Lady Raytham looked up.
“Do you think he still hates him?”
Anita pursed her large lips.
“Druze was Everreed’s butler and cashed the cheque; the next day Peter disappears on his holiday—in reality, on his great adventure. He returns and is arrested, swears he knows nothing about the cheque, and accuses poor Druze of forgery—which doesn’t save him from imprisonment.”
Lady Raytham said nothing.
“Naturally Peter feels sore—if he still believes Druze was the villain of the piece. There may be trouble—we needn’t deceive ourselves.”
Her cigarette had gone out. She opened her bag with an impatient tug and searched.
“Matches? Never mind.”
There was a letter in the bag; she tore a strip from the top and, bending, lit the paper at the fire.
“Who is Leslie Maughan?”
She was glancing at the signature which footed the letter.
“Leslie Maughan? I don’t know him. Why?”
Anita crumpled the paper into a ball.
“Leslie Maughan would like to see me on a personal matter”—Anita invented the stilted and supercilious accent which she supposed the writer of the letter might assume. “And Leslie Maughan will be glad to know what hour will be convenient for me to see him. He is an inventor or a borrower of money or he has an expedition to the Cocos Islands that he would like me to finance. To the devil with Leslie Maughan!”
II
Druze had come in noiselessly at the door and stood, hand clasping hand. His face was strangely pale; as he spoke his right cheek twitched spasmodically.
“Yes?”
“Will your ladyship see Miss Leslie Maughan—?”
“Miss!” snorted Anita, as Jane Raytham rose.
“Miss Leslie Maughan, of the Criminal Investigation Department, Scotland Yard?”
Lady Raytham put out her hand and gripped the back of the chair; her face was bloodless, she opened her mouth to speak, but no word came. Greta was staring at the big woman, but Princess Anita Bellini had no eyes but for the pale butler.
“I will see her—in the small drawing-room, Druze. Excuse me.”
She swept out of the room and pulled the door behind her until Druze had disappeared round the lower landing. By her right hand was the door of her own room, and she entered swiftly and noiselessly, switching on the lights as she closed the door. She stared into the mirror. Ghastly! That white, drawn face of hers carried confession. Had she been betrayed? Had they fulfilled their threat?
Pulling out a drawer of her dressing-table, she fumbled for and found a little pot of rouge, and with a quick, deft hand brought an unaccustomed bloom to her cheeks.
Another glance at her face in the glass and she went out and sailed down the stairs, a smile on her lips and in her heart despair.
All the lights were lit in the little drawing-room, and her first emotion was one of surprise and relief. She had not known there were women detectives at Scotland Yard, but she could imagine them as hard-faced, sour creatures in ready-made clothes.
The girl who stood by the table looking down at the illustrated newspaper that Druze had supplied looked to be about twenty-two. She wore a straight nutria coat, a big bunch of violets pinned to one revere. As tall as Jane Raytham and as straight; trim, silken ankles, neatly shod; dark. The face under the upturned brim of a little felt hat was more surprising yet. A pair of dark eyes rose to meet Jane Raytham’s. The lips, red as Greta’s, yet owing nothing to artifice, were finely moulded, a firm, round chin, and the hint of a white throat somewhere behind the protective fur—in some confusion Lady Raytham catalogued the visible qualities of her unexpected caller.
“You are not Miss Maughan?” she asked.
When Leslie Maughan smiled, she smiled with eyes and lips, and the dimpled hollows that came to her cheek made her seem absurdly young.
“Yes, that is my name, Lady Raytham; I am awfully sorry to bother you, but my chief is rather a martinet.”
“You are a detective? I didn’t know—”
“That there were women detectives?” laughed the girl. “And you’re right! My position is unique. I am assistant to Chief Inspector Coldwell. The Commissioners, who are rather conservative people, do not object to that. But I suppose I really am a detective. I make inquiries.”
She stood by the table, one hand on her hip, one playing with the leaves of the picture paper, her unwavering gaze fixed on Jane Raytham.
“I’m making inquiries now, Lady Raytham,” she said quietly. “I want to know why you drew twenty thousand pounds from your bank last Monday.”
For a second the woman was panic-stricken; so far lost charge that she all but stammered the truth. The will that held her silent, apparently unmoved, was the supreme effort of her life. Then her training came to her rescue.
The control of her voice was perfect.
“Since when have the police had authority to supervise the banking accounts of private citizens?” she asked in cold, measured tones. “That is an extraordinary request. Is it, then, an offence for me to withdraw twenty thousand pounds from my own account? How did you know?”
“One gets to know things, Lady Raytham.”
She was cool, unruffled by the indignation, real or simulated.
“Lady Raytham, you think we are being very impertinent and abominable. And it is certain that, if you report this matter to Scotland Yard, I shall be reprimanded. But we expect that.”
Jane Raytham had so far recovered towards the normal that she could open her grey eyes in astonishment.
“Then why on earth have you come?” she asked.
She saw Leslie Maughan draw a deep breath, the ghost of a smile trembled at the corner of her mouth and vanished.
“Twenty thousand pounds is a lot of money,” she said softly. There was a note of pleading in her voice, and, suddenly, with a cry she could not suppress, the significance of the visit flashed upon Lady Raytham. They knew. The police knew the destination or purpose of that
