He was still sleeping soundly, and she could tell from the colour of his face that he was not suffering unduly from the wound. She knew that he had a constitution strong enough to stand the strain, and the anxiety she had felt concerning his well-being disappeared.
She smiled very softly as she looked at him.
His face was dark against the pillow, and his features seemed more clearly marked than usual. There was something in him which seemed almost part of her.
She smiled a little bitterly at the thought, and her eyes clouded, but they cleared a moment later as Mannering stirred suddenly and opened his eyes. He blinked up, and there was something absurdly funny about his expression as he saw her. She laughed unrestrainedly at his bewilderment.
Memory of the previous night’s affair jumped back into Mannering’s mind. He moved up, then flinched as pain streaked through his shoulder.
“Steady,” said Lorna quickly.
He grinned ruefully, and stretched his left hand towards his waistcoat, where he could find cigarettes.
“It’s a rotten bad habit, smoking first-thing in the morning,” said Lorna.
“There are lots of bad habits,” said Mannering, taking a cigarette and lighting it, one-handed. He looked uncertain of himself. “So you are still here,” he said at last.
Lorna laughed.
“I’m afraid so,” she said. “If you knew what you looked like, my dear, you’d have a shock. But sit there for a while until I make tea.”
When she re-entered the room five minutes later Mannering had pulled a comb through his hair, and was comparatively wide-awake. His uncertainty had disappeared, and he looked completely in control of himself.
He drank the tea gratefully, before saying much. Then: “I suppose,” he said, looking at her quizzically, that I ought to start some explanation ?”
Lorna shook her head. Her lips tightened, and she smiled with her eyes.
“No,” she said. “You asked no questions the other day. I’m asking none now. I just want to say, John . . .”
She paused. Mannering’s eyes were very soft.
“Be careful, my dear,” she added, and her voice trembled.
Mannering managed to laugh a little.
“I’ll try,” he said.
“And now” — she was serious again, and practical; the moments of sentiment passed quickly with her, he knew — “I’ll have another look at your shoulder, and we’ll get some breakfast. That’s if you can eat . . .”
“It’s time you went,” said Mannering. “It would look nasty, Lorna, if anything — anyone . . .”
“It’s too early,” said Lorna decisively. “They’ll think I’m at Chelsea, I tell you.”
“Supposing they ring you, and get no answer?”
“That won’t be any change.” She was tugging at the left arm of his pyjama-jacket. “They’re used to getting no answer when I’m at the studio. Am I going to look at your shoulder, or are you going to be awkward ?”
Mannering gave in, knowing that he would have to eventually.
Lorna pronounced the wound satisfactory. There was no bleeding now, and no sign of complications. She dressed it with liberal boracic and lint, bandaged it effectively, and told him to move carefully.
“Gingerly’s the word,” Mannering chuckled, yet more pleased with her concern than he would have admitted. Then a thought flashed through his mind, and his eyes were suddenly hard.
“What happened to the bullet?” he asked.
“In the bathroom still,” said Lorna.
“We’d better get rid of it,” said Mannering. “And — have you seen the morning papers yet?”
Lorna shook her head slowly.
There were some outside,” she said. “Were they yours?”
“Yes,” he nodded. “I’ll get ‘em in a moment.”
Lorna smiled obscurely and went out. Mannering began to dress, slowly and awkwardly. Without worrying about a collar or tie, he went into the living-room, sniffed at the odour of grilled bacon, smiled at Lorna for a moment, and then went to the door, with his object half forgotten and his mind filled with the memory of her flushed face.
The papers were folded, just outside, and he took them in and opened them quickly, half-expecting what he saw.
The first words seemed to leap out of the print towards him:
ARMED BURGLAR AT MILLIONAIRE’S HOUSE
MR. CARLOS RAMON ROBBED
THE BARON AGAIN?
The newsprint, written sensationally, was no more than a re-hash of the affair at Queen’s Walk. There were points on which he could have enlightened the journalist who had starred the story, but the one thing for which he was looking was granted him.
The man with whom he had fought and the policeman on whom he had used the gas-pistol were not seriously hurt.
Mannering felt relieved and almost light-hearted. He had hardly realised the depth of his anxiety at the possibility that the guard had been badly injured. Thoughtfully he looked at his knuckles, still grazed and broken. Then, his lips curved a little, he went back to the living-room.
Lorna was serving breakfast. She had found her way about the flat easily and quickly, and his eyes were gleaming as he went to her.
“You’ve located the larder,” he said, standing in front of her. She looked very cool and very capable.
“There was an egg there which should have been thrown out three months ago,” said Lorna, “so it wasn’t difficult. Tea or coffee? I’d rather have tea.”
“So would I,” said Mannering.
He left the papers, front-pages uppermost, on the break-fast-table, and then went into his room. When he reappeared she was reading the story of the burglary. The expression on her lace seemed to defy him, although he hardly knew what to expect. The one thing he did know was that she must learn the truth now — all of it.
“Well ?” he said.
He was paler than usual as the word came out, and it took all his self-control to face her. He had never before seriously considered the possibility of Lorna knowing how he was living. The two separate people, John Mannering and the Baron, had seemed very real to him. He had appeared to think differently, according to which guise he was in. It seemed absurd now to realise that they were one and the same, and that Mannering, the John Mannering part of him, would be judged on the activities of the Baron. That moment, staring at her, he had a feeling of unreality, yet a feeling of great strain, as though everything depended on her reaction.
“Well ?” he said again.
Lorna said: “I know, my dear. I’ve known for some time.”
It couldn’t be true.
That sense of unreality was ten times stronger in Mannering at her words. Neither of them had moved, neither of them had spoken, since that single sentence had come from Lorna, spoken very quietly, and with a lurking humour in her dark eyes.
She knew.
Mannering brushed his hand through his hair, and auto-matically sought in his pockets for cigarettes. Not until the first streamer of smoke went towards the ceiling did he speak, and then his voice was harsh and unnatural.
“What are you saying?” he asked. “Trying to make it easier for me? You couldn’t have known.”
Her smile was still deep — mysterious almost.
“Well, I was fairly sure, John. And I’m not trying to make it easier for you, any more than for myself.” She broke off, turning away. “But the breakfast’s getting cold.”
“Let it,” said Mannering. He took a step towards her, and his left hand closed on her shoulder. “It’s time we stopped being mysterious. It’s time we talked — both of us.”