“She was not at home.”
Instinctively Leslie Maughan recognized that Jane Raytham was speaking the truth now.
“So you came back, and you found the body? Searched it?”
The woman nodded.
“What were you seeking?”
Again the quick movement of tongue across parched lips.
“I can’t tell you.”
Suddenly Leslie looked round. Noiselessly crossing the floor, she turned the handle quickly and jerked open the door. Mrs. Gurden nearly fell into the room.
“Are you fearfully interested?” asked Leslie. Her tone was almost sweet.
The discomfited eavesdropper grimaced and tittered hysterically.
“I was just coming in—really, it was very awkward. My shoelace came unfastened, and I was just stooping—I don’t know whatever you will think of me, but you really must believe me, Miss Maughan, you really must! I think prying and spying people are simply dreadful, don’t you, dear?”
“I do—dear!” said Leslie dryly, and pointed to the stairs. “Would you mind sitting on the bottom step until I come down?”
And Greta went tittering down the stairs.
“Was she listening? Was she?” Lady Raytham asked the question with unusual energy.
“No; I don’t think she had been there long. I have an uncanny knowledge when I am being overheard. I had it just at that moment. Lady Raytham, where is your emerald necklace?”
If she had struck the woman she could not have produced a more startling effect. Jane Raytham sprang to her feet with a low cry and put out a hand as though she were warding off some terrible menace. For a second her beautiful face was distorted with fear.
“Oh, God” she gasped. “Why do you say that?”
“Where is your necklace? Can I see it?”
Jane Raytham thought for a moment, her chin on her breast, and then slowly raised her eyes.
“Yes. Will you come with me?” she said in a whisper, and Leslie followed her out of the room into the bedroom on the right that opened from the landing.
She switched on the lights, and they crossed to a corner of the room where on the wall hung, apparently, a small Rembrandt in a gilt frame. The picture must have been a very good copy, but it was no more. When Jane Raytham touched the frame it swung open like a door, and showed behind a small, square safe set in the wall. Lady Raytham turned the key with a hand that shook, not even her iron nerve could conceal her emotion. Taking out a jewel-box, she carried it to a table, pressed a hidden spring, and the lid flew open. And there the dumbfounded Leslie saw the emerald chain—intact. Intact even to the square emerald pendant.
Leslie picked up the jewel and surveyed it in bewilderment. Then, opening her bag, she brought to light the emerald that had been found in the dead hand of Druze and placed it by the side of the pendant on the chain.
They were exactly alike.
“Are there two chains?” she asked.
“No,” said Jane Raytham.
“Is that the one you wore tonight?”
She nodded.
Her eyes were flaming. Even under that terrible strain she could not restrain her natural curiosity.
“Where did you get that?” she pointed.
“We found it in Druze’s hand,” replied Leslie.
The woman’s mouth opened in astonishment.
“You found—nothing else? No other—” Again she stopped quickly.
“No other part of the chain—no. Wasn’t it this you were looking for?”
Leslie saw her expression change. Was it relief she detected? Certainly her tone was lighter and less strained when she spoke.
“No, I wasn’t looking for that. Who killed him?”
“Who do you think?”
Eye to eye they stood, silent for the space of a second.
“Why should I suspect anybody?”
Leslie Maughan fired her second shot.
“Shall I suggest a name?” she asked. “Peter Dawlish.”
Again that quick upward jerk of the chin, as though she were meeting some sickening pain.
“Peter Dawlish?” she said loudly. “Peter Dawlish! You’re mad—mad to think Peter Dawlish—”
Without warning she stumbled forward, and Leslie had only time to throw out her arms and take the weight of her as she fell in a swoon to the ground.
In a second Leslie had pressed the bell and had thrown open the door. The footman came running up.
“Open one of those windows, and get me some brandy.”
He gaped down at the white-faced woman on the ground.
“Is her ladyship ill?” he asked.
“Don’t ask questions; open the window—hurry.”
And as the French windows were thrown violently open:
“Now get the brandy.”
Before the man had come back, Jane Raytham had opened her eyes and stared inquiringly up into the face that was bent to hers.
“What happened? I fainted—I’m a fool. Let us go out.”
With Leslie’s assistance she rose unsteadily to her feet.
“I’d better put your jewel-case back in the safe, hadn’t I? Or perhaps you’d rather do it?”
“It doesn’t matter,” said the woman listlessly.
And in that moment Leslie Maughan guessed why Anthony Druze had died.
Slipping her arm round Jane Raytham’s waist, she took her back to the drawing-room, insisted upon her lying on the couch, propping a pillow under her head, and throwing a heavy silken scarf that drooped on a chair-back over her feet.
“You’re very good,” murmured Lady Raytham, “and I loath you so much.”
“I suppose you do,” smiled Leslie. “And yet you shouldn’t, because I haven’t been at all unpleasant.”
Jane shook her head in agreement.
“I haven’t suggested—and will you keep very quiet when I tell you this?—I haven’t suggested that you will be under suspicion of shooting Druze.”
She had no need to be a reader of faces to realize that this possibility had never occurred to Jane Raytham.
“I?” she said incredulously. “But how absurd! Why should I shoot? Oh, but that is impossible! It is impossible that anybody should think such a thing!” And, in spite of Leslie’s warning, she struggled erect. “You don’t think so, do you?”
She was on her feet, peering into the girl’s face, her hand gripping Leslie’s wrist fiercely.
“You don’t think so? I hated Druze! I hated him, hated him!” She stamped her foot in her fury. “You don’t know what it has meant to me—every morning to see his face, every minute liable to his presence. Do you
