The magistrate nodded, and that was the end of the proceedings. Peter walked out of the dock and joined the girl in front of the police court.
At first he refused her invitation to drive him back to town.
“You’re coming with me,” she said firmly. “I have a lot of things to say to you and a list of questions as long as Lucretia’s grocery order. Probably you will not answer them, but that is beside the point.”
They were crossing Putney Common when she leaned over and spoke to the driver, and, slowing down, he brought the car to the edge of the path.
“Let us go a little walk,” she said, and no sooner were they out of earshot than: “Why did you go to Princess Bellini’s last night, Peter Dawlish?” she asked.
“To find out something.”
“What did you want to know?”
Should he tell her? He could not understand himself. Why should he hesitate to take her into his confidence, she who knew so much? And yet he felt an unaccountable shyness. It was as though the confession would make a perceptible difference in their curious friendship. At last he blurted out the truth.
“Jane had a child,” he said.
She stopped, and her deep violet eyes met his.
“Your child—well?”
He was astonished by the coolness with which she received this momentous news.
“Did you guess?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“I knew,” she answered quietly. “It was born at a little farm called Appledore, near Carlisle.”
He was momentarily paralyzed.
“You—knew—all the time?” he stammered.
“I knew all the time,” she repeated. “I knew you had a child, before I knew you were married. It was at Appledore that I found the book of poems, and your little blank verse. And that was why I wasn’t quite sure you were married. Naturally, she would call herself Mrs. Dawlish in the circumstances.”
They were passing a park bench and she caught his arm and drew him down.
“I’ll tell you all about it, shall I?” And, when he nodded: “I was spending a holiday in Cumberland, and I suppose it was fate that led me to this very farmhouse. The old lady, Mrs. Still, who owned the place was a widow, and rather a garrulous old soul, but very kind. It was only natural she should tell me of the interesting people who had stayed with her. One of the most interesting was a pretty girl, whose baby was born in the very room I occupied. She came in February, before the season had started—there is a season in Cumberland, you know—and stayed till the beginning of April. She called herself—it doesn’t matter what she called herself, but it was not Jane Dawlish. The child was born on the 17th of March, St. Patrick’s Day. The old lady, who was half-Irish, remembered that fact because she had sent a bunch of shamrock up to the pretty lady the morning the child was born.”
“Who was with her?” asked Peter huskily.
“Two women—a nurse, and somebody who was obviously Anita Bellini. No doctor was called in; apparently the other woman was a maternity nurse, and it was not necessary to call for medical assistance. My old Appledore lady never saw the baby; she wasn’t even sure when it was taken away, but she thought it was on the second day following the birth, because that was the day a man came from London. The ‘man’ was obviously Druze. She arrived just before Mrs. Still went into Carlisle to do her midweek shopping, and when she returned Druze had gone. The old lady did not know that the baby had gone too until the end of the week, when she asked to be allowed to see it and was told that it had been sent off to a warmer climate. The only thing she knew was that it was a boy; the nurse had told her that, and the Appledore lady was rather disappointed, because, as she said, the pretty lady had been praying and hoping for a girl. Why she should pray or hope for a baby of either sex is a little beyond me, but I have no reason to doubt the truth of the old lady’s statement. She showed me very proudly a little book that the ‘pretty young thing’—she generally called her that—was in the habit of reading, a book of poems; and then I saw your ridiculous acrostic. Just about this time I was rather intrigued by certain things which had happened to Lady Raytham—we had, in fact, information at Scotland Yard that she was paying blackmail, and I naturally connected the two events: her appearance here under an assumed name, the birth of the child, and the fact that she was paying out large sums of money from time to time for some unknown service. When, about an hour before I left the farm, old Mrs. Still said that she had heard one of the women speak about ‘Peter,’ I was pretty sure I was on the right track.”
“Do you know the name of the nurse? Was it Martha—?”
“Martha!” She sprang up and stared at him. “Martha? What do you know about Martha?”
He was a little dumbfounded by the effect of his words.
“Tell me—tell me quickly,” she said impatiently, and he produced from his pocket the letter he had received, and which had brought him to Jane Raytham.
She looked at the pencilled words.
“Martha’s servant. That was Druze’s sister,” she said suddenly. “She had the child. Peter, I am going on this new trail, and you mustn’t interfere until I’ve followed this thing to the end.”
“What do you think of me, I wonder?” he asked.
She eyed him steadily.
“What should I think of you? You’re unfortunate, Peter Dawlish—I’ve told you that before.”
He shook his head with a wry smile.
“You don’t know how unfortunate I am,” he said, and she laughed in spite of herself.
“Come back to the car, or we’ll find ourselves indulging in an orgy of mutual self-pity.”
It did not occur to Peter that he should ask her why the self-pity should
