“Yes, I did,” she said falteringly.
It seemed to her that he was looking at her with such a hard, cold look on his bloodless face. She even had a queer feeling that this Mr. Oram could see right through her, and she felt a touch of deadly terror.
But Ivy’s fears were quite unfounded. The solicitor’s view of Ivy Lexton was very much what “the gentleman from Scotland Yard’s” had been. But whereas Inspector Orpington had liked and pitied her, Rushworth’s lawyer already regretted that, if only as a matter of common humanity, he must now secure for her the best legal advice in his power.
John Oram had the faults of his qualities. His life’s work had brought him in contact with more than one skilful adventuress. But against such a woman, when she came across his path, the dice were already loaded.
Thus he had never had much trouble with the kind of girl who infatuates a foolish “elder son,” and then, maybe, tries to extract an enormous sum out of him by a threat of a breach of promise case. More difficult to deal with he had found, in his long career as a family solicitor, the sort of woman blackmailer who has letters in her possession. But, even in regard to that type of woman, Mr. Oram, with the law on his side, invariably came out of the duel triumphant.
He had never had to do, even remotely, with a case of murder, and the last thing that would have occurred to his mind was that this lovely young fribble of a woman—for such was his old-fashioned expression—could be a secret poisoner.
“I think you must authorise me to instruct counsel to represent you at the inquest which I understand is about to be held.”
“What is counsel?” asked Ivy.
She felt surprised and uneasy. Was this disagreeable old man going to run up what she knew was called “a lawyer’s bill” which she would have to pay out of Rushworth’s munificent gift?
Mr. Oram looked at her with scarce concealed contempt.
“A counsel,” he replied drily, “is any member of the Bar. But naturally some are better than others, and, with your permission, I will obtain for you the services of a gentleman who is thoroughly experienced in cases of this kind.”
The next morning Mr. Oram arrived at his office early, and, after glancing over his letters, he had just made out a cheque for two thousand pounds to “the order of Mrs. Ivy Lexton,” when a card was brought into his private room. But before he looked at the card he had already fully made up his mind that he could see no one, however important their business might be, till his return from Kensington.
Already the solicitor and his head clerk, Alfred Finch, had gone into the question of who should represent Mrs. Lexton at the inquest, and at the various other proceedings which were likely to take place in connection with Jervis Lexton’s mysterious death. Money, as the saying is, being no object, they had selected as her counsel one known to them to be by far the soundest man for that sort of watching brief.
The old lawyer was sorry indeed that Miles Rushworth had brought him in touch with what he termed to himself “this very unpleasant business.”
His feeling was not shared by his head clerk. Alfred Finch was already keenly interested in the Lexton case. He was an intelligent man, keen about his work whatever it might be, and he already had managed to make certain pertinent inquiries. Indeed, he very much startled Mr. Oram by a remark he made towards the end of their discussion.
“They do say, sir, that Scotland Yard as good as know already who poisoned Mr. Lexton. I think it quite probable that you will see the news of an arrest on the newspaper placards on your way to Duke of Kent Mansion.”
“What sort of person has been, or is to be, arrested, Finch? Have you discovered that?”
“Well, sir, I haven’t yet got hold of the man’s name. But I gather he’s a gentleman, and one who was described to me as—” he coughed discreetly “—a beau of Mrs. Lexton. Mrs. Lexton seems to have been a bit of a flyer, sir. She was out every night dancing at what they call a smart nightclub, or in some big hotel, during the days when her unfortunate husband was being slowly done to death by this friend of hers.”
“Have you heard anything serious against Mrs. Lexton’s character?”
Mr. Oram was very old-fashioned. The term “nightclub” signified to him something vaguely terrible, and utterly disreputable.
“Oh, no, sir, there’s nothing against her. On the contrary, the story goes that, though the man under suspicion was crazy about her, she only flirted with him, so to speak. Mrs. Lexton, it seems, gave him away, quite unknowingly, to the C.I.D. inspector who is in charge of the case.”
Finch smiled, “They say it’s likely to be the most important case of the kind there’s been at the Old Bailey for many a long day. The public are about ready for another murder mystery.”
“Not much mystery about it, if your information is correct, Finch,” observed Mr. Oram grimly.
“It’s Mrs. Lexton—they say she is such a very pretty, smart little lady—who will provide the mystery and the sensation, sir. She’ll be the principal witness for the Crown.”
Mr. Oram felt very much disturbed on hearing this piece of information.
“I do not regard myself as being in any sense Mrs. Lexton’s legal representative,” he said stiffly. “With regard to this lady, I am simply acting as Mr. Miles Rushworth’s solicitor.”
And now, just as he was reaching out for his hat and coat, feeling more perturbed than he would have cared to acknowledge, a client for whom he had a great regard called to see him. Though John Oram was not the kind of man who changes his mind lightly when
