“I am Miss Armitage.”
“Then I hope you can spare me a few minutes,” said Rollison, and walked past her into the hall. She looked still more surprised but did not protest. She closed the door, glanced at him curiously, and then led the way to the room where she had talked with the young man. Almost the first thing Rollison saw was a man’s cigarette case, large enough to hold twenty cigarettes, on a small table by the side of an easy chair.
The flatlet was comfortably and pleasantly furnished. There was good taste in the flowered cretonnes at the windows and loose-covers of the same material on the three easy chairs and a pouffe in front of the electric fire. A small gateleg table stood in the middle of the room, a console radio was the most expensive piece of furniture there—it was in a corner, with a vase of antirrhinums and phlox on it.
Rollison handed the girl his card.
He did not think she had ever heard of him, and he felt quite sure that she had not sent him the photograph.
“I don’t quite understand why you have called,” she said.
“I hope I will be able to save you trouble,” said Rollison, and accepted a chair which she touched. As she sat down opposite him she looked apprehensive, and he went on: “I’ve come from the nursing home.”
She was immediately on the defensive. “I have never seen you there.”
“I hadn’t been there until this afternoon,” said Rollison. “Miss Armitage, there was an unfortunate incident after you left. Your patient was taken seriously ill.”
As she sat back aghast, she seemed all eyes. There was green and blue and grey in those eyes, which were glistening
as if it would not take much to make her cry.
“The illness probably won’t prove fatal, but it might. In any case, the police will make close inquiries into what happened while you were in the room with her, and why you left at such short notice.”
“I—I was taken ill.” The words lacked conviction. She had been allowed no time in which to collect herself; had he spoken to her an hour later, she might have managed to sound convincing.
“Were you?”
“Of course! I had permission to leave!”
“You don’t look ill.”
“You are impertinent!” she snapped, but he thought her resistance was likely to collapse at any moment.
“I don’t think impertinent’s the word,” Rollison said, gently. “The police will make sure that they get the truth, you know, and they will think it odd that you show no signs of illness now.”
“Are—are you a policeman?”
“No, I’m responsible only to myself,” said Rollison, “and what I learn I can keep to myself. Why did you pretend to be taken ill?”
He was afraid that she was going to be stubborn even now. If he was to help her, and he was quite sure that she badly needed help, he needed her confidence and trust. So he sat back, smiling at her invitingly, while she fought her battle. He could see the changing thoughts in the expression of her eyes. Abruptly, she said:
“I did it to help a friend.”
“How could it help anyone?” demanded Rollison.
“A friend of mine knew—knew about the patient who has lost her memory.” She was talking quickly, rather like a child anxious to be finished with a recitation which it had been learning with great difficulty. “He said that he thought he knew her but wasn’t sure. He wanted to look at her. He could have done that through the window, of course, but—well, he said that a quick glance wouldn’t be any good. He suggested that I left the room without telling anyone. Then if another nurse entered the room and saw him there it wouldn’t be serious for me, as I was supposed to be ill. I let him persuade me. Once I’d left the room and said that I was unwell. I had to keep up the pretence. Matron sent me home. That is all I can tell you.”
“Except the name of the friend,” said Rollison.
She set her lips tightly and did not answer.
“Isn’t that mistaken loyalty?” asked Rollison.
She did not answer.
“You’ll have to tell this story to the police,” said Rollison, “and they’ll insist on knowing who it was. If you refuse to tell them they will think the story is a false one; assume that you administered the poison to”
“Poison!” gasped Phyllis. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” said Rollison. “I am quite sure.”
“Poison!” she exclaimed again, and she rose from her chair and looked at him, her eyes rounded with horror, and her breathing quickening. She held her hands up in front of her, as if to fend off an evil thing. “I—didn’t dream” she continued, and then she turned away and stepped to the window, where she stood looking out on the dreary house opposite. “I can’t believe that Marcus would do that!”
“Someone did, this afternoon,” said Rollison.
She said: “I can’t believe that Marcus would do anything like that. He’s cruel sometimes, and—but that has nothing to do with it.” She swung round, suddenly angry. “I believe you’re lying to me! I believe you’re trying to make me say too much, that you want to make me incriminate myself.”
“Now don’t talk nonsense,” said Rollison. He stood up and went to the window by her side. “I would like to help you. I have an interest in the lady in question, too, and I shall have to go on making inquiries, whether you
