“Very well, Finch. You go off,” he said. “Start at once! And of course no expense is to be spared?”
He glanced at his client, and she quickly nodded.
“Meanwhile, I’ll make rough notes of any information that Mrs. Gretorex is good enough to give me. But I don’t suppose she really knows very much.”
And then in a serious tone he asked her, “Were you yourself acquainted with Mr. and Mrs. Lexton?”
He put the question just as the other man was leaving the room, and Mrs. Gretorex saw Finch stay his steps. It was clear that he wished to hear her answer.
“I’ve never seen Mr. Lexton; but Mrs. Lexton spent a weekend at Anchorford last winter.”
Both men noticed the somewhat embarrassed way in which Roger Gretorex’s mother answered that question.
At last, reluctantly, Finch shut the door. How useful it would be, sometimes, to find oneself in two places at once!
Being the manner of woman she was, Mrs. Gretorex did not try to conceal anything of what was in her heart from her old and trusted friend.
“I am absolutely certain, Mr. Oram, that Roger had nothing to do with Mr. Lexton’s death. On the other hand, it would be dishonest to conceal from you my conviction that he is in terrible danger.”
“What makes you think that, if you are certain he is innocent?”
“Because,” answered Mrs. Gretorex in a low tone, “he loves this woman, Ivy Lexton, desperately. He admitted as much to me last night, before we supposed there was any fear of an immediate arrest, but after he had already had an interview with someone from Scotland Yard—”
“Roger in love with a married woman. That’s the last thing I should have expected to hear!”
Mr. Oram got up. “I have a bit of business I must attend to this morning, Mrs. Gretorex. But I suggest that you wait here till a telephone message comes through from Finch.”
As they shook hands, “I beg you, I implore you,” she said in a stifled voice, “to try and believe Roger innocent.”
Mr. Oram said to himself, “I will—until he is proved guilty.” Aloud he exclaimed:
“Of course I believe him innocent! But, Mrs. Gretorex, I have something very serious to say to you; that is, I feel that this is not the kind of case of which I have the necessary experience, and I doubt if I should be able to afford your son the kind of legal assistance which he needs.”
He saw a look of terror and of fear flash over her face.
“Don’t desert me in my extremity!” she exclaimed. “You know as well as I do that I haven’t a single man relation in the world. You, Mr. Oram, are my only hope.” And he saw that tears were rolling down her cheeks.
“If you feel that, Mrs. Gretorex, then be assured that I shall do my best for Roger.”
XIV
While that, to both of them, woeful conversation was going on between the mother of Roger Gretorex and the old lawyer, Ivy Lexton sat in her drawing-room, waiting impatiently for John Oram, and—his cheque.
She felt quite differently from what she had felt the day before, and happier from every point of view. For fear, that most haunting of secret housemates, had gone from her. Indeed, after seeing Mr. Oram, she had spent the rest of the afternoon at the establishment of the dressmaker who was just then the fashion in her set. Whilst there she had bought four black frocks “off the peg,” and she had also ordered a splendid fur coat.
No wonder that she was now waiting feverishly for the old lawyer to call and take her across to the bank. Two thousand pounds? What an enormous lot of money! It was the first time Ivy had had even a quarter of such a sum absolutely at her disposal. In the old days, when Jervis was still a man of means, she had never had a regular allowance. She had simply run up bills, and Jervis, grumbling good-naturedly, had paid them.
But the moments, the minutes, the quarters of an hour slipped by, and Mr. Oram dallied. What could have happened? She had become uncomfortably aware yesterday that Miles Rushworth’s solicitor did not like her, and that he thought Rushworth’s interest in her strange and inexplicable, so she began to feel thoroughly “rattled,” as she expressed it to herself.
At last she heard the lift stop outside the flat. What did that portend? The longed-for coming of Mr. Oram with his bountiful cheque, or more trouble for her, for poor little Ivy?
Then she gave a gasp—but it was a gasp of joy, for she had heard the lawyer’s frigid voice inquiring whether she were in. Before the maid could open the door of the drawing-room she had opened it herself and exclaimed, “Is it Mr. Oram?”
She was too full of instinctive tact when dealing with any man to utter even a light word of reproach, though the solicitor was over an hour later than he had said he would be.
Mr. Oram walked into the drawing-room, and then, very deliberately, he shut the door behind him.
Again there came over Ivy a sick feeling of fear. He looked stern, forbidding, and as a certain kind of man looks when he is the bearer of bad news.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” he said abruptly, “but I couldn’t help myself. I’ve brought the cheque, and we will proceed in a few moments to the bank. But first I would like to tell you, Mrs. Lexton, that circumstances have arisen that will make it impossible for me to act as your lawyer with regard to any proceedings that may arise in connection with your husband’s death.”
He cleared his throat, and then went on: “As I cannot act for you, I will find you a first-class man, who will probably have far more time to devote to your affairs than I should have been able to do.”
She looked at him, wondering what this really meant, and a tide of
