two red-shaded lamps. In one corner of the room was an ornate wooden bed of red lacquer decorated with Chinese paintings in gold. At a small Empire desk near one of the windows, which were heavily curtained, sat a man. He was almost as tall as Stratford Harlow; and the features which would have arrested the attention of a stranger were his big, dome-shaped forehead and the long golden-yellow beard which, in spite of his age—and he must have been as old as Harlow himself—was untinged with grey.
He was reading, one thin hand on his cheek, his eyes fixed upon the book that lay or the desk, and not until Mr Harlow spoke did he look up.
‘Hallo, Marling!’ said Stratford Harlow gently.
The man leaned back in his chair, closed the book, mechanically marking his place with a thin tortoise-shell paper-knife.
‘Good evening,’ he said simply.
‘Time you had your walk, isn’t it?’
There was a second door in the room and towards this Mr Harlow glanced.
‘Yes, I suppose it is,’ said the man, and rose.
He wore a short dressing-jacket of dark blue velvet; his feet were encased in red morocco slippers. His glance strayed back to the closed book as though he were reluctant to have his reading interrupted.
‘The Odes of Horace,’ he said; ‘an English translation, but full of errors.’
‘Yes, yes,’ smiled Mr Harlow. ‘It’s rather late for Horace.’
The woman was standing by the door, stiffly erect, her hands folded in front of her, her dark eyes on her master.
‘Do you know who you are, my friend?’ he asked.
The bearded man put his white hand to his forehead.
‘I am Saul Marling, a graduate of Balliol,’ he said.
Mr Harlow nodded.
‘And—anything eke?’ he asked.
Again the hand went up to the dome-shaped forehead.
‘I forget…how absurd! It was something I saw, wasn’t it?’ he asked anxiously.
‘Something you saw,’ agreed Mr Harlow, ‘just before Miss Mercy died.’
The other heaved a sigh.
‘She died very suddenly. She was very kind to me in all my little troubles. Awfully suddenly! She used to sit on the chair talking to you, and then one night after dinner she fell down.’
‘On the floor,’ nodded Mr Harlow, almost cheerfully. ‘But you saw something, didn’t you?’ he encouraged. ‘A little bottle and some blue stuff. Wake up, Marling! You remember the little bottle and the blue stuff?’
The man shook his head.
‘Not clearly…that was before you and Mrs Edwins took me away. I drank the white powders—they fizzed like a seidlitz powder—and then…’
‘To the country,’ smiled Harlow. ‘You were ill, my poor old fellow, and we had to prescribe something to quieten you. You’re all right?’
‘My head is a little confused—’ began the man, but Harlow laughed, caught him almost affectionately by the arm and, opening the narrow door, led his companion up a flight of steep stairs. At the top of this was another door, which Mr Harlow unlocked. They were on the roof of Greenhart House, a wide, flat expanse of asphalt confined within a breast-high parapet. For half an hour they walked up and down arm-in-arm, the bigger man talking all the time. The fog was thick, the street lamps showed themselves below as patches of dull yellow luminosity.
‘Cold? I told you to put on your scarf, you stupid chap!’ Mr Harlow was good-humoured even in his annoyance.
‘Conic along, we’ll go down.’
In the room below he fastened the door and gazed approvingly round the comfortable apartment. He took up one of the eight volumes that lay on a table. They still wore the publishers’ wrappers and had arrived that day.
‘Reading maketh a full man—you will find the Augustan histories a little heavy even for a graduate of Oxford, eh? Good night. Marling—sleep well.’
He locked the door and went out on to the landing with Mrs Edwins. Her hard eyes were fixed on his face, and until he spoke she was silent.
‘He’s quite all right,’ he said.
‘Is he?’ Her harsh voice was disagreeable. ‘How can he be all right if he’s reading and writing?’
‘Writing?’ he asked quickly. ‘What?’
‘Oh, just stuff about the Romans, but it reads sensible.’
Mr Harlow considered this frowningly. ‘That means nothing. He gives no trouble.’
‘No,’ she said shortly. ‘I get worried,’ she went on, ‘but he’s quiet. Who is Mr Carlton?’
Harlow drew a quick breath. ‘Has he been here?’
She nodded. ‘Yes—this afternoon. He asked me if I was Miss Mercy’s old maid—she must have died soon after he was born.’
‘He’s older than that—well?’
‘I thought it was queer, but he said he’d been asked to trace Mr Saul Marling.’
‘By whom?’
She confessed her ignorance with a look. ‘I don’t know; but it was a proper inquiry. He showed me the papers. They were from Eastbourne. I told him Marling was dead. “Where?” he said. “In South America,” I told him.’
‘Pernambuco,’ emphasised Mr Harlow, ‘in the plague epidemic. Humph! Clever…and unscrupulous. Thank you.’
She watched him pass into the elevator and drop out of sight, then she went into the second room that opened from the landing. This too, was pleasantly furnished. Turning on the lights she sat down and opened a big chintz bag.
From this she took an unfinished stocking and adjusted her knitting needles. And as her nimble fingers moved, so did her lips.
‘Pernambuco-in the plague epidemic,’ she was saying.
CHAPTER 6
AILEEN RIVERS lived in Bloomsbury, which had the advantage of being near her work. She had spent a restless night, and the day that followed had been full of vexation. Mr Stebbings, her immediate chief, was away nursing a cold; and his junior partner, with whom she was constantly brought into contact that day, was a tetchy and disagreeable man, with a habit of mislaying important documents and blaming the person who happened to be most handy for their disappearance.
At six o’clock in the evening she locked up her desk with a sigh of thankfulness, looking forward to a light dinner and an early bedtime. Through her window she had seen the car drawn up by the kerb, and at first had thought it was waiting for a client, so that she was a little surprised, and by no means pleased, when, as she came down the steps of the old-fashioned house where the office was situate, a young man crossed the broad sidewalk towards her and lifted his hat.
‘Oh, you!’ she said in some dismay,
‘Me, or I, as the case may be; I’m not quite certain which,’ said Jim Carlton. ‘And your tone is offensive,’ he said sternly. ‘By rights Elk or I should have been interviewing you at all sorts of odd hours during the day.’
‘But what on earth can I tell you?’ she asked, exasperated. You know everything about the burglary—I suppose that is what you mean?’
‘That is what I mean,’ said Jim. ‘It is very evident that you know nothing about policemen. You imagine, I suppose, that Scotland Yard says “Hallo, there’s been a burglary in Victoria. How interesting! Nobody knows, anything about it, so we’ll let the matter drop.” You’re wrong!’
‘I’m much too hungry to talk.’
‘So I guessed,’ he said. ‘There is an unpretentious restaurant at King’s Cross, where the sole bonne femme is worthy only of the pure of heart.’
She hesitated. ‘Very well,’ she said a little ungraciously. ‘Is that your car? How funny!’
‘There’s nothing funny about my car,’ he said with dignity, ‘and it is not my car. I borrowed it.’
