn't matter," said Joyce. "I can take any kind of post now. My friend, whom I lived with, has - gone away." "Then you'd consider going abroad?" Joyce nodded. "Yes, as far away as possible." "Mr Allaby is here now, as it happens, interviewing candidates. I'll send you in to him." In another minute Joyce was sitting in a cubicle answering questions. Something about her interlocutor seemed vaguely familiar to her, but she could not place him. And then suddenly her mind awoke a little, aware that the last question was faintly out of the ordinary. "Do you get on with the old ladies ?" Mr Allaby was asking. Joyce smiled in spite of herself. "I think so." "You see my aunt, who lives with me, is rather difficult. She is very fond of me and she is a great dear really, but I fancy that a young woman might find her rather difficult sometimes." "I think I'm patient and good-tempered," said Joyce, "and I have always got on with elderly people very well." "You would have to do certain things for my aunt and otherwise you would have the charge of my little boy, who is three. His mother died a year ago." There was a pause. "Then if you think you would like the post, we will consider that settled. We travel out next week. I will let you know the exact date, and I expect you would like a small advance of salary to fit yourself out." "Thank you very much. That would be very kind of you." They had both risen. Suddenly Mr. Allaby said awkwardly: "I - I hate to butt in - I mean I wish - I would like to know - I mean, is your dog all right?" For the first time Joyce looked at him. The colour came into her face, her blue eyes deepened almost to black. She looked straight at him. She had thought him elderly, but he was not so very old. Hair turning grey, a pleasant weatherbeaten face, rather stooping shoulders, eyes that were brown and something of the shy kindliness of a dog's. He looked a little like a dog, Joyce thought. "Oh, it's you," she said. "I thought afterwards - I never thanked you." "No need. Didn't expect it. Knew what you were feeling like. What about the poor old chap?" The tears came into Joyce's eyes. They streamed down her cheeks. Nothing on earth could have kept them back. "He's dead." "Oh!" He said nothing else, but to Joyce that Oh! was one of the most comforting things she had ever heard. There was everything in it that couldn't be put into words. After a minute or two he said jerkily: "Matter of fact, I had a dog. Died two years ago. Was with a crowd of people at the time who couldn't understand making heavy weather about it. Pretty rotten to have to carry on as though nothing had happened." Joyce nodded. "I know - " said Mr. Allaby. He took her hand, squeezed it hard and dropped it. He went out of the little cubicle. Joyce followed in a minute or two and fixed up various details with the ladylike person. When she arrived home, Mrs. Barnes met her on the doorstep with that relish in gloom typical of her class. "They've sent the poor little doggie's body home," she announced. "It's up in your room. I was saying to Barnes, and he's ready to dig a nice little hole in the back garden - " MAGNOLIA BLOSSOM Vincent Easton was waiting under the clock at Victoria Station. Now and then he glanced up at it uneasily. He thought to himself: "How many other men have waited here for a woman who didn't come?" A sharp pang shot through him. Supposing that Theo didn't come, that she had changed her mind? Women did that sort of thing. Was he sure of her - had he ever been sure of her? Did he really know anything at all about her? Hadn't she puzzled him from the first? There had seemed to be two women - the lovely, laughing creature who was Richard Darrell's wife, and the other - silent, mysterious, who had walked by his side in the garden of Haymer's Close. Like a magnolia flower - that was how he thought of her - perhaps because it was under the magnolia tree that they had tasted their first rapturous, incredulous kiss. The air had been sweet with the scent of magnolia bloom, and one or two petals, velvety-soft and fragrant, had floated down, resting on that upturned face that was as creamy and as soft and as silent as they. Magnolia blossom - exotic, fragrant, mysterious. That had been a fortnight ago - the second day he had met her. And now he was waiting for her to come to him forever. Again incredulity shot through him. She wouldn't come. How could he ever have believed it? It would be giving up so much. The beautiful Mrs. Darrell couldn't do this sort of thing quietly. It was bound to be a nine days' wonder, a far-reaching scandal that would never quite be forgotten. There were better, more expedient ways of doing these things - a discreet