“I think Marsden cares about me. You see, there’s only one thing I can do—marry, and get away from London, and forget everything. It’s my only chance. Don’t imagine I could love Peter Marsden. All that’s over. It’s broken—and thrown away. I just want an existence now. That’s all. I’ve had enough of asking a lot. I only want a little.”
Then, after a brief pause, she asked:
“You’re certain I’m—
“Quite certain. And if you want anything done at Number Seventy-seven, I will do it. I don’t make promises lightly. But I do make that one. You can go to bed and sleep to-night.”
She leaned forward and put her hand on his knee.
“You must have loved someone once to have understood and helped me like this. I shall never forget it. I’m strong, as a rule. I’m not an hysterical person. But Ivor was stronger—he’s terribly strong.”
“You’re tired,” Rendell said, rising, “so I shall go—and you must go to bed early. I expect we shall meet again before long.”
He held out his hand, which she took in both of hers.
“No, don’t come out,” he went on. “You stay here. Good night.”
“Good night.”
He left her, and a moment later the front door closed behind him.
Vera buried her head in her hands and began to cry convulsively.
At two o’clock on the following Saturday, Denis Wrayburn walked slowly down Potiphar Street on his way to No. 77. As it was warm, he had removed his hat, thereby permitting the errant breeze to do what it would with his long black hair. This fact, and his narrow bearded face, occasioned the mirth of an errand-boy, who emitted a series of caustic comments, followed by a number of hilarious whistles. Wrayburn, however, remained unaware of these attentions and continued to walk towards his destination—slowly enough to justify the assumption that he wished the proceeding to occupy the maximum amount of time.
When he reached the front door, his actions showed that he had experienced the usual difficulty in obtaining a response to a knock. It was also evident that he had evolved a technique to deal with it, for he grasped the knocker firmly and continued to deliver a series of resounding blows until the door was opened.
On this occasion Marsden performed that function.
“Hullo, it’s you!” he exclaimed, without enthusiasm. “What the devil did you knock like that for?”
“To ensure speedy admittance,” Wrayburn replied, investing each word with significance, greatly to Marsden’s irritation.
“You don’t care who has to open it, I suppose?”
“Not in the smallest degree.”
He passed Marsden and entered Rendell’s room—where he discovered Vera Thornton.
“Only you,” was his greeting to her. Then he moved the chair Marsden had vacated nearer the fire, and sat down just as its late occupant returned.
“Well, of all the——”
But Wrayburn interrupted:
“Is Rendell expecting you two?”
“No, he isn’t. Why?”
The silence to this query continued until eventually Marsden realised that it constituted Wrayburn’s refutation of his claim to the chair. He glanced at Vera, who made a gesture expressive of her contempt for Wrayburn—which the latter intercepted.
“How are you progressing with your enquiries as to what Trent said when he was delirious?” Wrayburn asked her, with icy detachment.
Having thus gained complete psychological ascendancy over his companions, Wrayburn proceeded to ignore their presence.
But Marsden, who had obtained some sensational news, began to discuss it with Vera—hoping that Wrayburn’s curiosity would prompt him to ask questions which he would refuse to answer.
“Yes, the nurse has gone,” he said to Vera. “That’s definite. And there’s been the devil of a row between Mrs. Frazer and her husband. She’s packing him off to her sister in Ramsgate. He’s furious—but he’ll go because of the money she’s giving him. There’s no end of changes.”
But at this point he was interrupted by the sudden entrance of Frazer, who burst into the room in a state of considerable excitement.
“I’m leaving this hole,” he announced, “and for good! Everything is to be turned upside down for Trent. My wife is going to nurse him, if you please. Extra help in the house—to enable her to do it. You know that, I take it? But
He paused, glanced at Vera, who became crimson, and was about to race on when Wrayburn extended a long thin arm towards him and demanded:
“Shut that door. There’s a draught.”
Frazer kicked the door to noisily, then went on:
“Nice thing, though, that I don’t know who’s in my own house. I find that artist’s model has been here since Monday. I thought she’d turn up.
He got no further, for the door opened and Mrs. Frazer appeared, followed by the artist’s model.
“I’m not having this,” Mrs. Frazer announced.
“You’re not having