He had arrived at two o’clock and it was five o’clock before he reluctantly took his leave. And all that afternoon they had talked of books and of people and since she had not mentioned or spoken of the murder which had engrossed his thoughts until her soothing presence had made Mayfield seem very remote and crime a thing of distaste, he did not introduce so jarring a discordance into the lavender atmosphere of her retreat.
“What kind of a story do you call this?” snapped the news editor when Tab handed him two folios of copy.
“From a literary point of view,” said Tab, “it is a classic.”
“From a news point of view, it is rotten,” said the editor. “The only new fact you have discovered is that she loves Browning and maybe even the police know that!”
He grumbled but accepted the copy and with his blue pencil committed certain acts of savage mutilation, what time was Tab making his final roundup of the Trasmere case.
Here again, very little new matter was available. Walters and the man Wellington Brown were still at liberty, and he had to confine himself to a sketch of Trasmere’s life, material for which had, from time to time, been supplied to him by Babe.
The new millionaire he had not seen all day. When he got home that night, he found Rex Lander in bed and asleep and did not disturb him. He was tired to death and more anxious to make acquaintance with his hard pillow, than he was to discuss Ursula Ardfern. In truth, he was not prepared to discuss Ursula at all with any third person.
“I just loafed around,” said Rex the next morning, when asked to give an account of his movements. “I had a very bad night and was up early. You were sleeping like a pig when I looked in. I read your story in the Megaphone—by-the-way, you know that Miss Ardfern’s jewelry has been stolen?”
“I know that very well indeed,” said Tab, “I saw her yesterday.”
Rex was instant attention.
“Where?” he asked eagerly. “What is she like, Tab—I mean off the stage? Is she as beautiful—what colour eyes has she?”
Tab pushed back his chair and frowned at the young man across the table.
“Your curiosity is indecent,” he said severely, “really, Rex, I never dreamt that you were so interested in the lady.”
Rex did not meet his eyes.
“I think she is very beautiful,” he said doggedly. “I’d give my head to spend a day with her.”
“Phew!” said Tab, “why you young devil, you are in love with her!”
Rex’s babyish face went crimson.
“Stuff,” he said loudly. “I am very fond of her. I have seen her a hundred times, I suppose, though I have never spoken to her once. She is my idea of the perfect woman. Beautiful of face, with the loveliest voice I have ever heard. I am going to know her one day.”
This revelation of Babe’s secret passion was, for some reason which Tab could not define, an extremely disquieting one.
“My dear Babe,” he said more mildly, “the young lady is not of the loving or marrying sort—”
Suddenly he remembered.
“Why, you are a millionaire now, Babe! Jumping Moses!”
Rex blushed again and then Tab whistled.
“Do you mean in all seriousness that you are truly fond of her?”
“I adore her,” said Rex in a low voice. “I got so rattled when I heard a fellow say she was going to be married, that I had to send you to see her.”
Tab interrupted him with a roar of delighted laughter.
“So that was why I was sent on a fool’s errand, eh?” he asked, his eyes dancing. “You subtle dog! It was to bring balm to your bruised heart that an eminent crime specialist must stand, hat in hand, in the dingy purlieus of a playhouse, begging admission to the great actress’s dressing-room.” He was serious in a moment. “I hope this isn’t a very violent attachment of yours, Rex,” he said quietly, “in the first place, it struck me that Ursula Ardfern is not of the marrying kind, that even your great possessions would not tempt her. In the second place—” he stopped himself.
“Well?” asked Rex impatiently. “What ever other just cause or impediment do you see?”
“I don’t know that it is any business of mine,” said Tab, “and I certainly am not in a position to give you fatherly advice.”
“You mean that an actress is the worst kind of a wife a man can have, I suppose. I have heard all that rubbish before. Poor Uncle Jesse when I spoke about it—”
“You spoke to him of your—liking for Ursula Ardfern?” asked Tab in surprise.
“Of course I didn’t,” said the other scornfully. “I approached it in a roundabout sort of way. Uncle Jesse foamed at the mouth. It was then he told me that he was going to leave all his money away from me. He said horrible things about actresses.”
Tab was silent, a little puzzled at himself. What did it matter to him, anyway, that Rex Lander should be head over heels in love with the girl? Yet, for some mysterious reason, he regarded Babe’s passion as a personal affront to himself. It was ridiculous, childish in him and he laughed softly.
“You think it is darned funny, I daresay,” growled Rex, getting up from the table in a huff.
“I was laughing at myself for daring to give advice,” said Tab truthfully.
IX
Rex was in his own room when Carver called.
“I have had a talk with some of the High Ones,” he said, “and put it up to them that you might be of assistance to me. First of all they were horrified at the idea of a newspaper reporter being allowed even
