When at last the telephone rang he went rapidly to his desk and lifted the receiver. It was Sir Richard Templeton who spoke.
The barrister’s voice was eager and hurried, and Lewin was not slow to note the fact.
‘Will you please go ahead, Mr. Lewin?’
Triumph flashed in Carlo Lewin’s eyes.
‘And the financial side of the business, Sir Richard?’
‘Let me know the sum required,’ said Sir Richard Templeton; ‘I am prepared to pay anything in reason.’
CHAPTER XXI
IN WHICH A WAITING GAME IS FOUND TO BE IRKSOME
Next morning as soon as Elizabeth Marlowe had arrived at Sir Richard Templeton’s suite in the Marquise Hotel the barrister summoned her to his room.
‘I particularly want to be away from London this weekend,’ he told her. ‘I’ve decided to go down to the country for several days, and I’d like you to come too. Can you arrange this?’
‘I’ll be delighted, Sir Richard,’ she returned readily, then drew back. ‘But there’s Mother——’
‘I’ve thought of that,’ said Templeton. ‘Why shouldn’t she come too? She’ll be company for you in the evenings. I don’t think you’ve ever been to my house at Holmdean? You’ll have your own quarters there, and the two of you can have your meals together.’
‘May I talk this over with Mother?’ asked Elizabeth.
‘Certainly. See her at lunch-time, and let me know this afternoon. I want to make arrangements as soon as possible.’ He paused, fumbling with some papers on his desk. ‘I hope your mother will come, Elizabeth. The change should do her good. . . . What do you think of the suggestion?’
Elizabeth did not reply: too well she knew her mother’s feelings towards Sir Richard Templeton.
‘Of course she may refuse,’ he added, discerning the girl’s thoughts. ‘She may even object to your coming. If she does, it will make things very difficult for me, and I hope you ll put this plainly to her. . . . One moment, please.’
The telephone bell had rung, and he picked up the receiver. ‘Speaking. . . . Ah, Lydia, Good morning.’
‘Good morning, Richard. How is the world using you?’
‘The world is allowing me very little leisure,’ replied Templeton.
Mrs. Prideaux’s soft laughter sounded in the receiver.
‘How well I know it! I haven’t seen you since Monday evening. You still intend to go down to the country this week-end?’
‘I’ve just been arranging it with my secretary,’ he replied.
‘You aren’t forgetting my little dance on Friday at The Dean?’ The Dean was the big Georgian house which Mrs. Prideaux rented furnished near Sir Richard Templeton’s little estate in Surrey.
‘I’m not forgetting your dance, Lydia, but I doubt if I can be present. Dances, you know, aren’t in my line.’
‘But you promised!’
He smiled. ‘I don’t think so. Was there a contract?’
‘That’s a legal quibble, Richard! Besides, it’s fancy dress.’
‘Worse and worse!’ protested Templeton. ‘No, Lydia, I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me. I’ll be very busy indeed this week-end. Do you mind leaving it open? Oh, I’m ungrateful, I know, but where work is concerned I’m compelled to be ruthless. Do you wonder I’ve got so few friends?’
Presently he put down the receiver and turned to Elizabeth. ‘Shall we proceed?’ Picking up a sheaf of notes, he began to dictate rapidly, and went on without a break for nearly two hours.
‘I’ve got an appointment in the City now,’ he announced, glancing at the clock on his desk. ‘Have this ready for me as soon after lunch as possible. Don’t forget to speak to your mother at lunch-time. My car can call early this evening to take you both.’
Sir Richard Templeton had not been gone more than ten minutes when there was a gentle knock on the door and Alan Gilmour sauntered into the room.
‘Sorry to crash in on one of the world’s workers,’ he said with a laugh, subsiding in an arm-chair. ‘I saw the old boy go out—sorry, I mean Sir Richard—so I’ve taken the chance while the coast’s clear.’
His manner was easy and familiar. It gave no hint that he had sat up half the night turning over in his mind many things intimately connected with herself. Though he had tried to find a plausible explanation for her actions, several facts stood out too sharply to be ignored. And yet, as he looked at her across the table, noting the play of light and shadow round the lovely curves of her face, he found it difficult to believe that Mr. Julius Brown and Tom Young were not the misty figments of his own brain, or that ‘The Green Lantern’ had any existence apart from the wavering images of some ugly dream.
‘Elizabeth——’ he began; he had fallen so simply into using her Christian name. ‘Elizabeth, I wish you’d explain one or two things that have been rather worrying me.’
In spite of his effort to appear easy and natural, he felt that his voice was becoming hard and strained.
‘It’s about that letter you gave me a couple of days ago—the letter I delivered at “The Green Lantern”——’
Before he had finished the sentence he saw her hands clench.
‘I wish you’d explain, Elizabeth! It’s all so puzzling.’
‘Puzzling?’ she repeated.
‘Well, there’s that man Julius Brown you wrote to. He seemed well-dressed and educated and so forth. What’s he doing living at a low place like “The Green Lantern”?’
Elizabeth was sitting upright in her chair beside the typewriting machine. ‘What do you wish to know about Mr. Brown?’ Her voice struck a challenging note that left Alan distinctly uncomfortable.
‘Why is he living at “The Green Lantern”?’ he repeated. ‘It almost looks as if——’
‘Yes?’ she said sharply.
‘As if he were in hiding. . . .’
Alan had hesitated before making the remark, and in the end had blurted it out as though he hated to put forward the unpleasant suggestion. But its effect on Elizabeth was instantaneous.
She rose to her feet. ‘What do you know about Mr. Brown?’
‘Precious little,’ muttered Alan, avoiding her eyes.
‘You’re keeping something from me,’ she said quietly.
‘I know nothing—nothing definite,’ Alan replied. ‘That’s just the trouble! There’s something wrong—you admitted as much the other day. . . . Since the burglary here last Monday night I know how—how difficult your position has been. I want to try and help you to put it right.’
‘What has Inspector Tripp been saying to you?’ she flashed back.
It was on the tip of his tongue to reply that he hadn’t discussed the matter with Inspector Tripp, but he realized that this would be a falsehood. Elizabeth had been discussed more than once, and each time Alan had found himself under the necessity to defending her.
She stood waiting for his answer, but when none was forthcoming she inquired: ‘When did you see Inspector Tripp last?’
‘Yesterday.’
‘Yesterday? Then you see quite a lot of him!’
Alan could not fail to note the suspicion in her face, and her momentary distrust of him gave him a stab of pain.
‘Look here, Elizabeth,’ he said miserably, ‘can’t we get all this straight? You know I want to help you. Why don’t you believe it?’
Her distrust had gone as quickly as it had come. ‘I do believe it,’ she said in a low voice. ‘But it’s impossible. I’ve told you so before. There’s nothing you can do—nothing, nothing.’
And then, with dismay, he saw her droop in her chair, her face hidden in her hands. Alan stumbled to his feet and went to her. He could hear her breath coming in quick stemmed-back sobs, and her distress cut him to the heart.