She had been kept at the house by the police, she said with great indignation; or she would have been at Gresham Terrace on their heels. And, with fresh indignation, she demanded of Rollison :
“Why isn’t he here with you? Why didn’t you bring him?”
“Pamela,” Rollison said as he put his hand on her arm and led her into the hall where a few hours ago he had been so near death, “try not to hate me.”
“Hate you? Why on earth should I?”
“For what I have to tell you,” Rollison said.
Her eyes were so huge and bright but they held no radiance. Her lips were parted, but she uttered no words although three words formed on them, easy to read:
“He’s — not — dead?”
“No,” Rollison told her, “he’s not dead, Pam, but I think perhaps he deserves to be.”
Gently, he told her.
He did not know whether it was good or bad that she listened, and made no comment, and showed no sign of tears.
When he had done, and waited a while, Rollison went on: “There’s one deep cause for satisfaction, Pamela. You and your family did what you set out to do: you saved the life and fortune of the real Tommy G. Loman.”
* * *
When he saw that real Tommy G., the next day, he found him pleasant and likeable. But Rollison knew and Jolly knew and Pamela would soon know that as a personality he wasn’t a patch on the false Tommy G. Loman: and never would be.
THE END