divorce, for instance. But they had never thought of that for a moment - at least he had not. Had she, he wondered? He had never known anything of her thoughts. He had asked her to come away with him almost timorously - for after all, what was he? Nobody in particular - one of a thousand orange-growers in the Transvaal. What a life to take her to - after the brilliance of London! And yet, since he wanted her so desperately, he must needs ask. She had consented very quietly, with no hesitations or protests, as though it were the simplest thing in the world that he was asking her. "Tomorrow?" he had said, amazed, almost unbelieving. And she had promised in that soft, broken voice that was so different from the laughing brilliance of her social manner. He had compared her to a diamond when he first saw her - a thing of flashing fire, reflecting light from a hundred facets. But at that first touch, that first kiss, she had changed miraculously to the clouded softness of a pearl - a pearl like a magnolia blossom, creamy-pink. She had promised. And now he was waiting for her to fulfil that promise. He looked again at the clock. If she did not come soon, they would miss the train. Sharply a wave of reaction set in. She wouldn't come! Of course she wouldn't come. Fool that he had been ever to expect it! What were promises? He would find a letter when he got back to his rooms - explaining, protesting, saying all the things that women do when they are excusing themselves for lack of courage. He felt anger - anger and the bitterness of frustration. Then he saw her coming towards him down the platform, a faint smile on her face. She walked slowly, without haste or fluster, as one who had all eternity before her. She was in black - soft black that clung, with a little black hat that framed the wonderful creamy pallor of her face. He found himself grasping her hand, muttering stupidly: "So you've come - you have come. After all!" "Of course." How calm her voice sounded! How calm! "I thought you wouldn't," he said, releasing her hand and breathing hard. Her eyes opened - wide, beautiful eyes. There was wonder in them, the simple wonder of a child. "Why?" He didn't answer. Instead he turned aside and requisitioned a passing porter. They had not much time. The next few minutes were all bustle and confusion. Then they were sitting in their reserved compartment and the drab houses of southern London were drifting by them. II Theodora Darrell was sitting opposite him. At last she was his. And he knew now how incredulous, up to the very last minute, he had been. He had not dared to let himself believe. That magical, elusive quality about her had frightened him. It had seemed impossible that she should ever belong to him. Now the suspense was over. The irrevocable step was taken. He looked across at her. She lay back in the corner, quite still. The faint smile lingered on her lips, her eyes were cast down, the long, black lashes swept the creamy curve of her cheek. He thought: "What's in her mind now? What is she thinking of? Me? Her husband? What does she think about him anyway? Did she care for him once? Or did she never care? Does she hate him, or is she indifferent to him?" And with a pang the thought swept through him: "I don't know. I never shall know. I love her, and I don't know anything about her - what she thinks or what she feels." His mind circled round the thought of Theodora Darrell's husband. He had known plenty of married women who were only too ready to talk about their husbands - of how they were misunderstood by them, of how their finer feelings were ignored. Vincent Easton reflected cynically that it was one of the best-known opening gambits. But except casually, Theo had never spoken of Richard Darrell. Easton knew of him what everybody knew. He was a popular man, handsome, with an engaging, carefree manner. Everybody liked Darrell. His wife always seemed on excellent terms with him. But that proved nothing, Vincent reflected. Theo was well-bred - she would not air her grievances in public. And between them, no word had passed. From that second evening of their meeting, when they had walked together in the garden, silent, their shoulders touching, and he had felt the faint tremor that shook her at his touch, there had been no explainings, no defining of the position. She had returned his kisses, a dumb, trembling creature, shorn of all that hard brilliance which, together with her cream-and-rose beauty, had made her famous. Never once had she spoken of her husband. Vincent had been thankful for that at the time. He had been glad to be spared the arguments of a woman who wished to assure herself and her lover that they were justified in