The Toff and The Lady

“He isn’t a man to take kindly to blackmail.” said Gwendoline, “and I came to the conclusion that either Pomeroy was blackmailing him, or else everything was being done with his free consent. They’re quite friendly, too—Pom and David to each other. David friendly with a little fat louse like that!”

“Does Hilda know?”

“She does not!” said Gwen, emphatically. “That’s been one of my fears, that she would find out. There isn’t any need to tell her, is there?”

“None yet, at all events,” said Rollison. “I’m not even sure that you’re right.”

“I think you’re just being kind. Do you really think he’s at the nursing home?”

“Yes,” said Rollison. “There isn’t a better hiding-place, you know. Now you’d better see Dr. Andrew, or he’ll come down and accuse me of dallying with your affections.” He smiled. “Fond of Andrew?”

“Desperately.”

“Does he know what you suspect about David?”

“Yes—but no one else does.”

“I’d like a few words with him,” said Rollison.

“Of course,” said Gwendoline. “I’ll get him to come down.”

“I’d like to see him alone,” said Rollison, “before he is told what I know. Do you mind?”

“All right,” said Gwendoline. She moved towards the door, and when she drew level with him she paused and touched his arm. “Rolly,” she said, “I feel better than I have for weeks! It’s hard to say thanks.”

“Don’t even try,” said Rollison.

“I’m sorry about that letter,” she said, and then hurried out. There was more spring in her step.

Rollison sat down in an easy chair and lit a cigarette. The need in this case, as in so many others, was to disentangle the human emotions which played havoc with logic and often made black seem white. In the past he had not needed to worry about his own. Now he was defying logic and perhaps seeing black as white, but even with the letter in his pocket he could not convince himself that he was wrong about the Lady of Lost Memory.

He was sitting with his eyes closed when Renfrew came in.

“Why, hallo,” Rollison greeted, jumping up at once. He smiled at the tall, lithe, dark doctor, who seemed a little anxious. “How is Mrs. Barrington-Ley?”

“She’ll be all right,” said Renfrew.

“Gwen says she had a heart attack.”

“That’s right.”

Rollison looked at him steadily, and although the other met his gaze, he seemed a little nervous. Obviously he expected the diagnosis to be challenged, but Rollison tried another tack.

“Is photography a hobby of yours?” he asked, lightly.

“I do a bit,” said Renfrew.

“And do it well. I fancy,” said Rollison. “When did you take the photograph of Lila, Countess Hollern? And why did you send me a print?”

Renfrew did not move and tried not to show dismay, but he did not wholly succeed, and Rollison smiled, glad now to have his thoughts running more freely, the problem gaining ascendancy in his mind.

“You did send it to me, didn’t you?” he insisted.

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Renfrew, in a strained voice.

“You do,” said Rollison. “Look here, old chap, this business has gone far enough already. I think you sent the photograph to me because you knew that Gwen and Hilda were worried out of their minds. They had sworn you to secrecy, but you were alarmed and wanted someone to look into it, and you thought that the photograph would intrigue me.”

After a long pause, Renfrew tossed back his head, uttered a short laugh, and said:

“I didn’t dream you’d guess!”

“Have I got it right?”

“Yes,” said Renfrew. “Circumstances were hell for them, Hilda was as brittle as glass and Gwen was going to pieces. I knew that they were afraid . . .” He stopped abruptly, as if he realized that he had nearly made a damaging admission, and as he cast about in his mind for a plausible explanation, Rollison said:

“It’s all right, Gwen’s told me the whole story.”

“Everything!” exclaimed Renfrew.

“I think so. Her chief fear is that David is doing something he should not, and that at all costs they wanted to avoid that becoming known.”

“It’s right enough,” said Renfrew. He drew his hand across his forehead, and dropped into a chair. “It’s an enormous relief to hear that you know, Rollison. I tried to persuade Gwen to tell you before, but Pomeroy frightened her as well as Hilda. By George, it’s been a nightmare! Can you” —he was suddenly eager— “can you see any light?”

“A few glims in the distance,” said Rollison, “and I’m certainly not convinced that David is the villain of the piece. If he were being blackmailed, you know, he would do everything he could to prevent Hilda and Gwen from realizing it. That’s a point which you all missed, isn’t it?”