The Saint Meets His Match (She was a Lady)

'I admit all that,' said Essenden fretfully, 'but——'

'What you mean,' said Jill Trelawney calmly, 'is that you laid a trap for us, but we've made you the pigeon. You're in the soup you brewed for Simon and me. Your gay little party has kind of bust. And now, to save your skin, you're prepared to reopen your original offer. Hav­ing flopped on the double-cross, you're anxious to hurry back to the first bargain. Isn't that it?'

She had no grounds for asking whether that was it. But then, the question was almost purely rhetorical. What she was actually doing was to point out to Essenden the only course of action that was left open to him. She wasn't asking a question at all—she was commanding. Persuasively she spoke, in a quiet and reasonable voice, with sudden death aimed steadily from her hand, and murder in the clear tawny eyes like two drops of frozen gold.

'Yes,' said Essenden hoarsely, 'that's it.'

'Go on.'

Essenden swallowed.

'Your father wasn't framed.'

He paused.

'I said—Go on!'

The girl's voice ripped out like a pistol shot; yet she had not spoken loudly. The likeness came only from her tone—sharp, swift, distinct, deadly.

'I was in it—I admit that—the thing he was framed for, but he was unlucky. You don't believe me. But I can prove it. I've kept the papers—papers that never came into the inquiry, naturally. If they had, they'd have made it worse for him. I can show you letters in his own hand ——'

'Where?'

'In my private safe—hidden away—'

'Where?'

Essenden seemed to flinch from the glacial inclemency of her voice.

'In the cellar.'

'Oh, yeah?' said the Saint unnecessarily.

'There's a door under the main staircase. You go down——'

'And flop through a patent trapdoor into the castle drains,' said the Saint, unimpressed. 'Sorry to disappoint you, comrade, but we've heard that one before.'

The girl answered unemotionally.

'I'll go and see if he's lying,' she said. 'If he is— well, you can use that rope's end. But we might as well see—in case he's telling the truth by accident.'

Simon tossed the length of rope onto the table with a shrug.

'I'll go,' he said, 'though I don't think it's much use. Let's have some more directions. Down the stairs——'

'You come to the wine cellar,' said Essenden. 'Go straight through that. There's a door at the far end, and the key hangs on a nail beside it. You'll find some more steps down. They lead into what's left of an old secret passage. About twenty yards along, it opens into a sort of cave . . .'

Simon heard out the story.

'Right,' he said. 'It sounds to me like a feeble attempt to waste time, but I'll go. I'm just warning you that if it is a waste of time—oh, Marmaduke, my pet, you're going to wish you'd never had that bright idea.'