Poor little Ivy! Poor precious little love! No wonder she had been frightened, made quite unlike her gay, brave self, by the ordeal she had just gone through. How he longed to go and seize her in his arms, to bear her away to some place where they could be just themselves—lovers!
The thought of a crowded restaurant was intolerable. He no longer felt hungry. Besides, the man, he supposed him to be a detective, mentioned by Ivy, would soon be here.
All at once he heard the sounds made by a broom in the passage outside.
He opened the door. “Will you come in here for a moment, Mrs. Huntley?”
The old woman shuffled into the room, and he looked at her fixedly.
“I feel very tired today—too tired to go out.”
Taking a two-shilling piece out of his pocket, he handed it to her: “Will you get me some pressed beef or ham? I suppose there’s bread and butter in the house? I’m ashamed to bother you, for I know you’re in a hurry to get home.”
Said Mrs. Huntley, with a rather pathetic laugh, “I’d do a good bit more than that for you, doctor! Why, I’d go to any trouble for you.”
“Mrs. Huntley?”
He moved a little nearer to the old woman.
“You’ve just said that you’d go to any trouble for me—”
“Ay, and so I would! I’ll never forget how good you were to that poor daughter of mine. Why, it’s thanks to you that she died easy. I’m not likely to forget that, however long I may live.”
“The time has come when you can do something—something very important—for me,” he said, wondering if he were being wise or foolish.
“Can I, sir? You’ve only got to say what it is. I don’t mind no trouble.”
“I regard you,” he said slowly, “as a very superior person, as well as a very trustworthy one, Mrs. Huntley.”
She grew red with pleasure at his kind, flattering words, and, troubled as he was, Gretorex’s heart went out to her.
“All I want you to do,” he went on, “is to hold your tongue on my behalf. The time may come when you will be asked what sort of visitors I have received since I came to live here. You may be questioned as to whether any ladies ever came to see me—”
He waited a moment, feeling acutely uncomfortable at having to ask the old woman to lie for him.
“You will be doing me a great service, Mrs. Huntley, if you will answer that no friends ever come to see me unless they have an appointment. Also that, to the best of your belief, the only time you have ever seen any lady here was when I gave a tea-party some time ago. Do I make myself quite clear?”
“Yes, sir, quite clear.”
“And have I your promise?”
“Yes, sir, you have my promise.”
He took her withered, work-worn hand in his.
“I’m very grateful to you. This may mean more to me than you will ever know.”
“I’ll go and get the things for your lunch, sir.”
She shut the door behind her, and a moment later, as he saw her pass the window, a hot tide of humiliation seemed to overwhelm him. He had seen, by the expression on her face, that everything there was to know, she knew.
As for Mrs. Huntley, she felt quite sure that Dr. Gretorex, who, though she knew him to be far from well off, had spared neither time nor money in his care of her dying daughter, was about to figure as a corespondent in a divorce case.
Well, in so far as she could help him, she’d do anything. Lie for him? Of course she would! Where’s the good of caring for a person if you’re not willing to do anything for him or her? Such was Mrs. Huntley’s simple philosophy of life. She was a good hater as well as a good lover. In her fashion she loved Gretorex, but she hated Ivy Lexton.
Those who are called “the poor” are seldom deceived in a man’s or a woman’s real nature and character. They are too close up against the hard realities of life to make many mistakes. It requires no touchstone to teach them the difference between dross and gold.
About three o’clock the telephone bell rang again.
Gretorex hoped for a moment to hear Ivy’s voice again, but it was a man who asked, “Can I speak to Dr. Roger Gretorex?”
“My name is Roger Gretorex.”
“I have a matter of business to discuss with you, Dr. Gretorex; and I’m telephoning to know if I may come along now, as you are in?”
“Pray do so. But may I ask your name? And would you mind telling me your business?” he called back.
“My name is Orpington. As to my business, it would take too long to explain. But I will be with you in a very few minutes.”
Mechanically Gretorex began to tidy his consulting-room. For the first time in his life he felt horribly afraid, he knew not of what, but that made his dread of the coming inquisition all the sharper, the fuller of suspense.
His mother had managed to keep one conservatory going, and though he had given away a good many of the flowers he had brought up with him this morning, there was still a lovely nosegay on his writing-table. And the sight of these fragrant blossoms recalled poignantly to her son’s mind the woman who had gathered them for him. Was he going to bring sorrow, and what to her would be worse than sorrow—shame—on her honoured name?
X
As Inspector Orpington, of the Criminal Investigation Department, Scotland Yard, entered dusty, poverty-stricken Ferry Place, he made up his mind that he would be, so far as was possible in the circumstances, frank with the man he was on his
