As she walked, that other warning which French had given her seemed to stand out in her mind with an ever growing insistence. Those addresses, the two places to which she must not go! The further she walked, the more powerfully they drew her thoughts. That at Harrow did not so greatly interest her: it was far away. But Waterloo was near. She had been there scores of times. Not indeed in York Road, but close by. She would have liked … But of course she couldn’t dream of going there after what Mr. French had said.
She turned resolutely into the Green Park, but ever her thoughts reverted to the coachbuilder’s yard. Presently without conscious volition on her part she found herself leaving the Park and walking in the direction of the River. “This will never do,” she thought; then she saw that it could not possibly be any harm for her just to walk past the end of the street and look down. She had an uneasy twinge of conscience as she crossed Westminster Bridge, but the place drew her with extraordinary insistence.
Ten minutes later she found herself actually turning into Tate’s Lane. But here she drew the line. French had said she was not to go and she would not. Therefore contenting herself with a long, eager look down the unattractive thoroughfare, she put temptation behind her and passed on.
But still the place drew her. Aimlessly strolling on with time to kill, she thought she would go down the next parallel street and have a look at Tate’s Lane from the other end. Perhaps from there she would see the builder’s yard.
Thus it came to pass that at just she was slowly sauntering along Killowen Street.
She had walked a hundred yards or more when she saw coming towards her a green saloon car with a figure which looked familiar at the wheel. No, she was not mistaken; it was indeed Mr. Style! He was alone, and though he evidently did not see her, he was stopping, for he was slowing down and signalling to following drivers. As she stared at him, he turned the car into an entry almost beside where she was standing.
Her heart beat fast. Here was news for Mr. French! Was it possible that where the tremendous organization of Scotland Yard had failed, she was going to succeed? Mr. French would revise his estimate of her. She would prove herself less of a fool than he had supposed.
At this moment, as he was crossing the footpath, Style saw her. For the fraction of a second an ugly gleam shone in his eyes, then he smiled pleasantly.
“Good morning, Miss Moran,” he called. “This is an unexpected pleasure. What are you doing in this part of the world?” His tone was genial and he looked as if delighted by the meeting.
Molly felt a sudden urge to take to her heels. Then she saw that she could not do so. Style must not be allowed to think that she suspected him. She must satisfy him that the meeting was accidental and that she did not connect him with the half crown affair, then pass on and ring up French from the first shop she came to. If she played her part well Style would suspect nothing and might stay where he was until French arrived. She therefore smiled back at him and walked up to the car.
“Good morning, Mr. Style. I didn’t expect to see you either, though I have often wanted to do so since our last meeting.”
This piece of mendacity was due to a sudden idea. If she could engage Style in conversation she would probably be able to dispel any suspicion he might have formed. She would tell him that, having come into some money, she wished to resume betting on the Monte Carlo tables.
“In that case I’m very pleased that you have found me. Will you excuse me for one second till I get the car out of the way of the traffic and then I shall be at your service.”
He drove the car through the entry, turned it in the yard, and driving back, stopped inside the entry. Then he came out to Molly.
“Will you come into the office?” he invited. “Though I carry on bookmaking as a spare-time job, I really work in this shop. I think only one clerk is in at the moment, so that we can talk without being disturbed.”
In spite of herself Molly hesitated. French’s warning recurred to her with increased urgency. Was not this the very thing he had cautioned her against? Then she told herself she must not be a coward. She could see through the glass door into the office. There was nothing terrifying about its appearance. She could also see the clerk. With him there and in broad daylight and practically in a crowded street nothing could possibly happen to her. Nevertheless it was with some trepidation that she followed Style in.
He led her through the opening in the counter, drew a chair forward near the roll-top desk, and asked her to sit down.
“I’m frightfully sorry,” he declared, “but there is a bit of business I must attend to before we have our chat. Do you mind if I leave you for a moment? The inscription on a football cup which we are making has been changed and I want to stop them before they cut the lettering.”
He went out through the door into the entry and she presently saw him pass the window at the back. After a short stare the clerk had resumed his occupation of transcribing entries into a
