understand me.”
“I think I understand,” said Rollison. “You may be right, but behind that, further back in the years, there will be good things, well worth remembering.”
“Can you be sure?”
Rollison smiled. “You didn’t become what you are to-night by accident. This is the real you!”
While they were waiting for a taxi he helped her on with her coat, wondering whether Grice had sent her dress and the coat to every dressmaker of consequence in London. Molyneau might not have made the gown but could well know whence it had come.
He went out without a coat, and found it surprisingly cold —her mink was not superfluous. As they waited by the kerb he looked about him, but saw no shadowy figures suggesting that they were being watched.
The lost lady said:
“You have asked few questions, Mr. Rollison.”
“Very few,” he said.
“Do you not even want to know where I went from the nursing home?”
It was much better for her to volunteer information than for him to ask for it, and he was sorry that the belated taxi chose that moment to arrive. He gave the address and then sat back in the taxi.
“A man was waiting for me,” she said, suddenly.
“Where?”
“At the corner of the street.”
“A young man or an old one?”
“A young man—younger, yes, younger than you. A good-looking man, who was very amiable. He first took me to a cafe and we had tea. He said very little, only that you were most anxious to see me. We went then to a small house, I do not know where. I rested there while he was out. Then, when he returned, he put me into a taxi and gave the driver your address. That is
“Had you ever seen him before?”
“Never. He said that he was a friend of yours.”
“I see,” said Rollison.
He did not see, for the incident of the young man simply made more mystery.
The taxi pulled up outside Barrington House, and as they climbed out the door opened and the footman appeared. He bowed as the woman passed him, and inclined his head to Rollison. In his manner there remained a faint suggestion of insolence.
“Madam is waiting for you, sir,” he said.
Rollison manoeuvred so that he could see into the big drawing-room as his companion entered. She walked as if she were used to such houses and such company. He could not see her face, but he saw Hilda’s and Gwendoline’s. He hoped to see something more than surprise—and he did so, but only a hint of mortification and displeasure on Gwendoline’s.
Hilda recovered from her surprise and held out both hands.
“My dear, how wonderful to see you well again.”
“You are very kind,” said Lady Lost.
“Gwen, isn’t it wonderful?” cried Hilda.
Gwendoline said that it was, and smiled distantly. Although it was evening, she was dressed in light-coloured tweeds, her hair was untidy, and she looked tired and restless. Hilda was in a dark green cocktail dress. The three women presented a remarkable contrast. Gwendoline, as if fresh from the country, sturdy, lacking all the qualities of allurement which were so lavished on Lady Lost, and Hilda,
“You have come to stay with us, I hope,” said Hilda. “Yes, you must, I will not take no for an answer. Gwendoline will show you your room, you will want to take off your coat.”
Lady Lost hesitated.
“Yes,” said Rollison. “Of course.”
“Gwen!” called Hilda, with a note of command. Reluctantly Gwendoline came forward, as reluctantly the other woman went with her. When the door closed Hilda stopped pretending, and through the social mask Rollison saw the anxiety and the fear that lurked within her. “Rolly,” she said, “did you
“Yes,” said Rollison.
“How can we talk in front of her? I sent Gwen out with her but they will not stay for long, there is no time”
“We can make the best of what there is,” said Rollison. “What’s this about David?”
She said: “He has
“Since when?”
“Two days ago. He left Sussex, and said that he would return the same evening, and when he did not arrive I telephoned his office, where his secretary was still working— Rolly, he had left to catch the train! I telephoned here, and he had not been seen. I thought perhaps the train was delayed, but no, it was on time. I waited for the
