Elizabeth Marlowe greeted him with a hesitating smile.
‘Aren’t you going to invite me in?’ he asked. ‘I know Sir Richard’s out, for you’ve just said so on the phone. I’ve come to inquire after your health. I believe it’s the friendly thing to do the morning after a spot of gentle dissipation?’
He could not help noticing that her face was even paler than on the previous day, and there was still disquiet in her eyes.
‘Thank you once again, Mr. Gilmour—I enjoyed it so much last evening.’ The difficulty with which she forced out the artificial phrase of gratitude was only too apparent.
‘Why do you tell me such a shocking fib?’ he said lightly. ‘You were absolutely fed-up all evening. Oh, no, I don’t mean with the dinner or the show—or even me. But fed-up you certainly were. You were worried about something. You still are. Do you think I can’t see it?’ He sat down on a chair, his elbows resting on the back of it, his chin on his hands. ‘I say, Miss Marlowe, it isn’t inquisitiveness—don’t think that. But I do wish you’d tell me the whole story.’
His blue eyes were serious now, and his face had a look of genuine anxiety. He watched her as she stood against the table, the toe of one slender shoe restlessly tapping on the carpet.
‘I had a visit from a man called Inspector Tripp this morning,’ he went on. ‘He’s one of these Scotland Yard birds, but all the same he’s a very decent chap. He knew all about our little spree last night.’
She nodded. ‘I told him—— I had to! He questioned me.’ She hesitated. ‘I suppose he questioned you too?’
‘He did. Most thoroughly. He said a burglary took place here last night, and since I was twice in this room yesterday, I had to give an account of myself.’
‘Did he——ask you anything else?’ She looked at him anxiously.
‘The usual kind of questions.’
‘And—about me?’
Gilmour smiled. ‘Well, there isn’t much I could tell him on that subject, is there?’
‘N—no, I suppose not.’ The nervous tapping of the shoe on the carpet ceased, and she faced him squarely. ‘I want to tell you I’m sorry, Mr. Gilmour—sorry you’ve been dragged into all this.’
‘There’s nothing in the world I want more,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I wish you’d believe that. Why won’t you let me help you? I’m sure I could.’
She shook her head, and turned away. ‘I don’t think so, Mr. Gilmour. It’s very kind of you——’
‘It isn’t,’ he persisted. ‘It’s only common sense. What’s the point of being worried to death when there’s somebody keen to help? But there’s a more important reason than that. You’re in a difficult position.’
He stopped. Already he was regretting the promise of silence he had given Inspector Tripp. But for that promise he felt he would have liked to tell her everything he knew. It was impossible to believe that this girl could have done anything which would not bear the closest scrutiny. She had more than mere physical beauty: it was a beauty that was almost spiritual. As far as he was able to read her character, anything underhand would be anathema to her. At the real core of the trouble which was adding these harassed lines to her lips and draining the lustre from her eyes, he felt that there must lie something that was beyond her own control.
He saw that she was looking at him curiously.
‘You said I was in a difficult position, Mr. Gilmour?’
He realized that he had said too much. He could not tell her frankly that she was under suspicion of being connected in some way with what had happened in the suite of rooms on the previous night; clearly, that would be his promise to Tripp. Yet how could he warn her? His heart went out to her in pity. If she had been indiscreet in any way—if she had done anything she now regretted—he was ready to swear it had been with no wish of her own. . . . He saw her dark eyes fixed on his face, trying breaking to read his thoughts while she waited for his reply.
‘Well, of course you are—being Templeton’s secretary,’ he muttered.
‘Oh, I thought perhaps you could explain something.’
‘Explain what?’ he inquired.
‘As a rule, my lunch is sent up to me here, but to-day I went out for it. I had a feeling that—that I was being followed.’ A hard strained look had come into her face. ‘I thought just now you might know the reason.’
Gilmour frowned. Could this have been Chief Inspector Tripp’s orders? It was impossible. On the other hand, it may have been pure imagination on the girl’s part—due to overstrung nerves. Gilmour sat with his chin on his hands scowling at the carpet for nearly a minute before he looked up.
‘I wish you’d tell me everything,’ he pleaded again. ‘You’re keeping something back from me—something that’s hurting you like blazes. I can see it in your face—in everything you say.’
And then something seemed to snap inside him.
‘Why don’t you trust me?’ he burst out, biting back the sudden emotion in his voice. ‘You haven’t known me long—I’ll grant you that—but friendship doesn’t always need years. . . . Sometimes, when people understand each other an hour is enough——’
‘Trust you?’ She caught up his words eagerly. ‘Yes, I do trust you—completely.’ And then she faltered. ‘But there are some things I can’t tell you—it simply isn’t in my power to tell you. . . . You understand?’
There was a long silence. The little clock on the mantelpiece ticked away the seconds. Gilmour had a sudden impulse to fling discretion to the four winds and take her in his arms like a child and demand to know the truth. He was conscious of a devouring desire to share her whole confidence. Yet something in her manner held him back, crushed even the words that rose to his lips.
‘Since you’ve offered to help me,’ she said slowly, ‘I wonder if you’d do me a favour?’
He nodded eagerly; and at once she went to the typewriter on the table and slipped an envelope into the machine. Her white fingers fluttered rapidly over the keys as she typed the address; then from her bag she took a letter which she had already written, and sealed it up.
‘Will you send this off for me? It’s urgent. Perhaps you could get a district messenger?’
‘I’ll do it right away,’ he promised, vaguely disappointed at the simplicity of her request. ‘They’ll send it off downstairs at the bureau.’ And then a puzzled frown gathered on his brow as she replied:
‘No, it mustn’t be sent from the hotel! If you’re going out, there’s a messenger office at the corner of the square. My name mustn’t be mentioned—do you mind giving them your own instead?’
‘If you wish it.’
‘Thank you—I’m very, very grateful! Let me give you the money now——’
‘Plenty of time for that,’ he replied, slipping the envelope into his pocket. ‘And now, Miss Marlowe,’ he went on in a more cheerful tone, ‘shall I confess the real reason why I’ve called? It’s just this. When am I going to see you again?’
He smiled as she drew back. ‘I know the prospect horrifies you, but I’m one of these clumsy, persistent devils. What theatre shall it be to-night? Say the word and I’ll book our seats now——’
‘Thank you; not to-night. Impossible.’
She spoke with finality, and as he went downstairs to get his hat and stick from the cloak-room he was conscious of several conflicting emotions. More than ever he was regretting his promise to the Scotland Yard detective. He liked Tripp enormously, he liked the quiet cultured voice and tranquil grey eyes, but the man was a cog in a big machine, and that machine moved with inexorable power. If a promise once given had not been a sacred thing to Alan Gilmour, he would have hurried back upstairs and told Elizabeth Marlowe everything he knew, and pleaded with her once again to confide in him—for her own sake. He recalled her manner on the previous day—the continual apprehension in her eyes, her nervous unsettled movements. He remembered too the look on her face in the taxi-cab that night when she heard the news of Lord John’s arrest. It was so devilish queer. . . . Perhaps it was a good thing he hadn’t remembered all this while he’d been talking to Inspector Tripp that morning; it could scarcely have been put down in Elizabeth’s favour!