The three men seated round the table avoided each other’s eyes.
It was Tom Young who broke the silence. He shrugged his shoulders, and his long, yellow fingers laced and interlaced themselves uneasily. ‘Our acquaintance with our Honourable Friend is certainly a peculiar one, but that is his desire——’
‘Cut out this talk!’ said Adrian Lister sharply, his mask of nonchalance dropping for a moment. But before he could continue there was a quick movement at the table.
Julius Brown had sprung to his feet. The small blue-black automatic in his hand was pointed at the Eurasian’s head.
‘Cut out this talk?’ he cried. ‘No, by God, I want the truth!’
Tom Young turned to him slowly. He looked along the smooth, short barrel of the weapon, at the hot eyes of the man behind it. They must have stood thus, facing each other, for nearly a minute; then with a movement as rapid as the flicker of an eyelid, Tom Young lunged forward, arm outstretched. His yellow fingers seemed to whip like a lash round the other’s wrist.
There was a quick wrench and a gasp of agony. The weapon went spinning across the room, and clattered on the floor, while Julius Brown dropped heavily back into his chair, fingering his twisted wrist.
Tom Young smiled down on him.
‘You seek the truth, my friend?’ he said quietly. ‘The truth comes like a gentle wind, not in the violence of the tempest.’
At the other end of the table, Adrian Lister laughed. ‘Tom means,’ he said cynically, ‘that that kind of business won’t get you anywhere, Julius.’
‘I’m sorry, Tom,’ muttered Brown. ‘I thought—I thought, for half a jiffy, you knew more than you said. I have a damned vile temper, Tom; it got the better of me. I apologize.’
He held out his hand, and Tom Young, accepting it, gave a low bow. ‘I was grieved by the distrustful words of the friend who has accepted the hospitality of my poor house. But I am healed by his generous regrets.’
Adrian Lister smothered a yawn. ‘Touching,’ he murmured. ‘But you were going to say something, Tom—I think it was about the documents we were discussing just now. Apparently Lord John accuses somebody in this room of stealing them from the police before he could get them himself. Well?’
The Eurasian was fingering a small double sheet of expensive-looking notepaper, one side of which contained close typewriting. ‘I have these few further words to offer from our Honourable Friend. Will the skilful one who has the documents send them to my humble house? A messenger will call here for them.’ Tom Young looked up uncomfortably. ‘But if they are not forthcoming, our Honourable Friend will take his own measures to recover them—his own measures,’ he repeated quietly. The yellow fingers were restless, and his eyes held a curious gleam which might have been fear. ‘I have communicated to you the words of our Honourable Friend.’ And folding the letter, he gave a soft sigh.
‘That all, Tom?’ asked Carlo Lewin.
‘That is all,’ replied Tom Young. ‘Our Honourable Friend is busy on a new and greater project, but he refrains from confiding in us meantime. . . . Will my friends partake of further refreshment under my humble roof? . . .’
As they drove back to the West End, Mrs. Prideaux turned to Adrian Lister: ‘Did you notice Julius Brown to-night?’
‘What about him?’
‘That business with the pistol—demanding to know the truth, and apologizing for losing his temper. Shall I tell you what I think about it?’
‘Do.’
‘It was bluff—pure bluff from start to finish!’
But the man in the corner of the taxi-cab smiled to himself in the darkness.
CHAPTER XV
AN UNKNOWN ENEMY
It was five minutes to eleven when Alan Gilmour turned out of Whitehall into Trafalgar Square and made for the brightly lit entrance of the Marquise Hotel.
Going across to the bureau, he asked for the key of his bedroom. ‘My room’s on the third floor—Gilmour is the name.’
The clerk on duty at the bureau turned to the rack behind him. ‘This is your key, sir—number ninety-seven.’
Thanking him, Alan walked across the hall and stepped into the lift. A man had just preceded him, and he recognized the strong features and greying hair of Sir Richard Templeton.
As the lift began to move, he perceived that the barrister was looking at him inquiringly.
‘Pardon me, I thought I heard you mention your name just now—are you Mr. Alan Gilmour by any chance?’
When Gilmour acknowledged the fact, he went on: ‘My name is Templeton. I would be obliged if you could spare me a few minutes.’
‘By all means,’ assented Alan. ‘To-morrow morning?’
‘Do you happen to be free now? Forgive my suggesting so late an hour.’
The lift had stopped. Sir Richard was already on the landing, and Alan Gilmour followed him.
‘I’m at your service,’ he declared.
With a pass-key, Sir Richard Templeton entered his suite, and led the way along the short passage to his own pleasant room. Tossing his soft black hat on the glass-topped desk, he opened two small caskets on the table, one with cigarettes, the other cigars, and waved a hospitable hand to a chair; then he began to walk slowly up and down the room.
‘I want to speak to you about a rather delicate subject, Mr. Gilmour,’ he said at length.
Alan nodded, and waited for him to continue.
‘I refer to my secretary. I needn’t ask you if you know who I mean?’
‘I know,’ nodded Gilmour.
‘Very good. I understand you met Miss Marlowe casually. You came into her office by mistake, and passed a few words with her—mere ordinary politeness. Is that correct?’
‘Quite correct.’
Sir Richard halted in his slow walk and looked round at Gilmour, the tips of his fingers resting on his desk.
‘You returned to her room later in the afternoon and invited her to dine with you?’ His thick eyebrows were raised inquiringly.
‘Correct again, sir,’ assented Alan.
‘Pardon my putting it so bluntly, Mr. Gilmour, but are you in the habit of inviting strange girls to dine with you?’
‘Emphatically not,’ returned Gilmour tersely, a slight flush rising on his cheeks.
‘You are not?’ The barrister drew himself up, grasping the black silk lapels of his dinner-jacket. ‘Then it follows that this was an unusual—a most unusual—thing for you to have done?’
Under the penetrating stare of the dark eyes Alan felt strangely uneasy.
‘Most! But, in the circumstances, Sir Richard, I think quite justifiable.’
‘Justifiable?’ The barrister’s full lips were pursed. ‘May I ask you to explain?’
Alan hesitated. ‘It isn’t exactly easy to put into words——’ he began.
‘It will be intensely difficult, I have no doubt,’ said the barrister dryly. ‘You have admitted that the circumstances were unusual. I am waiting to hear of them.’
Templeton’s tone nettled him. ‘If I may say so,’ Alan returned, ‘the last thing I expected would be any objection from Miss Marlowe’s employer. Do you consider, sir, that her actions outside of business hours are your concern?’
‘I do.’
‘I should have thought,’ remarked Alan, ‘that you wouldn’t have minded at all—provided, of course, that she does her job efficiently during the day.’
‘I disagree,’ said Sir Richard Templeton firmly. ‘My personal secretary comes into even closer contact with me than my clerk in my Temple chambers. In her I have a right to demand certain standards of conduct. If she falls below these standards, she leaves my employment.’
‘Then I think it’s devilish hard luck on Miss Marlowe!’ said Alan Gilmour hotly. ‘She came out with me because I persuaded her to. Even on our short acquaintance I could see that she was an uncommonly decent sort. I liked her, and I see no reason why I shouldn’t continue to do so.’