Out in the street, Gilmour released the gasp of surprise which he had managed to suppress on the staircase.
‘And what in the name of creation,’ he asked himself, ‘is Sir Richard Templeton doing at Elizabeth Marlowe’s flat at this time of night?’
CHAPTER IV
NEWS OF LORD JOHN
Sir Richard Templeton halted at the top of the stairs to recover his breath; then groping forward in the darkness, he knocked gently on the door in the left-hand corner of the landing.
It was opened by a woman in a black dress. Her face was in shadow, but the gas-jet in the small lobby behind her showed up the strong features and the brilliant eyes of the man on the threshold.
‘Richard!’
‘May I come in?’
The woman hesitated, then moved with obvious reluctance to let him pass.
‘I asked you not to come here again, Richard.’ In spite of the coldness of her tones, her low voice had a musical and cultured quality.
‘I want to see you alone, Anne. Will you please tell Elizabeth not to disturb us for a few minutes?’
He looked at the woman in front of him. It was obvious that Elizabeth had derived her beauty from her mother. Anne Marlowe could not have been more than forty, and was still attractive, with a pale transparent skin, soft masses of auburn hair, and a figure that was slender and graceful, but ill-health and overwork had left their dark records on her face—in the shadows below her eyes and the hollows round her cheek-bones.
‘Elizabeth has just come in,’ she replied. ‘I’ll tell her.’
Templeton looked up sharply. ‘Just come in?’
‘Yes. She’s been to the theatre with a friend.’
‘The man I passed on the stairs just now? Who is he?’
‘He’s staying at the Marquise Hotel, I believe—Gilmour’s his name.’
She looked inquiringly at Sir Richard Templeton as he gave an exclamation of annoyance.
‘No, no; there’s nothing wrong,’ he said quickly. ‘I’m very glad for Elizabeth’s sake. She needs a little pleasure in her life: it’s dull enough, heaven knows. But I hope her friend didn’t recognize me here. . . . I’ve got to be careful—you understand?’
Her smile was slightly ironic. ‘Yes, in your position, Richard, you must be careful.’
‘Please tell Elizabeth I’d like to see her after I’ve had a talk with you.’
As she turned to the door something in her movements, something in the play of shadow where the auburn hair touched her cheek, reminded him of the woman as he had known her, a radiantly beautiful girl, twenty years before. A stab of pain showed for an instant in his face, and he bit his lip. They had been engaged to be married then: she the daughter of a country rector, he a struggling lawyer with a hazy future in the courts of a Midland city.
She was back in the room almost at once. ‘I’m ready,’ she said quietly. ‘What do you want?’
‘In the first place, I want to explain one or two things to you, Anne.’
‘Are explanations necessary?’
‘I think they are,’ he said slowly. ‘You asked me not to come here again, but how can you expect me to agree to that?’
She stood erect before him. ‘Have you come to remind me of things I’ve forgotten?’
He frowned.
‘I’ve come to help you, Anne. Do you imagine it’s pleasant for me to think of you here, living in this miserable quarter, slaving for people not fit to tie your shoe-laces, dressmaking for tradesmen’s wives. . . . Yes, yes, I admit it’s honest work, but it isn’t good enough. You’re cut out for something better. I’m willing—I’m anxious—to start you in a little business of your own, or anything else you can suggest.’
She looked at him with a flash of anger. ‘I’ve already refused your help, Richard. I refuse it again—for the last time, I hope. You’ve given Elizabeth employment. Please understand your—your charity must stop there.’
‘I object to the word “charity.” It’s ungenerous of you. Elizabeth has been with me three weeks now, and she earns every penny I pay her. Let me put it quite bluntly, Anne. It was a fortunate day for me, that Friday a month ago, when I happened to recognize you in Woburn Place, for, you see, it led to my getting an extraordinarily efficient personal secretary just when I needed one badly. Even if you had no other claims upon me——’
‘Claims upon you—I?’ she interrupted, and again there was a flash of anger in her pale face.
Templeton’s voice fell almost to a whisper. ‘The past has its claims, Anne, surely. I’ve already confessed to you that our parting was the greatest error of my career——’
‘Your career!’ she cried bitterly. ‘So that’s how you look at it. You think I’d have made a suitable wife for an eminent barrister, to entertain his wealthy friends!’
‘Why do you misunderstand me, Anne?’ he said reproachfully. ‘It was the worst mistake of my whole life. And it was my fault, not yours. I confess it. I was jealous—yes, and brutal and overbearing.’ He drew up with an uneasy laugh. ‘Odd, isn’t it, to be talking to you like this, Anne?’
‘If only——’ she began, but suddenly her throat tightened, and she turned away her face.
He took a quick step forward. But his outstretched hand fell to his side when she faced him again, for her eyes were hard and cold.
‘Jealous, brutal, overbearing,’ she said slowly. ‘Haven’t you forgotten something else, Richard—your despicable pride?’
Again he laughed uneasily.
‘Perhaps you’re right, Anne. Yes—my despicable pride. I admit it. But we can’t undo the past—it’s gone. And, don’t you see, I’m trying to make amends. You called it charity just now. It isn’t charity. All I ask of you is credit for having a little decent feeling. Listen, Anne!’ He took a step nearer. ‘You’re tired and ill. Won’t you go away into the country for a month or two? Go to some quiet spot and rest. Elizabeth can come and live at the Marquise—at my expense, of course. You’re ill, you’ve been ordered out of London——’
‘How do you know that, Richard? Elizabeth didn’t tell you. You’ve had inquiries made about me!’
His glance fell. ‘What else could I do? That day we met on the street you even refused me your address. If I hadn’t had inquiries made I’d never have found where you lived: I’d have known nothing about you, except that you were in London, down on your luck.’ He squared his shoulders. ‘Since I’ve admitted so much, I may as well tell you I know what the doctors at the clinic have said. You’re heading for a complete breakdown. It’s imperative that you have rest and country air—imperative!’
‘Your investigations at least seem to have been thorough,’ she said bitterly. ‘I suppose you have also been making inquiries about—my husband?’
He gave her a quick glance.
‘I know nothing about Henry Marlowe,’ he said deliberately, and stopped, knowing that he trod on delicate ground. Henry Marlowe, young man-about-town, reputedly wealthy, had laid siege to her affections, carried her off abroad by storm, and after less than a year had deserted her. There had even been a rumour at the time that he had served a term of imprisonment in a French jail. But nobody had known the true facts, for her clergyman father had died in the interval, and none of her old friends had ever seen her again. ‘What happened to him, Anne?’ he ventured. ‘You haven’t told me——’
‘I cannot discuss my husband with you, Richard.’
He looked at the floor; he had half-expected this retort. ‘What your husband is—or was—makes no difference to me. All I want is to help you.’
Anne Marlowe shook her head. ‘I believe you mean it in kindness, Richard. But you don’t understand me any more than you ever did! Anything you may do for Elizabeth is a different matter, but I can accept nothing from you.’