knew before.’ ”

Sybil was puzzled but interested. Who this strange woman was, and what position her husband occupied in society, she could only guess from the prefix the proud wife had put to her husband’s name. As though she read the girl’s thought, Mrs. Cody went on:

“He’s not a medical doctor. A lot of people think he is, but he’s not. He’s a literary doctor.”

“Oh, a doctor of literature?”

“And law.” The lady nodded impressively. “He got it out of a college in America. The point is, miss, you have got lots of enemies.” Mrs. Cody lowered her voice until it was a harsh whisper. “My husband said: ‘See the young lady and ask her not to breathe a word of what I’ve said, because it may cost me dear⁠—it may cost me dear.’ ” She repeated the words slowly and imposingly. “ ‘Take the Rolls-Royce,’ he said, ‘and maybe you can persuade her to come down and have a cup of tea. It wouldn’t take her an hour, and nobody would know she’d been.’ ”

“But why shouldn’t people know I’ve been?” asked the girl, secretly amused, and yet with a feeling at the back of her mind that there was something more serious in this communication than she could for the moment see.

“Because,” said Mrs. Cody, “of these enemies. They’re not only after you, miss”⁠—her voice was very solemn, and, in spite of her amusement, Sybil was impressed⁠—“but they’re after that Canadian man, the policeman.”

“You mean Mr. Martin?” asked the girl quickly.

Again Mrs. Cody nodded her head.

“That’s the fellow⁠—the detective. They tried to get him once, but perhaps he hasn’t told you about it. The next time he’ll be popped off, as sure as my name’s Elizabeth.”

There was a telephone on the table, and Sybil looked at it for a moment in doubt.

“What had my father to do with all this?” she asked.

Mrs. Cody pursed her lips, as though she could tell if she would.

“My husband will tell you that, miss,” she said.

Sybil examined the woman more critically. She was undoubtedly the most commonplace individual she had met for a long time; but her wealth was advertised by an abundance of jewellery. For with every movement of her head two big diamond earrings winked and sparkled in the afternoon sunlight. Her fingers were scarcely visible under the rings that covered them, for she wore no gloves, and across her ample bosom was a huge diamond.

“How far is it?” asked Sybil.

“Less than a hour. It’s in Sussex.” She explained the route and the exact situation of the house. “If you could get away in time for a cup of tea⁠—”

“I could do that,” said the girl thoughtfully, “for this is my early afternoon.”

Mrs. Cody consulted a jewelled watch.

“I’ll wait for you,” she suggested. “You’ll find my Rolls-Royce”⁠—she rolled the words sonorously⁠—“waiting in the square. You can’t mistake it. It’s black, picked out with little red lines.”

“But please don’t wait. I shall be half an hour yet.”

“I don’t mind waiting. But I think I had better stay in the car till you come. You’re going to have a big surprise, young lady, and you’ll thank me until your dying day that my husband sent me to see you.”

Sybil called up her flat, but her mother was out, and she remembered that Mrs. Lansdown had gone to a bridge party⁠—her one recreation. She called Dick Martin, with no better result; and at four o’clock she went out into the square and looked for the limousine. She had not far to look; a handsome car was drawn up near the kerb, and at her appearance moved slowly towards her. The chauffeur, a round-faced, young-looking man of thirty (she guessed) was dressed in sober livery. Mrs. Cody opened the door for her, and she got into an interior that was so heavily perfumed that she mechanically turned the lever that lowered the windows.

“I hope you telephoned to your mother, my dear?” said Mrs. Cody, with a sidelong glance at the girl.

“I did, but she was not at home.”

“Then you left a message with the servant?”

Sybil laughed.

“We do not support such a luxury, Mrs. Cody,” she said. “Mother and I do the work of the house ourselves.”

Mrs. Cody sighed.

“You told somebody else where you were going, I hope, my dear? You should always do that when you’re going out, in case of accidents.”

“No, I told nobody. I tried to get⁠—a friend on the phone, but he was out too.”

For a second the ghost of a smile dawned on the hard face and vanished again.

“You can’t be too careful,” said the lady sententiously. “Do you mind sitting back, Miss What’s-your-name, in the corner. It’s more comfortable.”

It was also more unobservable, but this Sybil did not notice.

XVIII

Soon they were speeding in a southwesterly direction, and although Mrs. Cody was not an entertaining hostess, the girl found plenty to think about, and certainly did not resent the silence of this overdressed woman. In less than an hour the car swung through a pair of heavy iron gates, up a long avenue, and stopped before a medium-sized house.

Sybil had never met the stout and smiling man who came to meet her.

“Ah! So this is the daughter of my old friend!” he said, almost jovially. “Little Sybil! You don’t remember me, of course?”

Sybil smiled.

“I’m afraid I don’t, Dr. Cody,” she said.

“You wouldn’t, my dear, you wouldn’t.” His manner was paternal, but Mrs. Cody, who knew her husband much better than most people, and who could detect his most subtle nuances of tone, shot one cold, baleful glare in his direction that was eloquent of her experience.

If Cody saw her, his manner certainly did not change. He took the girl’s arm, much against her will, and led her into the handsome library, fussing over her like an old hen with a chick. She must have the best chair and a cushion for her back.

“Tea at once, my dear. You must be tired after your journey.”

“I am,” said Mrs. Cody emphatically.

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