“It’s more difficult than you think,” she said at last. “He did me a great service once—”
Battle interrupted her.
“Before you go any further, Mrs. Revel, I’d just like to say something. Last night, after you and Mr. Eversleigh had gone to bed, Mr. Cade told me all about the letters and the man who was killed in your house.”
“He did?” gasped Virginia.
“Yes, and very wisely too. It clears up a lot of misunderstanding. There’s only one thing he didn’t tell me—how long he had known you. Now I’ve a little idea of my own about that. You shall tell me if I’m right or wrong. I think that the day he came to your house in Pont Street was the first time you had ever seen him. Ah! I see I’m right. It was so.”
Virginia said nothing. For the first time she felt afraid of this stolid man with the expressionless face. She understood what Anthony had meant when he said there were no flies on Superintendent Battle.
“Has he ever told you anything about his life?” the detective continued. “Before he was in South Africa, I mean. Canada? Or before that, the Sudan? Or about his boyhood?”
Virginia merely shook her head.
“And yet I’d bet he’s got something worth telling. You can’t mistake the face of a man who’s led a life of daring and adventure. He could tell you some interesting tales if he cared to.”
“If you want to know about his past life, why don’t you cable to that friend of his, Mr. McGrath?” Virginia asked.
“Oh, we have. But it seems he’s up country somewhere. Still, there’s no doubt Mr. Cade was in Bulawayo when he said he was. But I wondered what he’d been doing before he came to South Africa. He’d only had that job with Castle’s about a month.” He took out his watch again. “I must be off. The car will be waiting.”
Virginia watched him retreat to the house. But she did not move from her chair. She hoped that Anthony might appear and join her. Instead came Bill Eversleigh, with a prodigious yawn.
“Thank God, I’ve got a chance to speak to you at last, Virginia,” he complained.
“Well, speak to me very gently, Bill darling, or I shall burst into tears.”
“Has someone been bullying you?”
“Not exactly bullying me. Getting inside my mind and turning it inside out. I feel as though I’d been jumped on by an elephant.”
“Not Battle?”
“Yes, Battle. He’s a terrible man really.”
“Well, never mind Battle. I say, Virginia, I do love you so awfully—”
“Not this morning, Bill. I’m not strong enough. Anyway, I’ve always told you the best people don’t propose before lunch.”
“Good Lord,” said Bill. “I could propose to you before breakfast.”
Virginia shuddered.
“Bill, be sensible and intelligent for a minute. I want to ask your advice.”
“If you’d once make up your mind to it, and say you’d marry me, you’d feel miles better, I’m sure. Happier, you know, and more settled down.”
“Listen to me, Bill. Proposing to me is your idée fixe. All men propose when they’re bored and can’t think of anything to say. Remember my age and my widowed state, and go and make love to a pure young girl.”
“My darling Virginia—Oh, blast! here’s that French idiot bearing down on us.”
It was indeed M. Lemoine, black-bearded and correct of demeanour as ever.
“Good morning, madame. You are not fatigued, I trust?”
“Not in the least.”
“That is excellent. Good morning, Mr. Eversleigh.”
“How would it be if we promenaded ourselves a little, the three of us?” suggested the Frenchman.
“How about it, Bill?” said Virginia.
“Oh, all right,” said the unwilling young gentleman by her side.
He heaved himself up from the grass, and the three of them walked slowly along. Virginia between the two men. She was sensible at once of a strange undercurrent of excitement in the Frenchman, though she had no clue as to what caused it.
Soon, with her usual skill, she was putting him at his ease, asking him questions, listening to his answers, and gradually drawing him out. Presently he was telling them anecdotes of the famous King Victor. He talked well, albeit with a certain bitterness, as he described the various ways in which the detective bureau had been outwitted.
But all the time, despite the real absorption of Lemoine in his own narrative, Virginia had a feeling that he had some other object in view. Moreover, she judged that Lemoine, under cover of his story, was deliberately striking out his own course across the park. They were not just strolling idly. He was deliberately guiding them in a certain direction.
Suddenly, he broke off his story and looked round. They were standing just where the drive intersected the park before turning an abrupt corner by a clump of trees. Lemoine was staring at a vehicle approaching them from the direction of the house.
Virginia’s eyes followed his.
“It’s the luggage cart,” she said, “taking Isaacstein’s luggage and his valet to the station.”
“Is that so?” said Lemoine. He glanced down at his own watch and started. “A thousand pardons. I have been longer here than I meant—such charming company. Is it possible, do you think, that I might have a lift to the village?”
He stepped out on to the drive, and signalled with his arm. The luggage cart stopped, and after a word or two of explanation Lemoine climbed in behind. He raised his hat politely to Virginia, and drove off.
The other two stood and watched the cart disappearing with puzzled expressions. Just as the cart swung round the bend, a suitcase fell off into the drive. The cart went on.
“Come on,” said Virginia to Bill. “We’re going to see something interesting. That suitcase was thrown out.”
“Nobody’s noticed it,” said Bill.
They ran down the drive towards the fallen piece of luggage. Just as they reached it, Lemoine came round the corner of the bend on foot. He was hot from walking fast.
“I was obliged to descend,” he said pleasantly. “I found that I