yielding to their love. Yet now the tacit conspiracy of silence worried him. He had again that panic-stricken sense of knowing nothing about this strange creature who was willingly linking her life to his. He was afraid. In the impulse to reassure himself, he bent forward and laid a hand on the black-clad knee opposite him. He felt once again the faint tremor that shook her, and he reached up for her hand. Bending forward, he kissed the palm, a long, lingering kiss. He felt the response of her fingers on his and, looking up, met her eyes, and was content. He leaned back in his seat. For the moment, he wanted no more. They were together. She was his. And presently he said in a light, almost bantering tone: "You're very silent?" "Am I?" "Yes." He waited a minute, then said in a graver tone: "You're sure you don't - regret?" Her eyes opened wide at that. "Oh, no!" He did not doubt the reply. There was an assurance of sincerity behind it. "What are you thinking about? I want to know." In a low voice she answered: "I think I'm afraid." "Afraid?" "Of happiness." He moved over beside her then, held her to him and kissed the softness of her face and neck. "I love you," he said. "I love you - love you." Her answer was in the clinging of her body, the abandon of her lips. Then he moved back to his own corner. He picked up a magazine and so did she. Every now and then, over the top of the magazines, their eyes met. Then they smiled. They arrived at Dover just after five. They were to spend the night there, and cross to the Continent on the following day. Theo entered their sitting room in the hotel with Vincent close behind her. He had a couple of evening papers in his hand which he threw down on the table. Two of the hotel servants brought in the luggage and withdrew. Theo turned from the window where she had been standing looking out. In another minute they were in each other's arms. There was a discreet tap on the door and they drew apart again. "Damn it all," said Vincent, "it doesn't seem as though we were ever going to be alone." Theo smiled. "It doesn't look like it," she said softly. Sitting down on the sofa, she picked up one of the papers. The knock proved to be a waiter bearing tea. He laid it on the table, drawing the latter up to the sofa on which Theo was sitting, cast a deft glance round, inquired if there were anything further, and withdrew. Vincent, who had gone into the adjoining room, came back into the sitting room. "Now for tea," he said cheerily, but stopped suddenly in the middle of the room. "Anything wrong?" he asked. Theo was sitting bolt upright on the sofa. She was staring in front of her with dazed eyes, and her face had gone deathly white. Vincent took a quick step towards her. "What is it, sweetheart?" For answer she held out the paper to him, her finger pointing to the headline. Vincent took the paper from her. "FAILURE OF HOBSON, JEKYLL AND LUCAS," he read. The name of the big city firm conveyed nothing to him at the moment, though he had an irritating conviction in the back of his mind that it ought to do so. He looked inquiringly at Theo. "Richard is Hobson, Jekyll and Lucas," she explained. "Your husband?" "Yes." Vincent returned to the paper and read the bald information it conveyed carefully. Phrases such as "sudden crash," "serious revelations to follow," "other houses affected" struck him disagreeably. Roused by a movement, he looked up. Theo was adjusting her little black hat in front of the mirror. She turned at the movement he made. Her eyes looked steadily into his. "Vincent - I must go to Richard." He sprang up. "Theo - don't he absurd." She repeated mechanically: "I must go to Richard." "But, my dear - " She made a gesture towards the paper on the floor. "That means ruin - bankruptcy. I can't choose this day of all others to leave him." "You had left him before you heard of this. Be reasonable!" She shook her head mournfully. "You don't understand. I must go to Richard." And from that he could not move her. Strange that a creature so soft, so pliant, could he so unyielding. After the first, she did not argue. She let him say what he had to say unhindered. He held her in his arms, seeking to break her will by enslaving her senses, but though her soft mouth returned his kisses, he felt in her something aloof and invincible that withstood all his pleadings. He let her go at last, sick and weary of the vain endeavour. From pleading he had turned to bitterness, reproaching her with never having loved him. That, too, she took in silence, without protest, her face, dumb and pitiful, giving the lie to his words. Rage mastered him in the end; he hurled at her every cruel word he could think of, seeking