A sudden determination to humble her made him add the last sentence. Her assurance was assumed—her manner was a pose. She had consciously adopted a method to create a definite impression. Rendell was certain of it, and so he had made that reference to the possibility of Trent being again delirious—in much the same spirit as he would have shown a whip to a dog that was putting on airs.
His success was dramatic, for she blushed a deep crimson. Her embarrassment was so extreme that he shared it.
She sat down limply and half closed her eyes.
“But in all probability,” Rendell said quickly, “he’s over the delirium for good.”
“Why is he here?”
She asked the question lifelessly, with no trace of her former manner.
“Well,” Rendell began, then hesitated. After all, why should he reveal Trent’s secret? “I will only tell you that his publisher and agent were here this morning and they assume he collapsed in the street and was brought in here. Have you seen him lately?”
“No—not for months. I don’t want to see him—ever! I only came because the paper said he was——”
She broke off and again there was silence.
“I’m afraid I’m not much help,” Rendell said slowly. Then an idea occurred to him, and he added: “Do you know any of his friends?”
“I met one some time ago. A man called Denis Wrayburn.” She moved uneasily as if her memories of him were not pleasant. Then she went on: “And I met another. His name was Peter Marsden.”
“Marsden! That’s odd, because he’ll probably turn up any minute. Perhaps you’d like to see him.”
“Why?”
“Well, he was here earlier and had a talk with Captain Frazer—that’s the man who owns this house—so perhaps Marsden could tell you more definitely than I can how Trent is.”
“I’m completely indifferent as to how he is,” she replied. “Have I asked you once how he was?”
“Well, no, you haven’t.”
“If you had told me that he was dead, I shouldn’t have cared in the least. I’d have been glad. I hate him as I’ve never hated anyone—and I’m not a bad hater. All I’m afraid of is that if he’s—delirious—he might babble some infamous lies about—well—
“I didn’t want to know particularly, or I should have asked. You volunteered the information.”
She turned to him, and their eyes met for the first time. The dark intensity glowing in hers almost startled him.
“You are a friend of his?” she asked more humbly.
“I’ve never seen him.”
“Read his books, perhaps?”
“One of them.”
“I wish to God I’d never read a line he’s written. Anyway, his books are all lies.”
As Rendell said nothing, she went on:
“You don’t agree, of course!”
“I don’t know what you mean by all lies. I’ve read only one of his books, but I read it three times. To me, it was a revelation. But I’m not a critic, like Marsden.”
She was about to speak, but Rendell silenced her with a gesture. He was standing by the window, listening intently to a minor commotion on the steps.
“That sounds like Marsden. I’ll ask him in. That is, if you have no objection.”
“Just as you like, I’m completely indifferent.”
Rendell opened the door, but, finding that the maid who happened to be in the hall was about to respond to a knock, he said to her:
“If that’s Mr. Marsden, show him in here, will you?”
A moment afterwards Marsden appeared. He stood in the doorway, supported by crutches, gazing from one to the other in considerable perplexity.
“You’re Vera Thornton,” he said at last. “I can understand your being here. But what on earth are you doing, Rendell—and whose room is this?”
“Mine,” Rendell replied. “Let’s take those things, then you can sit down and have a cigarette.”
Marsden allowed himself to be relieved of his crutches, then sank into a chair and accepted the cigarette Rendell offered him. But during these operations his sharp little eyes did not cease to regard Rendell with a hint of disapproval.
“
Rendell explained briefly the impulse which had prompted him to come to No. 77 the night before; the manner of his reception, and his sudden decision to take the room. In extenuation of his eccentricity in so doing, he pointed out to Marsden that his action was really no more than a sequel to their conversation during dinner on the previous Sunday.
He ended by saying:
“The fact that I dragged you out in the fog to dine and talk about a man I don’t know was a pretty good indication that I was mentally and emotionally unemployed. Well, I still am. I had to clear out of the club: I came to inquire about Trent: I found this room vacant and I took it. It’s not really as odd as it sounds.”
Marsden immediately asked a number of questions—the answers to which only necessitated restatements of the explanation already given. Rendell made them mechanically, while secretly trying to determine whether or not to reveal to Marsden any of the strange information he had amassed during his brief residence at No. 77.