The Assistant Commissioner took a sip of water, and turned to the stenographer. ‘This summary—as well as the earlier statements—you might please let me have in triplicate to-morrow morning. See that Sir Richard Templeton has also a separate copy. Gentlemen, I have only one more observation to make. I thank you for your patience, and I suggest we can now do nothing better than adjourn. If eleven o’clock to-morrow morning will suit you, Sir Richard, I can call to see you then. . . . Half-past three would be more convenient to you? That will suit me admirably.’
The barrister and Alan Gilmour walked back to the Marquise Hotel together. The storm of the previous day had passed, and the night was clear and starry; the air fresh and clean. They walked up Whitehall in silence, pausing in Trafalgar Square to look at the ghostly recumbent forms of the lions around the Nelson column.
‘I have an apology to make to you, Mr. Gilmour,’ said Sir Richard. ‘Last Tuesday night I’m afraid I spoke in a rather heated way about your relations with Miss Marlowe. I frankly admit I suspected you of ulterior motives, but afterwards I learned from Inspector Tripp that I was wrong—entirely wrong. Indeed, you seem to have been her best friend all through, and for this the least I can do is to thank you.’
‘I think I have an apology to make to you, Sir Richard,’ declared Alan. ‘Yesterday, Leopold King refused me further accommodation in the Marquise Hotel, and I thought that you were at the back of it.’
‘I was!’ laughed Templeton. ‘But you must blame Inspector Tripp. He begged me to ask Leopold King to get you away from the place if possible—he was thinking of your personal safety, and, in view of your narrow escape last week, I’m not surprised.’
‘Well, I’m damned!’ said Alan.
Templeton laughed again and looked at his watch. ‘A quarter-past two! Sleep, I think, is now indicated. They’ve fixed you up after all at the “Marquise”? Excellent. By the way, Gilmour,’ he added as they entered the lift, ‘can you lunch with me to-morrow at one-thirty? I really think it’s time we made each other’s acquaintance!’
The barrister had an early breakfast next morning, and, after putting in nearly an hour’s work, was in his car before nine o’clock, driving to an address in Somers Town.
At No. 12 Deacon Street he descended and hurried up the dismal stairs.
It was Mrs. Marlowe who opened the door to his knock.
‘May I come in, Anne?’
‘Richard—you here!’
Mrs. Marlowe stared at him out of puzzled eyes, then slowly led the way into the poorly furnished sitting-room. Elizabeth, who had been kneeling before the miserable fire, rose to her feet. Outside, the morning sun was bright, but the raw, damp air of the previous evening still seemed to be permeating every corner of the room, and the gloomy aspect of the place made Templeton shiver. Elizabeth and her mother exchanged glances, and waited for the barrister to speak.
‘I’ve come about the statements you both made at Scotland Yard last evening,’ he began. ‘Inspector Tripp was coming here this morning, but he suggested that I might care to break the good news instead, Yesterday afternoon, as soon as I heard of Henry Marlowe’s death, I decided to take Tripp into my confidence, Anne—yes, he knows now how matters stand between us. It was a kindly thought of his to suggest that I should come to tell you that both your statements have been accepted in every detail, and it’s certain you have nothing more to worry about.’
Elizabeth was at her mother’s side, pressing her hands, and a sob of relief broke from the older woman’s lips.
‘Is it permitted for an old friend—a very old friend, Anne—to say how pleased he is? . . . Yes, I think I can understand everything—your loyalty to Henry Marlowe, because he was your husband, not because you had any love or respect left for him——’
‘I had none, Richard. I’ve had none for eighteen years.’
‘ “Concerning the dead speak nothing save what is good”,’ murmured Templeton in a low voice. ‘As it is difficult to speak good of Henry Marlowe, we will say nothing. But I have something else to tell you, Anne—something concerning ourselves. I have said it before in these last few weeks, and I would like to say it again. May I?’
There was something in the woman’s eyes—a look of strange tenderness—that shook him. He dropped his hat and gloves on the table, and turned to Elizabeth.
‘I’d like a few words with your mother alone. My car is at the door. Will you go downstairs and wait for me? Better still, drive on to the Marquise Hotel, and send the car back here. I’ll come later. Which reminds me. Please take a message to Mr. Gilmour. Ask him if he’ll kindly cancel our luncheon appointment to-day—I’ll see him afterwards and explain.’
Alan Gilmour, who had finished a late breakfast, was smoking a thoughtful pipe of tobacco leaning on the narrow balcony of his bedroom when he heard the rattle of Elizabeth’s typewriter keys at the open window of the room below. He had never heard that sound in the mornings without a quickening of his pulse. To-day it had begun earlier than usual, and Alan listened to it intently. He could hear the tiny tinkle of the typewriter bell at the end of each line. He pictured the slender fingers darting rapidly among the keys, and the brown eyes fixed upon the manuscript pages beside the machine. He recalled the first day he had seen that picture of her with the faint, wistful smile which had lingered so persistently in his thoughts ever since. . . .
If only she had taken him into her confidence! If only she had told him the whole story of the sudden appearance of Henry Marlowe after an absence of more years than she could remember; of his despicable efforts to make her break trust with her employer and tell everything about the Lord John case she might have learned in the course of her duties—information which Marlowe had possibly intended to use against Lord John himself, so rare, in actual practice, is there honour among thieves. . . .
If only she had spoken! Yet he understood her silence now. Alan’s throat tightened as he realized what Elizabeth had suffered in the last ten days.
As he stood there on the balcony he noticed that the noise of the typewriter from the open window below had ceased. He straightened up, his blue eyes half-closed, and he turned and walked slowly from the room.
When he reached the floor beneath he hesitated, but in the end he gathered courage and went along the corridor. The outer door of Sir Richard Templeton’s suite was unfastened. Alan was about to knock when something impelled him to put out his hand and push it open, and he saw that the inner door was ajar, so that he could look into the little office. By the open window Elizabeth sat at her typewriter, but her elbows were on the table, her chin was resting in her hands, and her brown eyes were staring into vacancy.
She jumped to her feet with a little cry of surprise as Alan entered.
‘Is Sir Richard in?’
She shook her head: ‘But I’m expecting him soon.’
‘How soon?’
‘Any minute now.’
‘No matter. May I sit down? Look here, what’s all this?’ He waved towards the typewritten pages on the table.
‘Work,’ she said solemnly.
‘Work! Why not cut it out to-day?’
‘Would you like me to get the sack?’ she inquired with a smile.
‘Nothing would suit me better!’ he declared. ‘I was going to suggest it myself. I have a deep-laid scheme in my head. Elizabeth——’
‘By the way, I have a message for you from Sir Richard. He asked me to get in touch with you. Do you mind cancelling the luncheon with him to-day—I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s lunching with mother instead.’