He looked at her in silence; he raised his hands in a brief gesture and let them fall. There was an interval in which neither spoke.
‘I’m not ungrateful, Richard,’ she said at last. ‘I want you to believe that. But there’s something——’ She drew in a quick breath and turned away, and he knew what she meant. The old bitterness still lay at her heart.
‘I once loved you, Anne,’ he said steadily; ‘then I felt bitter too, for a time. But that’s done with. Now I’m sorry for you. You’ve made it plain, however, that you want neither my pity nor my help—nor, indeed, my friendship. Well, I’m bound to respect your wishes.’
‘You put things well, Richard. You always did. Before you go, there’s one thing you ought to know. Yesterday, I had a communication from my husband. He’s in London.’
Sir Richard Templeton’s eyebrows went up in surprise.
‘Have you seen him?’
‘Last evening.’
‘I trust you’ll see no more of him! If—if you’ve any trouble with him let me know. Is it money he wants?’
‘No.’ Her reply was emphatic. ‘I’d rather not discuss the matter.’
‘Very well.’ Templeton shrugged his shoulders. ‘May I have a word with Elizabeth before I go?’
Mrs. Marlowe left the room, and presently Elizabeth appeared.
‘Good evening, Sir Richard.’
‘About to-morrow morning, Elizabeth. You might come a little earlier than usual. I have made some notes about the Lord John case, and I’d like you to copy them and take them to Chief Inspector Tripp of Scotland Yard. You have typed out the file of papers he sent me yesterday?’
‘Yes, Sir Richard.’
‘Where is your copy?’
‘I gave it to you with the original documents. You locked the folder away in your safe, you remember.’
He nodded. ‘You know the latest news about Lord John, I expect?’
‘Arrested,’ she replied in a low voice.
‘No, no. Later news than that,’ he said, turning to go. As he paused at the door he gave a short laugh. ‘Lord John escaped from the police station before they’d even had time to examine him!’
CHAPTER V
AT MIDNIGHT
There was a frown on Sir Richard Templeton’s face as he hurried to Euston Road, where he picked up a taxi-cab. Giving a number in Carbery Square, he glanced at his watch and settled down on the seat, thoughtfully fingering his lower lip as his cab sped towards the West End of London.
Descending in Carbery Square, he went across the pavement to the lighted portico of No. 37. The front door was partly open; music and laughter came from within; and from the street one caught a glimpse of men and women in evening-dress passing up and down the wide staircase beyond the hall. A liveried footman took Templeton’s hat and coat and directed him to the large drawing-room on the floor above. The dance had been in progress for some time, and Mrs. Prideaux was upstairs mixing with her guests.
As Templeton entered the drawing-room, and paused to look around for his hostess, a woman on a settee in the corner leaned towards her neighbour.
‘You know who that is, don’t you?’ she whispered.
‘The face is familiar,’ admitted the other. ‘But then, I’m so stupid with faces, my dear. . . . Surely it’s Sir Richard Templeton! But what on earth is he doing here? One always understood that Templeton was rather a recluse—a woman-hater, in fact. Is he turning over a new leaf?’
‘Opening a new volume!’ said the older woman with a smile. ‘Mrs. Prideaux and he may make a match of it yet.’
‘Templeton marry Lydia Prideaux?’
‘And why not? A wealthy young widow and a famous barrister. Very suitable. They’ve been seen lunching together lately, so I’m told, and you know she’s rented a furnished house quite near his little place in the country—at Holmdean, down in Surrey.
‘I’m sure there’s something in it. . . . Here’s old Captain Stirling. He’ll know; he knows everything. How are you, James? We’re talking scandal, and we need your saintly influence. Do you know Sir Richard Templeton?’
‘Templeton—h’m.’ The man fingered his white moustache. ‘I’ve met him—once, I think. A queer, unfriendly sort of devil. Knows an enormous lot of people, yet hasn’t had any friends. You know what I mean. In fact, they say his best friend is Leopold.’
‘Leopold King—the maître d’hôtel at the Marquise?’ asked the younger woman. ‘What an odd mixture!’
‘I suppose so.’ The man gave a slight shrug. ‘But they’re rather like each other in one way—I mean, they’re both lonely devils. Known each other for years, I believe, when Leopold used to run that hotel in Rome—the “Firenze,” wasn’t it? They say Templeton spends his vacations on Leopold’s yacht with a trunkful of briefs, working half the night. Queer idea of amusement, if it’s true, though Tommy Barraud told me he saw the pair of them in the private rooms at Monte Carlo, playing big stuff against the Greek syndicate, but you can’t believe all Tommy says. Anyhow, Templeton had the vilest luck at the Bar until a few years ago. Nobody had ever heard of him, then he seemed to come away with a rush, and before you could wink, by gad, he was Treasury counsel at the Old Bailey.’
‘There must be a big income attached to it,’ remarked the older woman.
‘There isn’t!’ said the man. ‘My solicitor was telling me the other day that prosecuting counsel on a big murder case often don’t get more than a hundred guineas—that’s for weeks and sometimes months of work. Oh, yes; I know Templeton’s said to be a wealthy man, but I suppose these legal chaps have ways and means of getting money that we don’t know about.’
‘Look at him!’ whispered the younger woman. ‘Look how he’s following Lydia round with his eyes.’
‘I never see Templeton,’ observed the man, ‘but I think he’s got some secret sorrow.’
‘I never thought of that. Do you know, James, I believe you’re right!’
If the eminent barrister, who had so rapidly become the terror of accused criminals, did conceal some secret sorrow behind the mobile mask that he showed the world, all traces of it disappeared as the music stopped and Mrs. Prideaux, disengaging herself from her partner, hurried across the floor and held out her white hand to him.
Lydia Prideaux would have been a notable figure in any crowd. She was blonde, with large blue eyes and smooth hair of pallid gold, a perfect skin, and features of an almost Grecian symmetry. She moved with grace and poise; and her age might have been anything between twenty-five and forty.
‘I’m so glad you’ve come, Richard!’
‘I didn’t promise,’ he reminded her, releasing her cold fingers.
‘I know—that’s why it’s so good of you. Come over here and let’s talk. Tell me what you’ve been doing.’
He settled down beside her in the alcove to which she had led him. ‘Doing? Work,’ he said a little wearily.
‘And neglecting,’ she added with a laugh, ‘the really important things of life?’
‘Such as?’
‘Women,’ said Lydia Prideaux, mock-serious, ‘and, of course, jade.’ At the mention of his sole hobby his eyes lit up; and she continued; ‘I do believe, Richard, the only exercise you ever get is an occasional stroll round the dealers in Henry Street. Bought any jade lately?’
Smiling, Templeton shook his head. ‘I’ve had no time for even the important things of life. And you?’
‘Yes,’ she said eagerly, ‘I’ve just had a lovely stroke of luck. I knew you’d be interested. I was in Chrétien’s, looking round the shop, and came on a rather good jar, very old. I turned to ask the price when a stranger spoke tome. “I think not, lady, if the lady will pardon me,” he said—he had a queer, quiet voice, and I got rather a start. No, he wasn’t an Englishman; half-Asiatic, very polite and pleasant, and he did seem to know jade. He said he’d really come to the shop to sell some, but if I cared to see it instead he’d send it round to my house. Well, in the end I bought some from him—really lovely pieces. I’ll show you them later.’