only to bruise and batter her to her knees. At last the words gave out; there was nothing more to say. He sat, his head in his hands, staring down at the red pile carpet. By the door, Theodora stood, a black shadow with a white face. It was all over. She said quietly: "Good-bye, Vincent." He did not answer. The door opened - and shut again. III The Darrells lived in a house in Chelsea - an intriguing, old-world house, standing in a little garden of its own. Up the front of the house grew a magnolia tree, smutty, dirty, begrimed, but still a magnolia. Theo looked up at it, as she stood on the doorstep some three hours later. A sudden smile twisted her mouth in pain. She went straight to the study at the back of the house. A man was pacing up and down in the room - a young man, with a handsome face and a haggard expression. He gave an ejaculation of relief as she came in. "Thank God you've turned up, Theo. They said you'd taken your luggage with you and gone off out of town somewhere." "I heard the news and came back." Richard Darrell put an arm about her and drew her to the couch. They sat down upon it side by side. Theo tore herself free of the encircling arms in what seemed a perfectly natural manner. "How bad is it, Richard?" she asked quietly. "Just as bad as it can be - and that's saying a lot." "Tell me!" He began to walk up and down again as he talked. Theo sat and watched him. He was not to know that every now and then the room went dim, and his voice faded from her hearing, while another room in a hotel at Dover came clearly before her eyes. Nevertheless she managed to listen intelligently enough. He came back and sat down on the couch by her. "Fortunately," he ended, "they can't touch your marriage settlement. The house is yours also." Theo nodded thoughtfully. "We shall have that at any rate," she said. "Then everything will not be too bad? It means a fresh start, that is all." "Oh! Quite so. Yes." But his voice did not ring true, and Theo thought suddenly: "There's something else. He hasn't told me everything." "There's nothing more, Richard?" she said gently. "Nothing worse?" He hesitated for just half a second, then: "Worse? What should there be?" "I don't know," said Theo. "It'll be all right," said Richard, speaking more as though to reassure himself than Theo. "Of course, it'll be all right." He flung an arm about her suddenly. "I'm glad you're here," he said. "It'll be all right now that you're here. Whatever else happens, I've got you, haven't I?" She said gently: "Yes, you've got me." And this time she left his arm round her. He kissed her and held her close to him, as though in some strange way he derived comfort from her nearness. "I've got you, Theo," he said again presently, and she answered as before: "Yes, Richard." He slipped from the couch to the floor at her feet. "I'm tired out," he said fretfully. "My God, it's been a day. Awful! I don't know what I should do if you weren't here. After all, one's wife is one's wife, isn't she?" She did not speak, only bowed her head in assent. He laid his head on her lap. The sigh he gave was like that of a tired child. Theo thought again: "There's something he hasn't told me. What is it?" Mechanically her hand dropped to his smooth, dark head, and she stroked it gently, as a mother might comfort a child. Richard murmured vaguely: "It'll be all right now you're here. You won't let me down." His breathing grew slow and even. He slept. Her hand still smoothed his head. But her eyes looked steadily into the darkness in front of her, seeing nothing. "Don't you think, Richard," said Theodora, "that you'd better tell me everything?" It was three days later. They were in the drawing room before dinner. Richard started, and flushed. "I don't know what you mean," he parried. "Don't you?" He shot a quick glance at her. "Of course there are - well - details." "I ought to know everything, don't you think, if I am to help?" He looked at her strangely. "What makes you think I want you to help?" She was a little astonished. "My dear Richard, I'm your wife." He smiled suddenly, the old, attractive, carefree smile. "So you are, Theo. And a very good-looking wife, too. I never could stand ugly women." He began walking up and down the room, as was his custom when something was worrying him. "I won't deny you're right in a way," he said presently. "There is something." He broke off. "Yes - " "It's so damned hard to explain things of this kind to women. They get hold of the wrong end of the stick - fancy a thing is - well, what it isn't." Theo said nothing. "You see," went on Richard, "the law's one thing, and right and wrong are quite another. I may do a thing that's perfectly right and