“There’s no need to think very carefully. I told Anita that I should marry Raytham whether the divorce was granted or not. I salved my conscience by expressing doubt as to the validity of the marriage.”
Leslie leaned back in her chair with a large and happy smile.
“You’re a wicked conspirator, a perfectly horrible mother, and not a tremendous success in any of your matrimonial adventures!” She slipped her arm round the woman’s waist and kissed her on the cheek. “But you’re rather a darling. We’ll lunch at the Pall Mall, which is terribly nice for women, and we’ll occupy the afternoon with a flick. I love the movies—especially the romantic ones.”
She was rather relieved than otherwise when, nearing the end of the luncheon, Jane remembered, with some contrition, that she had promised to be at home that afternoon to receive a committee of which she was president.
“Child welfare,” she said laconically. “The angels weep every time I sit at the head of that board and dilate upon the duty of mothers. Raytham, in spite of queer little ways, is a dear where these societies are concerned, and he’s fearfully in earnest about them. I drew the line when he wanted me to take control of a committee which helps fallen women—that was stretching my sense of humour to a breaking-point.”
They parted in the Haymarket, and Leslie went back to her flat, stopping on her way to wire to Peter. He came when the day was fading, and Lucretia was drawing the curtains. Two stout suitcases were ready packed in the hall, and during the afternoon Coldwell had called her up with strict injunctions to be ready for him when he came.
“I’m not going to allow you to stay in the flat until this little business is finished,” he said.
Here he had a strong supporter in Lucretia Brown.
“Not for a million pounds would I stay in this place after dark, miss,” she said. “What with burglars and people jumping out of the window and whatnot, I wonder I’ve got any hair left. When I combed it this morning it came out in handfuls.”
“The remedy for that is shingling,” suggested Leslie, and Lucretia grew sardonic.
“When I want to look like a boy, I’ll wear trousers, miss,” she said. “Not that I’ve anything to say against shingling, which suits you very well, because you’ve got the kind of head. And as for these bingles, with your ears sticking out all over the place like the Princess Bellorino, or whatever her name is—I call that disgusting! The only use for ears is to hear with, not to go pushing theirselves out into the world, so to speak. I was hoping her ladyship was coming back this afternoon, miss. A bit of society does nobody any harm.”
“If she’d only known, I’m sure she’d have jumped at the opportunity of giving us a social lift,” said Leslie, and Lucretia sniffed. She was not very thin-skinned, but she always knew when her young lady was indulging in what Lucretia described as “sarc.”
“I only want to say—” she began.
“There’s the bell,” interrupted Leslie. “If it is Mr. Dawlish, shoot him up.”
“A low convict!” murmured Lucretia, but she murmured it under her breath.
The convict was neither lowly nor humble. Leslie had never seen him look more serious, and the old flippancy of his tone was gone. It was a very determined young man who sat down at the opposite side of her writing-table.
He had been making inquiries, he said.
“It is a hopeless business when you don’t know where to start—hopeless. I thought Jane would give me a hint, but of course the poor girl is as much in the dark as I. Yes, I am awfully sorry for her. I’m afraid I was rather a brute—”
“She doesn’t think you were,” said Leslie lightly.
“Have you seen her?” he asked quickly.
“This morning,” she nodded. “In fact, I lunched with her. We talked over the whole grisly affair from A to Z. Are you very much in love with her?”
He shook his head.
“I’m not in love with her at all. I suppose I ought to be, right down in the deeps of my heart, but I’m not. And she is not in love with me, either. I knew that seven years ago. She was not over-reticent when she came to discuss our marriage before the separation. Did she tell you anything at all about the boy?”
“Nothing. She really doesn’t know.”
He agreed.
“I was sure she didn’t. Bellini knows—no, I won’t call her Princess or Anita or anything feminine or human! She’s just a devil, a wicked devil! How my father hated her! I’ve an idea he was a bit afraid of her, too. I remember once he asked me, when we were walking together at our place in Hertfordshire, if I liked her, and when I told him that the sight of her made me ill, he put his hand in his pocket and gave me a golden sovereign. And yet he must have been very fond of her once.”
“Fond of her?” Leslie’s eyebrows met. “Do you seriously mean that?”
“I do. They say she was awfully attractive—not very pretty, but very attractive—when she was younger.”
Leslie pushed back her chair.
“This has been a most educational day,” she said. “Produce your evidence, Mr. Dawlish, that your father was ever attracted by that monstrous lady.”
He tried to turn the conversation, but she kept him to it remorselessly.
“I shouldn’t have known, only my mother and the Princess quarrelled. I was curled up in a chair in the library—I must have been about seven—reading one of the kind of books that my father used to buy for me—about pirates and cutthroats and the usual exemplar of youth—when they came into the library together. My mother was furious with Bellini. I didn’t understand all it signified at the time, but later, when I came to think it over, it seemed pretty plain. My mother was
