danger. Remember Fanny! I shall swear I know nothing!”
Eight
Pitt was called, of course, and he left home immediately in the same cab that had brought the message, but by the time he reached Paragon Walk, Selena was dressed in a discreet gown of Emily’s and sitting on the big sofa in the withdrawing room. She was now much more composed. Her face was flushed, her hands white and knotted in her lap, but she told him quite coolly what had happened.
She had been returning from a brief visit to Grace Dilbridge, hurrying a little to be home before dark, when she had been attacked from behind by a man of above average height and quite phenomenal strength. She had been thrown to the ground on the grass by the rose bed, as near as she could judge. The next part was too appalling, and surely Pitt, as a delicate man, would not expect her to describe it? Sufficient to say she had been violated! By whom she did not know. She had not seen his face, nor could she describe anything else about him, except his enormous strength and the fierceness of his animal behavior.
He questioned her as to anything at all she might have noticed without realizing it: his clothing, was it of good texture or harsh; did he have a shirt beneath his jacket, white or dark? Were his hands rough?
She considered for only a moment.
“Oh,” she said, with a little flutter of surprise. “Yes, you are right! His clothes were good. He must have been a gentleman. I recall white shirt cuffs. And his hands were smooth, but”-she lowered her eyes-“very strong!”
He pressed her further, but she could tell him nothing more. He had not spoken, and presently she grew distressed and became unable to say anything more.
He was obliged to give up and fall back on the ordinary routine chasing of details. In a long and exhausting night, he and Forbes questioned every man on the Walk, obliging them to leave their beds angry and frightened. As previously, everyone could account in a perfectly reasonable way for his whereabouts, but none had complete proof that they could not have been outside for those few, vital moments.
Afton Nash had been in his study, but it opened onto the garden and, there was no reason why he could not have slipped out without being seen. Jessamyn Nash had been playing the piano and could not say whether Diggory was in the room all evening or not. Freddie Dilbridge had been alone in his garden room; he had said that he was considering some decorating changes. Grace was not with him. Hallam Cayley and Paul Alaric lived alone. The only bright aspect was that George had been in town, and it really did seem wildly improbable that he could have returned unseen to the Walk.
All the servants were questioned, and all the answers compared. A few had been occupied in activities they would have preferred to keep secret; there were three separate affairs and a card game where money of quite a high order had changed hands. Possibly there would be dismissals in the morning! But most either could account for themselves or were precisely where one would expect them to be.
At the end of it all, in a still, warm dawn, eyes gritting with sleep, his throat dry, Pitt knew nothing more of any worth.
It was two days after that that Pitt at last received his answer from Paris regarding Paul Alaric. He stood in the middle of the police station with it in his hands, more confused than ever. The Paris police could find no trace of him and apologized for the delay in their reply, explaining that they had sent to every major center in France inquiring, but still they could find no definite news. There were, of course, one or two families of that name, but none of their members fitted the description as to age, appearance, or anything else. And their whereabouts were already accounted for. Most certainly they had no records of such a person accused, much less convicted, of any indecent assaults upon women.
Pitt wondered why Alaric should lie as to his origin?
Then he recalled that Alaric had never said anything about his origin. Everyone else had said he was French, but Alaric himself had said nothing at all, and Pitt had never seen reason to ask. Freddie Dilbridge’s accusation was probably exactly what Grace had said it was-a desire to attract attention away from his own friends. Who easier to accuse than the only foreigner?
Pitt dismissed the Paris reply and went back to the practical investigation.
The investigation proceeded through the long, hot days, tedious question after question, and gradually Pitt was obliged to turn his attention to other crimes. The rest of London did not suddenly cease from robbery, deceit, and violence, and he could not spend all his hours on one mystery, however tragic or dangerous.
Life slowly resumed a more normal pattern in the Walk. Of course, Selena’s ordeal was not forgotten. Reactions to it varied. Oddly enough, Jessamyn was the most sympathetic. It was as if the old enmity between them had been entirely swept away. It fascinated Emily, because not only did they show a new friendship toward each other, there seemed to be a glow of satisfaction about it in both of them, as if each felt in her own way she had won a signal victory.
Jessamyn was all solicitude for Selena’s appalling experience and coddled her on every reasonable occasion, even prompting other people to the same concern. Of course, it did have the byproduct of allowing no one to forget the incident, a fact which Emily noted with some amusement and passed on to Charlotte when visiting her.
And curiously, Selena herself did not seem to mind. She colored deeply and her eyes were bright when it was referred to, always obliquely, of course-no one could wish to be vulgar enough to use unpleasant words-but she seemed to take no offense at its mention.
Naturally there were others who regarded it quite differently. George studiously avoided the subject altogether, and Emily permitted him to do so for some time. She had originally decided to dismiss her knowledge of his involvement with Selena, provided it never happened again. Then one morning an opportunity presented itself which was too good to miss, and almost without being conscious of it, she found herself taking advantage.
George looked up over the breakfast table. Aunt Vespasia was down early this morning and had helped herself delicately to apricot preserve with walnuts in, and a little very thin toast.
“What are you going to do today, Aunt Vespasia?” George inquired politely.
“I shall endeavor to avoid Grace Dilbridge,” she replied, “which will not be easy, since I have certain calls to make, as a matter of duty, and no doubt she will have the same ones. It will require some forethought to see that we do not come across each other at every step and turn.”
George said the automatic thing, partially because he was not really listening.
“Why do you wish to avoid her? She’s harmless enough.”
“She is excessively tedious,” Aunt Vespasia said smartly, finishing her toast. “I used to think that her suffering and the continuous, eyes-upturned expression of it was the nadir of boredom. But that was easy to take compared with her views on the subject of women who are molested, the general bestiality of men, and certain woman who contribute to everyone’s misfortune by encouraging them. That is more than I can bear.”
Emily spoke, for once, a fraction before she thought, her natural feelings for Selena stronger than her usual caution.
“I would have thought you might agree with her, at least in some respects?” she said, turning to Vespasia, a little edge to her voice.
Vespasia’s gray eyes widened.
“To disagree with Grace Dilbridge and yet have to listen to her with civility is part of the normal trials of Society, my dear,” she replied. “To be obliged by honesty, to agree with her, and to say so, is more than should be asked of anyone! It is the first and only time we have agreed about anything of moment, and it is intolerable. Of course Selena is no better than she should be! Even a fool knows that!” She stood up and dusted an imaginary crumb off her skirt.
Emily lowered her eyes for a long moment; then looked up at George. He turned from Aunt Vespasia, going out of the door, and back at Emily.
“Poor Aunt Vespasia,” Emily said carefully. “It is most trying. Grace is so very self-righteous, but one has to admit that on this occasion she is right. I dislike speaking ill of my own sex, especially of a friend, but Selena has behaved in the past in a way to-not quite invite.” She hesitated. “Misunderstanding as to her-” She stopped, her eyes holding George’s, staring across at him. His face was pale, stiff with apprehension.
“What?” He asked in the silence.
