After Mrs. Jervis Lexton’s visit to the office, however, what had seemed a mystery had been at any rate partially explained. What man, so Rushworth’s London agent asked himself smiling, could resist that deliciously pretty and sweet-mannered little woman? No wonder a job had been invented for her husband, who was, after all, a decent chap.
A day was to come when Mr. James would try to remember how Ivy Lexton had impressed him, and when all he would succeed in remembering, very vividly, was how agreeable that impression had been, and how touchingly the lovely lady had revealed her devotion to her husband, fortunate Jervis Lexton.
On the second day Jervis had said he felt so queer that he would like to see their old friend, Dr. Lancaster. And by now, after five days, that genial general practitioner, though utterly unsuspicious of the truth, was nevertheless becoming slightly uneasy at the persistence of the illness.
He had insisted, much against Ivy’s will, on sending in a nurse, a placid, kindly woman named Bradfield, who had often nursed for the doctor before.
Small wonder that the patient’s wife was also becoming just a little fretful, and more than a little anxious. How long, she often asked herself restlessly, was her ordeal going to last?
Yet another fact added to Ivy Lexton’s discomfort during those long days of waiting.
That fact, or rather problem, concerned Roger Gretorex. She found it increasingly difficult to prevent him from coming to the flat. When alone with her he made no secret of his dislike of meeting her husband on “Hail fellow, well met!” terms, and yet he longed to be with her every moment of his scanty leisure.
At times she felt she almost hated him, for by now her whole mind was filled with the thought of Rushworth, and of all that she felt convinced Rushworth was going to mean in her life. But she could not yet afford to break with Gretorex. Afford, indeed, was still the right word, for again he was supplying her with what had always been to Ivy the staff of life—petty cash.
But she came to one great resolution, and that was to go no more to the humble little house in the Westminster slum with which she had now a secret, terrifying association. And so, as her slightest wish was law to Gretorex, the two began meeting now in a picture gallery, or, when it was a fine day, in Kensington Gardens, which was conveniently near the charming flat the Lextons owed to the generous kindness of Miles Rushworth.
So far Ivy had managed to conceal her husband’s illness from Gretorex. With regard to that mysterious illness, it was of her lover, and of her lover alone, that up to now she had felt afraid.
As a matter of fact Roger Gretorex had already completely forgotten that idle talk of theirs concerning the Branksome poisoning mystery. But every word that had been uttered during the evening when she had had supper at Ferry Place, and every moment that she had spent in the surgery, remained uncannily present to Ivy’s mind.
And now, on this eighth of November, she had been out for an hour, looking into the shop windows which line Kensington High Street. She had even gone into one famous emporium and bought a new, and very expensive, black model hat. Though quite unobtrusive in shape, it was at once as simple and as unusual as only a French model hat can be. She had felt that she might have cause to be really very much put out if that perfect little hat were bought, over her head so to speak, during the next few days.
At last, feeling more cheerful, she walked briskly back to the Duke of Kent Mansion. The pleasant-spoken porter—all men, even lift porters, were always pleasant-spoken to Ivy Lexton—took her up in the lift. She let herself in with her latchkey, for she always liked slipping in and out of the flat alone.
As she went through the hall towards her charming bedroom, the door of her husband’s room opened, and Nurse Bradfield came out, looking flustered and worried.
“Mr. Lexton doesn’t seem so well, and as we haven’t seen Dr. Lancaster for two days, I telephoned to say I’d like him to come now. But oh, Mrs. Lexton, such a dreadful thing has happened!”
Under her delicately applied rouge, the colour drifted from Ivy’s face.
“Something dreadful?” she repeated mechanically.
“Yes, indeed, for Dr. Lancaster has gone and broken his leg playing golf! He was staying with his brother-in-law at Seaford, for one night only, but now he’s laid up there, and they don’t know for how long.”
Ivy’s first feeling was one of relief. She had been so dreadfully frightened just now lest “something” should have been found out.
But even so, as the nurse went on speaking, there did come over her a slight feeling of misgiving.
“However, Dr. Berwick, the doctor who works in with Dr. Lancaster, so to speak, is coming round instead!” Nurse Bradfield continued.
“I hope he’s nice,” said Ivy earnestly.
The accident to Dr. Lancaster was real bad luck. He was a dear old thing, and so truly fond of her. When they had been almost penniless, he had attended her twice for nothing.
There came a curious look over the nurse’s face. She hesitated, and then made up her mind to be frank.
“To tell you the truth, Mrs. Lexton, I don’t much like Dr. Berwick! But then I’m prejudiced, for I once had a nasty little scrap with him when I was nursing another case for Dr. Lancaster. I consider that Dr. Berwick was very rude to me.”
“How horrid of him!” exclaimed Ivy sympathetically, although she had not really been attending to what Nurse Bradfield was saying.
But she did listen, with startled attention, when the nurse suddenly added:
“However, he’s said to be very clever, and he’s much more up-to-date than
