by a shadow of disgust; could the man really be an actor of such subtlety, such polish? 'But not to be repeated,' he went on. 'If you persist in trying to discover who it was, apart from the fact that you will almost certainly fail, you will bring a great deal of distress, not least to yourself.'
It was a fair warning, and Pitt was already aware of how the whole social caste would close its ranks against such an inquiry. To defend themselves they would defend each other-at any expense. After all, one moment of youthful vice was not worth exposing the follies or pains of a dozen families. Memories in society were long. Any youth marred by the stain might never marry within his own class, even if nothing was ever proved.
And perhaps Arthur had not been so veiy innocent. After all, he had contracted syphilis. Maybe his education had included women of the streets, an initiation into the other side of appetite.
'I know that,' Pitt said quietly. 'But I cannot overlook murder!'
'Then you would do better to concentrate on that and leave the other to be forgotten,' Jerome expounded as if it were advice Pitt had sought from him.
Pitt felt his skin tighten in anger. He changed the subject, returning to facts: Arthur's daily routine, his habits, his friends, his studies, his likes and dislikes-every clue to character he could think of. But he found himself weighing the answers as much for what they said of Jerome as of Arthur.
It was over two hours later when he stood facing Waybourne in his library.
'You were an uncommonly long time with Jerome,' Way-boume said critically. 'I cannot imagine what he can have had to say to you of such value.'
'He spent a great deal of time with your son. He must have known him well,' Pitt began.
Wayboume's face was red. 'What did he tell you?' He swallowed. 'What did he say?'
'He had no knowledge of any impropriety,' Pitt answered him, then wondered why he had given in so easily. It was a mo-
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mentary thing-a flash of sensitivity, more instinct than thought; he had no warmth for the man.
Way bourne's face relaxed. Then incredulity flashed across his eyes, and something else.
'Good God! You don't really suspect him of-of-'
'Is there any reason why I should?'
Wayboume half rose from his chair.
'Of course not! Do you think if I-' He sank down again and covered his face with his hands. 'I suppose I could have made a most ghastly mistake.' He sat without moving for several seconds, then suddenly looked up at Pitt. 'I had no idea! He had the most excellent references, you know?'
'And he may be worthy of them,' Pitt said a little sharply. 'Do you know something to his discredit you have not told me?'
Waybourne remained perfectly still for so long that Pitt was about to prompt him, when at last he replied.
'I don't know anything-at least not on the surface of my mind. Such an idea never occurred to me-why should it? What decent man entertains suspicions like that? But knowing what I do now'-he took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh-'I may remember things and understand them differently. You must allow me a little time. All this has been a very profound shock.' There was finality in his voice. Pitt was dismissed; it was only a matter of whether he was delicate enough not to require that it be put into words.
There was nothing left to insist on. There was justice in Way-bourne's request for time to consider, to weigh memories in the light of understanding. Shock drove out clarity of thought, blurred the edges, distorted recall. He was not unusual; he needed time, and sleep, before he committed himself.
'Thank you,' Pitt answered formally. 'If you should think of anything relevant, I'm sure you will let us know. Good day, sir.'
