She stopped, exhausted by her own vehemence.
Leslie waited a moment, and then:
“What is Anthony Druze to you?”
Lady Raytham stared at her.
“To me—you mean—what do you mean?”
Suddenly she burst into a paroxysm of laughter—it was dreadful to see her.
“Oh, you fool—you little fool! Can’t you guess? Don’t you know?”
And then suddenly she ran out of the room. Leslie heard her bedroom door slam and the snap of the turning key and knew that her interview was ended.
VIII
It was two o’clock when a taxicab stopped in Severall Street, Lambeth, and a very weary girl alighted. The detective whom she had asked by telephone should meet her was waiting at the corner of the street and ran towards her.
“You want Mrs. Inglethorne’s, don’t you, miss? The house is on the opposite side of the road.”
He hurried across the street and knocked at a door. Twice and three times he knocked before a sash went up and the voice of Peter Dawlish asked:
“Who is it?”
He had hardly asked the question before he recognized the girl.
“I’ll be down in a second.”
But before he could descend, the landlady herself made an appearance. She was a little tremulous of voice, more than a little whining, when she recognized the familiar countenance of the detective.
“Whatcher want? There’s nobody here except my young man lodger, and he’s straight—a policeman recommended him—”
“This lady is from Scotland Yard, and she wishes to see him, Mrs. Inglethorne,” said the detective soothingly. “Don’t get worried.”
“Worried! Me workin’ my fingers to the bone and my old man in ‘stir,’ though as innocent as a babe unborn—”
By this time Peter Dawlish had descended.
“Do you wish to see me?”
She nodded.
“Where can I see you? Can you come out and sit in the cab for a few minutes?”
“Certainly.”
“There is another favour I want to ask. Will you be very annoyed if I ask you to allow this police officer to search your room?”
He was struck dumb for a second.
“Certainly. Why, is something lost?”
“Nothing.” She turned to the detective and gave him instructions in a low tone; he pushed past the affrighted landlady and went upstairs.
“Now come into the cab. You won’t catch cold?”
He laughed irritably.
“I’m so hot with righteous indignation that I would melt an iceberg!” he said.
He stepped into the taxi and pulled the door tight.
“Now, Miss Maughan!”
She looked sideways at him; the white face of the lantern illuminating the taximeter formed a reflector that gave some light to the interior of the car.
“What have you been doing all evening?” she asked.
“From what hour?”
“Eight o’clock.”
“I’ve been in the house. A job came to me this morning addressing envelopes, and I’ve been working since seven till within a few minutes of your arrival. About two thousand of them are already addressed; I think that accounts for my time. I only had the envelopes and lists at six-thirty. Why—what has happened?”
“Druze is dead.”
“Dead?”
“Murdered; his body was found on Barnes Common somewhere between 11:45 and midnight.”
He whistled softly.
“That is a bad business. How was he killed?”
“Shot—at close range.”
He was silent for a time.
“Naturally, after my wild and woolly threats, you suspected me. Come up and see the envelopes—my bedroom is the only decent room in the house.”
She hesitated, then, stretching out her hand, pulled back the lock of the door.
Mrs. Inglethorne was past surprising. She stood at the foot of the stairs, an old ulster over her dressing-gown, and watched the two go up without comment.
“There is nothing here, miss,” said the detective before he caught sight of Peter. “Nothing except these.” He indicated with a wave of his hand a deal table covered with small envelopes neatly packed.
Leslie smiled.
“You needn’t have told me you’d been working here, Mr. Dawlish,” she said; “it is like a smoke-room.”
The aroma of cigarettes still hung about in spite of the open windows; the tin she had sent to him was on the table, only half-full.
“I’ve been a little extravagant,” he said apologetically; “but the temptation was great.”
The detective still lingered by the door, evidently in two minds as to whether it would be proper to leave them in this peculiar environment. Leslie saved him the responsibility of a decision by:
“Thank you very much. I will be down in a minute or two,” she said.
She sat at the foot of the bed, her arm over the rail, and looked at Peter. She would not have recognized him; he was clean-shaven, spruce. There was a certain buoyancy in his attitude which was new to her. Good looking, too, and in spite of his nearly thirty years and all that he had suffered, remarkably youthful. It added a piquant interest to her scrutiny that she knew so much about his past—so much more than he guessed.
A husky voice hailed them from the foot of the stairs.
“Would you like a cup of tea, miss?”
Peter Dawlish looked at the girl with a smile.
“She really makes rather good tea,” he said in a low voice.
“I should love one,” she nodded, and he called softly down the stairs and came back.
“I’m scared of waking Elizabeth,” he said, and added: “You look fagged.”
“Which means that I look hideous,” she retorted with a frank smile. “I won’t bandy compliments with you, or I would congratulate you upon the marked improvement which the barber has brought about. Did you know Druze very well?”
“Not very well,” he said.
“Tell me something about him—all that you know.”
He frowned at this, evidently trying to remember matters that had passed, facts that had gone out of his recollection.
“He came to Lord Everreed’s place soon after I took up my post,” he said. “My aunt, the Princess Bellini, recommended him—”
“The Princess recommended him?” she said quickly. “Why, was he in