honest, but the law wouldn't take the same view of it. Nine times out of ten, everything pans out all right, and the tenth time you - well, hit a snag." Theo began to understand. She thought to herself: "Why am I not surprised? Did I always know, deep down, that he wasn't straight?" Richard went on talking. He explained himself at unnecessary lengths. Theo was content for him to cloak the actual details of the affair in this mantle of verbosity. The matter concerned a large tract of South African property. Exactly what Richard had done, she was not concerned to know. Morally, he assured her, everything was fair and aboveboard; legally - well, there it was, no getting away from the fact, he had rendered himself liable to criminal prosecution. He kept shooting quick glances at his wife as he talked. He was nervous and uncomfortable. And still he excused himself and tried to explain away that which a child might have seen in its naked truth. Then finally in a burst of justification, he broke down. Perhaps Theo's eyes, momentarily scornful, had something to do with it. He sank down in a chair by the fireplace, his head in his hands. "There it is, Theo," he said brokenly. "What are you going to do about it?" She came over to him with scarcely a moment's pause and, kneeling down by the chair, put her face against his. "What can he done, Richard? What can we do?" He caught her to him. "You mean it? You'll stick to me?" "Of course. My dear, of course." He said, moved to sincerity in spite of himself: "I'm a thief, Theo. That's what it means, shorn of fine language - just a thief." "Then I'm a thief's wife, Richard. We'll sink or swim together." They were silent for a little while. Presently Richard recovered something of his jaunty manner. "You know, Theo, I've got a plan, but we'll talk of that later. It's just on dinnertime. We must go and change. Put on that creamy thingummybob of yours, you know - the Caillot model." Theo raised her eyebrows quizzically. "For an evening at home?" "Yes, yes, I know. But I like it. Put it on, there's a good girl. It cheers me up to see you looking your best." Theo came down to dinner in the Caillot. It was a creation in creamy brocade, with a faint pattern of gold running through it and an undernote of pale pink to give warmth to the cream. It was cut daringly low in the back, and nothing could have been better-designed to show off the dazzling whiteness of Theo's neck and shoulders. She was truly now a magnolia flower. Richard's eye rested upon her in warm approval. "Good girl. You know, you look simply stunning in that dress." They went in to dinner. Throughout the evening Richard was nervous and unlike himself, joking and laughing about nothing at all, as if in a vain attempt to shake off his cares. Several times Theo tried to lead him back to the subject they had been discussing before, but he edged away from it. Then suddenly, as she rose to go to bed, he came to the point. "No, don't go yet. I've got something to say. You know, about this miserable business." She sat down again. He began talking rapidly. With a bit of luck, the whole thing could be hushed up. He had covered his tracks fairly well. So long as certain papers didn't get into the receiver's hands - He stopped significantly. "Papers?" asked Theo perplexedly. "You mean you will destroy them?" Richard made a grimace. "I'd destroy them fast enough if I could get hold of them. That's the devil of it all!" "Who has them, then?" "A man we both know - Vincent Easton." A very faint exclamation escaped Theo. She forced it back, but Richard had noticed it. "I've suspected he knew something of the business all along. That's why I've asked him here a good bit. You may remember that I asked you to be nice to him?" "I remember," said Theo. "Somehow I never seem to have got on really friendly terms with him. Don't know why. But he likes you. I should say he likes you a good deal." Theo said in a very clear voice: "He does." "Ah!" said Richard appreciatively. "That's good. Now you see what I'm driving at. I'm convinced that if you went to Vincent Easton and asked him to give you those papers, he wouldn't refuse. Pretty woman, you know - all that sort of thing." "I can't do that," said Theo quickly. "Nonsense." "It's out of the question." The red came slowly out in blotches on Richard's face. She saw that he was angry. "My dear girl, I don't think you quite realize the position. If this comes out, I'm liable to go to prison. It's ruin - disgrace." "Vincent Easton will not use those papers against you. I am sure of that." "That's not quite the point. He mayn't realize that they incriminate me. It's only taken in conjunction with - with my affairs - with the figures they're bound to find. Oh! I can't go into details. He'll ruin me without knowing what he's doing unless somebody puts the position before him." "You can do that yourself, surely. Write to him." "A fat lot of good that would be! No, Theo, we've only got one hope. You're the trump card. You're my wife. You must help me. Go to Easton tonight - " A cry broke from Theo. "Not tonight. Tomorrow perhaps." "My God, Theo, can't you realize things? Tomorrow may be too late. If you could go now - at once - to Easton's rooms." He saw her flinch, and tried to reassure her. "I know, my dear girl, I know. It's a beastly thing to do. But it's life or death. Theo, you won't fail me? You said you'd do anything to help me - " Theo heard herself speaking in a hard, dry voice. "Not this thing. There are reasons." "It's life or death, Theo. I mean it. See here." He snapped open a drawer of the desk and took out a revolver. If there was something theatrical about that action, it escaped her notice. "It's that or shooting myself. I can't face the racket. If you won't do as I ask you, I'll be a dead man before morning. I swear to you solemnly that that's the truth." Theo gave a low cry. "No, Richard, not that!" "Then help me." He flung the revolver down on the table and knelt by her side. "Theo, my darling - if you love me - if you've ever loved me - do this for me. You're my wife, Theo. I've no one else to turn to." On and on his voice went, murmuring, pleading. And at last Theo heard her own voice saying: "Very well - yes." Richard took her to the door and put her into a taxi. IV "Theo!" Vincent Easton sprang up in incredulous delight. She stood in the doorway. Her wrap of white ermine was hanging from her shoulders. Never, Easton thought, had she looked so beautiful. "You've come after all." She put out a hand to stop him as he came towards her. "No, Vincent, this isn't what you think." She spoke in a low, hurried voice. "I'm here from my husband. He thinks there are some papers which may - do him harm. I have come to ask you to give them to me." Vincent stood very still, looking at her. Then he gave a short laugh. "So that's it, is it? I thought Hobson, Jekyll and Lucas sounded familiar the other day, but I couldn't place them at the minute. Didn't know your husband was connected with the firm. Things have been going wrong there for some time. I was commissioned to look into the matter. I suspected some underling. Never thought of the man at the top. Theo said nothing. Vincent looked at her curiously. "It makes no difference to you, this?" he asked. "That - Oh! well, to put it plainly, that your husband's a swindler?' She shook her head. "It beats me," said Vincent. Then he added quietly: "Will you wait a minute or two? I will get the papers." Theo sat down in a chair. He went into the other room. Presently he returned and delivered a small package into her hand. "Thank you," said Theo. "Have you a match?" Taking the matchbox he proffered, she knelt down by the fireplace. When the papers were reduced to a pile of ashes, she stood up. "Thank you," she said again. "Not at all," he answered formally. "Let me get you a taxi." He put her into it, saw her drive away. A strange, formal little interview. After the first, they had not even dared look at each other. Well, that was that, the end. He would go away, abroad, try and forget. Theo leaned her head out of the window and spoke to the taxi driver. She could not go back at once to the house in Chelsea. She must have a breathing space. Seeing Vincent again had shaken her horribly. If only - if only. But she pulled herself up. Love for her husband she had none - but she owed him loyalty. He was down, she must stick by him. Whatever else he might have done, he loved her; his offence had been committed against society, not against her. The taxi meandered on through the wide streets of Hampstead. They came out on the heath, and a breath of cool, invigorating air fanned Theo's cheeks. She had herself in hand again now. The taxi sped back towards Chelsea. Richard came out to meet her in the hall. "Well," he demanded, "you've been a long time." "Have I?" "Yes - a very long time. Is it - all right?" He followed her, a cunning look in his eyes. His hands were shaking. "It's - it's all right, eh?" he said again. "I burnt them myself." "Oh!" She went on into the study, sinking into a big armchair. Her face was dead white and her whole body drooped with fatigue. She thought to herself: "If only I could go to sleep now and never, never wake up again!" Richard was watching her. His glance, shy, furtive, kept coming and going. She noticed nothing. She was beyond noticing. "It went off quite all right, eh?" "I've