The room was square, well furnished, in a manner that made no concession to modern ideas—with the exception that the walls were almost bare—but its chief characteristic was an absence of personality. Its atmosphere proclaimed that it was occupied, but not lived in, and this fact was significant, as the flat had been hers for two years. Furniture, colour scheme, intimate possessions, lacked individuality. They were mute observers, not collaborators, and so they remained anonymous.
She continued to sit motionless, leaning towards the fire, but the immobility of her attitude indicated conflict rather than repose. The body was taut, the features tense, and the closed eyes suggested concentration, not peace. An observer of any penetration would have imagined that she had disciplined herself to remain physically inert while inwardly raging with impatience.
She started violently when the telephone bell rang.
She let it ring for some moments, however, while she went to a mirror, arranged her hair, and assumed a social expression as if a visitor were about to be announced.
At last she picked up the receiver.
“Yes.”
“It’s Peter—Peter Marsden.”
“Well?”
“Well—as you were so insistent—I went to Number 77——”
“You’re not ringing up from there?” she interrupted quickly.
“No—this is a public box. I’ve just left. There’s no great news about Trent. He’s not delirious now and——”
She made a muffled exclamation.
“What?”
“Nothing,” she replied. “Go on.”
“I had a long talk with Captain Frazer. He took me down to his study. You’ve no idea what an odd room——”
“Yes, yes! Well?”
“How impatient you are! Well, the gallant Captain has one or two theories, not too favourable to Trent and——”
“What do you mean? What did he say?”
“Oh, he suggested that Trent had those rooms not to work in but to facilitate his amorous affairs.”
Her hands tightened convulsively, but she made no sound.
“Frazer backs his theory,” Marsden went on, “by saying that it’s the only explanation of his friends’ ignorance concerning those rooms. The Captain is very communicative, particularly if you lend him half a crown. But, all the same, I fancy he knows more than he says.”
“Why? What do you mean?”
“How intense you are! I only mean that he gives you a look implying he could say more if he chose. After all, his wife was looking after Trent when he was delirious and so——”
“Did Frazer mention me?”
“Wait a minute—I must think. Oh yes, he quoted you as being one of those who knew Trent and yet was ignorant that he had those rooms. And he added that you ought to have known.”
“What did he mean by that?”
“My dear girl, I don’t know. Probably that you’d known Trent some time and that therefore it was odd. But that’s enough about Potiphar Street. Look here, I’ve got to see you again—and soon. I can’t get you out of my head, do you know that? Keep thinking about you. . . . Are you there?”
“Yes, yes. I was thinking. We’ll meet to-morrow night, if you like. Come here at about seven. Did you see Rendell?”
“No, I did
“But he’s reliable, isn’t he? I mean, you’d trust him, wouldn’t you?”
“Oh yes, of course! If Rendell said he’d keep his mouth shut, he’d keep it shut. I admit that—but it doesn’t make me like him.”
“Still, you’re certain of it?”
“Yes, quite certain. You are an odd person. What’s Rendell to you? I believe you’re a dark horse. Now I must get on. I’ve work to do. But I’ll come at seven to-morrow, and I want to talk to you rather seriously. I liked you a lot, you know, even the first time I saw you at Trent’s flat, but you wouldn’t look at me then. Till to-morrow.”
“Yes, to-morrow. Good-bye.”
She replaced the receiver but did not move. Several minutes passed, then, with sudden resolution, she touched the receiver—hesitated—and failed to remove it. But her thoughts evidently proved so disturbing that a moment later she snatched the receiver and rapidly dialled a number.
At last a voice responded to the summons.
“I want to speak to Mr. Rendell.”
“I’ll see if he’s in. What name shall I say?”
“It’s a private call.”
“Oh, very well. Hold the line.”
Vera waited, drumming the table with her fingers. The delay seemed interminable, then she heard:
“Rendell speaking. Who is it?”
“It’s—Vera Thornton.”
“Hullo! How are you? What can I do for you? Anything?”
“Yes, as it happens, you can. Would—would you mind coming here—now? I’m in my flat in Bloomsbury. It’s—well—important, or I wouldn’t trouble you. Do you think you could come now?”
“Yes, I’m free enough. You mean
“Yes, if you could.”
“Right! What’s the address?”
She gave it to him, then added:
“It’s good of you to come.”
“That’s all right.”