“You trust Pomeroy and yet distrust the woman?” Then, when he saw the hurt in her eyes, Rollison relented and rested a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry too much, Gwen. We’ll find him—but we must know everything, and the police must be told at once.”
“That’s—impossible.”
“You’ve a wrong idea of the police, too,” said Rollison. “Is there anything else?”
“The rumours,” said Gwen.
“They didn’t start by accident,” said Rollison.
He left her and hurried to the hall. Jolly was standing by a table on which was a pile of gramophone records in cardboard containers, as well as a coffee-pot, looking incongruous against the panelled background of the hall. Dressed again in her furs, Lady Lost was standing by Hilda’s side, and Hilda was saying:
“Of course I understand. I am so very sorry. Please do forgive my daughter.”
“Jolly,” said Rollison, going to his side, “have you a taxi waiting?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then take the records, the coffee and Lady Lost back to the flat,” said Rollison. “I’ll get there as soon as I can.”
“Very good, sir,” said Jolly.
The Lady of Lost Memory looked at Rollison and smiled, a shadow of the smile he had seen at the flat. The footman was standing impassively by the door. Jolly picked up the records, which were heavy for him to carry in one load.
“Help him, please.”
“Very good, sir,” said the footman, and Jolly, relieved of half the records, took the coffee-pot from the table and walked sedately to the porch.
Rollison watched them get into the taxi, and looked up and down, still afraid of some unknown thing to which he could not put a name. Slowly and reluctantly he turned back to the house. The footman walked a pace behind him
Both exclaimed aloud!
From the shadows of the garden a man appeared, a short, thin man who was clearly visible against the light from the hall as he ran up the steps and into the house, then darted out of sight. Hilda screamed. Rollison sprinted. He saw the man turn into the drawing-room, heard an exclamation from Gwendoline—and then he reached the room and saw the knife which was hurtling through the air towards the girl. She stood as if petrified. Rollison shouted:
“Move, Gwen!”
He flung himself forward, but he knew that he would be too late. The knife seemed to miss Gwendoline, but before he reached her he saw blood welling from a cut in her neck. The little man who had thrown the knife turned and made for the door, like a rat at bay. He thought that Rollison was concerned only for Gwen, and did not notice him swing round and put out his foot. The man ran into it and pitched headlong. He fell by the feet of Hilda, in the doorway. Then she rushed towards Gwendoline.
She impeded Rollison, who tried to dodge round her, but she went the same way. He saw the little man pick himself up and rush into the hall. The footman was standing like a man struck dumb. He made no effort to stop the attacker, and when Rollison reached the hall the front door slammed.
Rollison glared at the footman, who still stood petrified.
“What is your name?”
“Farrow, sir.”
“Telephone for a doctor at once, Farrow.”
“Er—yes, sir. A doctor, yes, sir. Who?”
“The family doctor, Dr. Renfrew,” said Rollison, and he turned and went back into the room. There Hilda was bending over Gwendoline, who was sitting, ashen-faced, in an upright chair. Blood was welling freely from the wound in her neck, but the cut was not deep enough to cause serious harm. He padded a handkerchief while Hilda dabbed ineffectually with a tiny piece of lace. He pressed the pad against the cut, which was two inches long, then lifted her, so that her neck pressed against his shoulder, keeping the pad in position.
“Will you lead the way?” he said to Hilda.
The walk seemed interminable, but at last they turned into a large, high-ceilinged bedroom, furnished with maple, with a furry, thick-piled carpet and a silk-draped bed. Hilda turned down the bedclothes, and Rollison, managing to keep the pad in position so as to stop the bleeding, laid the girl down.
“A doctor!” exclaimed Hilda. “We must have Andrew!”
“I’ve sent for him,” said Rollison. “Don’t worry, it’s not serious.”
“Not—serious,” echoed Hilda, and from her too-bright eyes Rollison thought that she would faint. “She might”
“I—am—all right,” Gwendoline said. The words were an effort. Rollison wished she had not spoken, for the muscles of her neck moved and another crimson stain appeared on the edge of the handkerchief.
“Don’t talk, Gwen,” he said. “Hilda, hold the pad in position.” He let Hilda take over, and then asked: “Where will we find cotton wool?”
Before she answered a maid appeared, carrying a first-aid box—the first practical thing done at the house that night. Rollison gave her an appreciative smile, opened the box and took out cotton wool, making it into a pad to replace the handkerchief. He applied the new dressing, while the maid went out to get some hot water. He stood
