The supper was laid in a rose-panelled dining-room.
“I will help you, my dear,” said Mr. Marl. “We won’t bother about the servants.” But she shook her head.
“I can eat nothing, and I think I’ll go home now,” she said.
“Wait, wait,” he begged. “I want to have a little talk with you about your boss. I can do you a lot of good in that firm—at the bank, Thalia. Who called you Thalia?”
“My godfathers and godmothers, M. or N.,” said Thalia solemnly, and Mr. Marl squeaked his delight at her humour.
He was passing behind her, ostensibly to reach one of the dishes which were set on the table, when he stooped and, had she not slipped from his grasp, would have kissed her.
“I think I’ll go home,” said Thalia.
“Rubbish!” Mr. Marl was annoyed, and when Mr. Marl was annoyed he forgot that he made any pretensions to gentle birth. “Come and sit down.”
She looked at him long and thoughtfully, and then, turning suddenly, went to the door, and turned the handle. It was locked.
“I think you had better open this door, Mr. Marl,” she said quietly.
“I think not,” chuckled Mr. Marl. “Now, Thalia, be the dear, good little girl I thought you were.”
“I should hate to dissipate any illusions you may have about my character,” said Thalia coolly. “You’ll open that door, please.”
“Certainly.”
He ambled toward the door, feeling in his pocket, then before she could realise his intention he had seized her in his arms. He was a powerful man, a head taller than she, and his big hands gripped her arms like steel clamps.
“Let me go,” said Thalia steadily. She did not lose her nerve nor show the least sign of fear.
Suddenly he felt her tense muscles relax. He had conquered.
With a quick intake of breath he released his hold of the sullen girl.
“Let me have some supper,” she said, and he beamed.
“Now, my dear, you are being the little girl I—what’s that?”
The last was a squeak of terror.
She had strolled slowly to the table and had taken up the brocade bag. He had watched her and thought she was seeking a handkerchief. Instead she had produced a small, black, egg-shaped thing, and with a flick of her left hand had pulled out a small pin and dropped the pin on to the table. He knew what it was—he had dabbled in army supplies and had seen many Mills bombs.
“Put it down—no, no, put the pin in, you young fool!” he whimpered.
“Don’t worry,” she said coolly. “I have a spare pin in my bag—open that door!”
His hand shook like a man with palsy as he fumbled at the keyhole. Then he turned and blinked at her.
“A Mills bomb!” he mumbled, and fell back an obese mass of quivering flesh against the delicate panelling.
Slowly she nodded.
“A Mills bomb,” she said softly, and went out, still gripping the lever of the deadly egg-like thing. He followed her to the door and slammed it after her, then went shakily up the stairs to his bedroom.
“Flush” Barnet, standing in the shadow of a clothespress, heard the click of locks and the snap of a bolt as Mr. Marl entered his room.
The house was still. Through the thick door of Mr. Marl’s bedroom no sound came. There was no transom to the door, and the only evidence that there was somebody in his room was afforded by a fret of light in the ceiling of the passage, which came through a ventilator in the wall of the bedroom.
During the war this house had been used as an officers’ convalescent home, and certain hygienic arrangements had been introduced, which were more useful than beautiful.
“Flush” crept softly in his stockinged feet to the door and listened. He thought he heard the man talking to himself and looked around for some means by which he could obtain a view of the room. There was a small oaken table in the corridor and he placed this against the wall and mounted. His eyes came to the level of the ventilator and he looked down upon Mr. Marl pacing the room in his shirtsleeves, obviously disturbed. Then “Flush” Barnet heard a sound. Just a faint “hush-hush” of feet on a carpet, and he slipped down, walked quickly along the corridor, passing the head of the stairs.
The hall below was in darkness, but he felt rather than saw a figure on the stairway. Whether it was man or woman he could not say, and did not stop to discover. It might be one of the servants returning furtively—servants did not always stay away when they were bidden. “Flush” passed to the farther end of the corridor and from an angle in the wall watched. He saw nobody pass the head of the stairs, but there was no background. After a while he crept back again. There was nothing to be gained by forcing the door of Marl’s bedroom, even if it were possible. He had had time to inspect the house at his leisure, and he had already decided upon investigating the little safe in the library, for Mr. Marl’s own room had drawn blank.
The “investigation,” which took two hours and the employment of one of the best sets of tools in the profession, was not unprofitable. But it did not reveal the huge sum of money which he anticipated. He hesitated. The night was too far through to make an attempt on the bedroom, even if he had not already searched it from wall to wall. He folded his kit and slipped it into one pocket, his loot into another, and went upstairs again. There was no sound from Marl’s room, but the light was still on. He tried to look through the keyhole, but the key was still there. The only inducement there was for him to enter the