told you so." "You're sure they were the right papers? Did you look?" "No." "But then - " "I'm sure, I tell you. Don't bother me, Richard. I can't bear any more tonight." Richard shifted nervously. "No, no. I'm sure." He fidgeted about the room. Presently he came over to her, laid a hand on her shoulder. She shook it off. "Don't touch me." She tried to laugh. "I'm sorry, Richard. My nerves are on edge. I feel I can't bear to be touched." "I know. I understand." Again he wandered up and down. "Theo," he burst out suddenly. "I'm damned sorry." "What?" She looked up, vaguely startled. "I oughtn't to have let you go there at this time of night. I never dreamed that you'd be subjected to any - unpleasantness.'' "Unpleasantness?" She laughed. The word seemed to amuse her. "You don't know! Oh, Richard, you don't know!" "I don't know what?" She said very gravely, looking straight in front of her: "What this night has cost me." "My God! Theo! I never meant - You - you did that, for me? The swine! Theo - Theo - I couldn't have known. I couldn't have guessed. My God!" He was kneeling by her now stammering, his arms round her, and she turned and looked at him with faint surprise, as though his words had at last really penetrated to her attention. "I - I never meant - " "You never meant what, Richard?" Her voice startled him. "Tell me. What was it that you never meant?" "Theo, don't let us speak of it. I don't want to know. I want never to think of it." She was staring at him, wide awake now, with every faculty alert. Her words came clear and distinct: "You never meant - What do you think happened?" "It didn't happen, Theo. Let's say it didn't happen." And still she stared, till the truth began to come to her. "You think that - " "I don't want - " She interrupted him: "You think that Vincent Easton asked a price for those letters? You think that I - paid him?" Richard said weakly and unconvincingly: "I - I never dreamed he was that kind of man." V "Didn't you?" She looked at him searchingly. His eyes fell before hers. "Why did you ask me to put on this dress this evening? Why did you send me there alone at this time of night? You guessed he - cared for me. You wanted to save your skin - save it at any cost - even at the cost of my honour." She got up. "I see now. You meant that from the beginning - or at least you saw it as a possibility, and it didn't deter you." "Theo - " "You can't deny it. Richard, I thought I knew all there was to know about you years ago. I've known almost from the first that you weren't straight as regards the world. But I thought you were straight with me." "Theo - " "Can you deny what I've just been saying?" He was silent, in spite of himself. "Listen, Richard. There is something I must tell you. Three days ago when this blow fell on you, the servants told you I was away - gone to the country. That was only partly true. I had gone away with Vincent Easton." Richard made an inarticulate sound. She held out a hand to stop him. "Wait. We were at Dover. I saw a paper - I realized what had happened. Then, as you know, I came back." She paused. Richard caught her by the wrist. His eyes burnt into hers. "You came back - in time?" Theo gave a short, bitter laugh. "Yes, I came back, as you say, 'in time,' Richard." Her husband relinquished his hold on her arm. He stood by the mantelpiece, his head thrown back. He looked handsome and rather noble. "In that case," he said, "I can forgive." "I cannot." The two words came crisply. They had the semblance and the effect of a bomb in the quiet room. Richard started forward, staring, his jaw dropped with an almost ludicrous effect. "You - er - what did you say, Theo?" "I said I cannot forgive! In leaving you for another man, I sinned - not technically, perhaps, but in intention, which is the same thing. But if I sinned, I sinned through love. You, too, have not been faithful to me since our marriage. Oh, yes, I know. That I forgave, because I really believed in your love for me. But the thing you have done tonight is different. It is an ugly thing, Richard - a thing no woman should forgive. You sold me, your own wife, to purchase safety!" She picked up her wrap and turned towards the door. "Theo," he stammered out, "where are you going?" She looked back over her shoulder at him. "We all have to pay in this life, Richard. For my sin I must pay in loneliness. For yours - well, you gambled with the thing you love, and you have lost it!" "You are going?" She drew a long breath. "To freedom. There is nothing to bind me here." He heard the door shut. Ages passed, or was it a few minutes? Something fluttered down outside the window - the last of the magnolia petals, soft, fragrant.