of drawers. Her breath was coming in great gasps, her face was the colour of chalk. She looked frightened to death.
She gasped out: 'It's my husband! He arrived unexpectedly. I – I think he'll kill me. He's mad – quite mad. I came to you. Don't – don't let him find me.'
She took a step or two forward, swaying so much that she almost fell. Harold put out an arm to support her.
As he did so, the door was flung open and a man stood in the doorway. He was of medium height with thick eyebrows and a sleek, dark head. In his hand he carried a heavy car spanner. His voice rose high and shook with rage. He almost screamed the words.
'So that Polish woman was right! You are carrying on with this fellow!'
Elsie cried: 'No, no, Philip. It's not true. You're wrong.'
Harold thrust the girl swiftly behind him, as Philip Clayton advanced on them both. The latter cried: 'Wrong, am I? When I find you here in his room? You she-devil. I'll kill you for this.'
With a swift, sideways movement he dodged Harold's arm. Elsie, with a cry, ran round the other side of Harold, who swung round to fend the other off.
But Philip Clayton had only one idea, to get at his wife. He swerved round again. Elsie, terrified, rushed out of the room. Philip Clayton dashed after her, and Harold, with not a moment's hesitation, followed him.
Elsie had darted back into her own bedroom at the end of the corridor. Harold could hear the sound of the key turning in the lock, but it did not turn in time. Before the lock could catch Philip Clayton wrenched the door open. He disappeared into the room and Harold heard Elsie's frightened cry. In another minute Harold burst in after them.
Elsie was standing at bay against the curtains of the window. As Harold entered Philip Clayton rushed at her brandishing the spanner. She gave a terrified cry, then snatching up a heavy paper-weight from the desk beside her, she flung it at him.
Clayton went down like a log. Elsie screamed. Harold stopped petrified in the doorway. The girl fell on her knees beside her husband. He lay quite still where he had fallen.
Outside in the passage, there was the sound of the bolt of one of the doors being drawn back. Elsie jumped up and ran to Harold.
'Please – please -' Her voice was low and breathless. 'Go back to your room. They'll come – they'll find you here.'
Harold nodded. He took in the situation like lightning. For the moment, Philip Clayton was hors de combat. But Elsie's scream might have been heard. If he were found in her room it could only cause embarrassment and misunderstanding. Both for her sake and his own there must be no scandal.
As noiselessly as possible, he sprinted down the passage and back into his room. Just as he reached it, he heard the sound of an opening door.
He sat in his room for nearly half an hour, waiting. He dared not go out. Sooner or later, he felt sure, Elsie would come.
There was a light tap on his door. Harold jumped up to open it.
It was not Elsie who came in but her mother and Harold was aghast at her appearance. She looked suddenly years older. Her grey hair was dishevelled and there were deep black circles under her eyes.
He sprang up and helped her to a chair. She sat down, her breath coming painfully.
Harold said quickly: 'You look all in, Mrs Rice. Can I get you something?'
She shook her head. 'No. Never mind me. I'm all right, really. It's only the shock. Mr Waring, a terrible thing has happened.'
Harold asked: 'Is Clayton seriously injured?'
She caught her breath. 'Worse than that. He's dead…'
V
The room spun round.
A feeling as of icy water trickling down his spine rendered Harold incapable of speech for a moment or two.
He repeated dully: 'Dead?'
Mrs Rice nodded.
She said, and her voice had the flat level tones of complete exhaustion: 'The corner of that marble paperweight caught him right on the temple and he fell back with his head on the iron fender. I don't know which it was that killed him – but he is certainly dead. I have seen death often enough to know.'
Disaster – that was the word that rang insistently in Harold's brain. Disaster, disaster, disaster…
He said vehemently: 'It was an accident… I saw it happen.'
Mrs Rice said sharply: 'Of course it was an accident. I know that. But – but – is any one else going to think so? I'm – frankly, I'm frightened, Harold! This isn't England.'
Harold said slowly: 'I can confirm Elsie's story.'
Mrs Rice said: 'Yes, and she can confirm yours. That – that is just it!'
Harold's brain, naturally a keen and cautious one, saw her point. He reviewed the whole thing and appreciated the weakness of their position.
He and Elsie had spent a good deal of their time together. Then there was the fact that they had been seen together in the pinewoods by one of the Polish women under rather compromising circumstances. The Polish ladies apparently spoke no English, but they might nevertheless understand it a little. The woman might have known the meaning of words like 'jealously' and 'husband' if she had chanced to overhear their conversation. Anyway it was clear that it was something she had said to Clayton that had aroused his jealousy. And now – his death. When Clayton had died, he, Harold, had been in Elsie Clayton's room. There was nothing to show that he had not deliberately assaulted Philip Clayton with the paperweight. Nothing to show that the jealous husband had not actually found them together. There was only his word and Elsie's. Would they be believed?
A cold fear gripped him.
He did not imagine – no, he really did not imagine – that either he or Elsie was in danger of being condemned to death for a murder they had not committed. Surely, in any case, it could only be a charge of manslaughter brought against them. (Did they have manslaughter in these foreign countries?) But even if they were acquitted of blame there would have to be an enquiry – it would be reported in all the papers. An English man and woman accused – jealous husband – rising politician. Yes, it would mean the end of his political career. It would never survive a scandal like that.
He said on an impulse: 'Can't we get rid of the body somehow? Plant it somewhere?'
Mrs Rice's astonished and scornful look made him blush.
She said incisively: 'My dear Harold, this isn't a detective story! To attempt a thing like that would be quite crazy.'
'I suppose it would.' He groaned. 'What can we do? My God, what can we do?'
Mrs Rice shook her head despairingly. She was frowning, her mind working painfully.
Harold demanded: 'Isn't there anything we can do? Anything to avoid this frightful disaster?'
There, it was out – disaster! Terrible – unforeseen – utterly damning.
They stared at each other.
Mrs Rice said hoarsely: 'Elsie – my little girl. I'd do anything… It will kill her if she has to go through a thing like this.' And she added: 'You too, your career – everything.'
Harold managed to say: 'Never mind me.'
But he did not really mean it.
Mrs Rice went on bitterly: 'And all so unfair – so utterly untrue! It's not as though there had ever been anything between you. I know that well enough.'
Harold suggested, catching at a straw: 'You'll be able to say that at least – that it was all perfectly all right.'
