of the window, standing quite still, the shaking fit still on her. Rollison reached the door without making a sound, and then pulled it abruptly open.
Farrow backed away from the door, turning quickly on his heel. When he reached the door leading to the domestic quarters he looked round, but averted his gaze when he saw Rollison staring after him, Rollison turned back into the room, closed the door, and stepped to Gwendoline, who took out a handkerchief and began to blow her nose.
“What can I say?” she said hoarsely.
“Say nothing,” said Rollison. He stooped down and picked up the gun and held it out to her.
She flinched. “I don’t want it!”
He put it into his pocket without a word, but the fact that he had offered it to her would give her considerable psychological stimulus. He gave her a cigarette, and they lit up.
“Thank God it was you,” she said.
He smiled. “You see, I do sometimes turn up at the right moment!”
“I’ve behaved like a spiteful, venomous, murderous”
“Wildcat,” Rollison completed for her. “Daughter stirred to fury to save her father—it’s a common attitude in reverse. And people do all manner of strange things when they’re overwrought, as you’ve been overwrought during the past few weeks. Don’t exaggerate it, Gwen, and don’t think that I shall remember it against you! It must have been hard to keep going while believing that David was deliberately aiding and abetting crime.”
“It is
“And it may be quite unjustified,” said Rollison. “What made you think so badly of David?”
“Everything—points that way.”
“Everything being generally known, or including something you haven’t yet told me?”
“I’ve told you everything,” Gwendoline assured him. “Rolly, please don’t try to soften it for me. I know you think the same, and I expect the police do. I’ve been trying to fool myself, trying to believe that it would not occur to anyone else, but I know it’s useless. I’ve wanted to believe the police are fools but I really know better.” She took a step towards him. “Do they suspect him yet?”
“They haven’t told me so,” said Rollison, “but they’ve kept a lot to themselves, and I can’t blame them for that. You’re wrong though, I don’t suspect David—any more than I suspect anyone whose part I don’t yet fully understand. My lost lady, for instance.”
“You’re really taken by her, aren’t you?” For the first time she spoke of the Lady of Lost Memory without bitterness.
If he were to gain her confidence, she must believe he was being wholly frank with her. So Rollison said: “Yes, Gwen, lam.”
Her eyes softened, and she touched his arm.
“I hope you’re right about her,” she conceded.
“Why have you been so set against her?”
“I’ve told you,” Gwen said, “except—well, I suppose you’d better know this. One day when I went into David’s room I found a letter which had slipped behind the bed. I shouldn’t have read it, of course, but the first word was “Darling” and it wasn’t in Hilda’s handwriting. It was—a love letter. It was written without any restraint, it proved that they had known each other for a long time—for years, Rolly. That, with David!”
Rollison said, slowly: “Was it signed?”
“Yes. Lila.”
“I see,” said Rollison.
In his mind’s eye there was a picture of David Barrington-Ley, that wiry whippet of a man, good-looking in an attractive way. He was a man with whom many women might fall in love—and yet something rang false about the idea of the Lady of Lost Memory being in love with David, something rang as false about the idea of his being in love with her.
“It’s quite true,” said Gwendoline, gently. “I can show you the letter. I’ve kept it for several weeks. Would you like to see it?”
After a pause, Rollison said: Yes, of course, it may give more information. I’d like to keep it for a while. Was there an address?”
“It was headed New York, and dated July.”
“She was there in July,” said Rollison. “What made you connect Lila with the woman you saw at the office?”
“On the telephone, Pomeroy talked of her sometimes as Lila, and the Countess at others.”
“I see,” said Rollison, and then Gwen took the letter out of her handbag and handed it to him. It was deep blue paper, of good quality. He put it into his pocket with a word of thanks, and tried to forget it, but the tension which had possessed Gwendoline transferred itself to him. It was difficult to be dispassionate and detached, hard to think, to judge what questions to ask.
“Have you really told me every reason for suspecting David?” he asked at last.
“Yes,” she said, “except the little indications, the trivial things one can’t put into words. He has behaved strangely in some ways, but in others he’s been as he always is when he’s got a big project in hand. He isn’t exactly absent-minded, but you can always tell that he’s really thinking about something else—do you know what I mean?”
“I know,” said Rollison.
