the dining room doors, and knocked and went in.
Waybourne appeared almost immediately, crumbs in the folds of his waistcoat, a napkin in his hand. He discarded it and the footman picked it up discreetly.
Pittx>pened the morning room door and held it as Wayboume walked in. When they were all inside, Gillivray closed the door and Waybourne began urgently.
'You're going to arrest Jerome? Good. Wretched business, but the sooner it's over the better. I'll send for him.' He reached out and yanked at the bellpull. 'I don't suppose you need me here. Rather not be. Painful. I'm sure you understand. Obliged you let me know first, of course. You will take him out through the back, won't you? I mean he'll be somewhat-well, er-don't want to make a scene. Quite-' His face colored and there was a blurring of distress over his features, as if at last his imagination had pierced the misery of the crime and felt a brush
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of its invading coldness. 'Quite unnecessary,' he finished lamely.
Pitt could think of nothing appropriate to say-in fact nothing that was even decent, when he thought about it.
'Thank you,' Waybourne fumbled on. 'You've been most-considerate, all things-well-taken into account, the-'
Pitt interrupted before he thought. He could not stand the comfortable ignorance.
'It's not over yet, sir. There will be much more evidence to collect, and then of course the trial.'
Waybourne turned his back, perhaps in some attempt at momentary privacy.
'Of course.' He invested his reply with certainty, as if he had been aware of it all along. 'Of course. But at least the man will be out of my house. It is the beginning of the end.' There was insistence in his voice, and Pitt did not argue. Perhaps it would be simple. Maybe now that they knew so much of the truth, the rest would follow easily, in a flood, not an extraction forced piece by piece. Jerome might even confess. It was possible the burden had grown so heavy he would be relieved, once there was no hope of escape anymore, just to be able to share it, to abandon the secrecy and its consuming loneliness. For many, that burden was the worst pain of all.
'Yes, sir,' Pitt said. 'We'll take him away this morning.'
'Good-good.'
There was a knock on the door, and on Waybourne's command Jerome came in. Gillivray automatically moved closer to the door, in case he should try to get out again.
'Good morning.' Jerome's eyebrows rose in surprise. If it was feigned, it was superbly well done. There was no uncertainty in him, no movement of eye or muscle, no twitch, not even a paleness to the skin.
It was Waybourne's face that glistened with sweat. He looked at one of the dozen photographs on the wall as he spoke.
'The police wish to see you, Jerome,' he said stiffly. He then turned and left, Gillivray opening the door and closing it behind him.
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'Yes?' Jerome inquired coolly. 'I cannot imagine what you want now. I have nothing to add.'
Pitt did not know whether to sit or remain standing. It seemed vaguely irreverent to tragedy itself to be comfortable at such a moment.
'I'm sorry, sir,' he said quietly. 'But we have more evidence now, and I have no choice but to make an arrest.' Why did he still refuse to commit himself? He was keeping the man hanging like a fish safe on the hook, not yet feeling the tear in the mouth, not aware of the line and its long, relentless pull.
'Indeed?' Jerome was uninterested. 'Congratulations. Is that what you wish me to say?'
Pitt felt as though his skin were scraped every time he met the man, and yet he was still reluctant to arrest him. Perhaps it was the very absence of guilt in him, of any sense of
