“I’d rather be empty than have such people. And the lady who calls herself a palmist is also leaving. I’m telling you all this because you are friends of Mr. Trent’s—and because you may know of respectable people who want rooms.”
Marsden instantly announced his intention of taking Mr. Archibald Fortesque’s apartment, when that restless and musical gentleman vacated it. Also he thought he could find some lodgers for Mrs. Frazer.
It was at this point that Vera and the Captain returned—the former very flushed and the latter very truculent.
“Now, my lady, I’m off. And I’m not coming back. That’s clear, I take it. So good-bye, Mrs. Basement, and——”
“Oh, shut up, Frazer!” Marsden exclaimed angrily. “We’re talking about important things. We’ve all had quite enough of you.”
The Captain drew himself to his full height, then looked down on Marsden with an air of triumph which astonished him.
“You said, I believe, that
Marsden replied angrily, and Frazer became insulting. Then, when everyone in the room was shouting—except Wrayburn—the door opened and Rendell appeared.
“Hullo! A committee meeting!” he exclaimed. “I thought I’d come into the wrong room.”
Mrs. Frazer’s attempts at apologies were drowned by the Captain and Marsden, who continued to insult each other, while Vera—desperate—vainly tried to restore harmony.
This went on for some minutes, then Frazer, fearing to compromise his victory over Vera, diverted his anger to his wife and began a stormy tirade as to his wrongs and the shortcomings of No. 77.
Interruptions were frequent till eventually—when all were talking simultaneously—the servant opened the door and announced:
“A lady to see Mr. Rendell.”
A dramatic silence descended.
Then Rosalie Vivian came into the room.
She stopped on the threshold and looked round, greatly bewildered. Rendell, who was vaguely aware that her extreme pallor was not the only change in her, crossed the room swiftly and held out his hand.
“I’m so glad you’ve come. I was expecting you.”
The commonplace words recalled the others to the necessities of the situation. Mrs. Frazer went out of the room, murmuring apologies, followed by the model, who had contributed little to the discussion. Captain Frazer, who was impressed by Rosalie’s appearance, drew himself to his full height, shook hands with Rendell, saying that he was leaving town immediately. Then, with a glance at Vera, he marched out—Marsden and Vera following him.
Only Denis Wrayburn remained, who now rose, gave an almost imperceptible bow to Rosalie, then said to Rendell:
“I came only to say that I find that
He looked at his watch, gave a peculiar kind of shiver, then went swiftly out of the room.
“Who are all these people? Why are they all here?”
“There’s been a bit of a disturbance,” Rendell replied, “and——”
“Are they friends of Ivor’s?”
“Yes, most of them.”
She looked up at him quickly.
“That very dark woman—why was she trembling?”
“Was she trembling? I didn’t notice. I’d only just arrived.”
“What is her name?”
“Vera Thornton.”
“And the woman with the red-gold hair—who is she?”
“She’s a model, I believe. I’ve never seen her before.”
Rosalie pressed the palms of her hands against her eyes as if to protect herself from all external impressions.
“I can’t stay,” she went on quickly. “I came because—because—wait! Yes! You said you’d be in every afternoon at three for a week. I cannot come here again for some days. Will you be in all next week at three? Could you do that?”
“Yes, of course. I’m so sorry all those people were here when you came.”
He paused, glanced at her, then exclaimed:
“But you’re in mourning!”
“My husband is dead.”
He stared at her.
“Which day was I here?” she asked.
“Tuesday.”
“He died on Tuesday. Last Saturday he was taken ill suddenly with influenza. He became worse every hour. He died on Tuesday—while I was here.”
“While you were here!”
“Yes—here.”
Rendell was about to speak, but she silenced him with a quick movement. When she spoke again her voice was a whisper.
“He was buried yesterday. . . . Gone! There’s his room, his clothes, his golf-clubs, my photograph on his writing-table—all waiting. But he’s gone. Shall I tell you something? Yes. I will tell you. When he was alive, I lived with him—I understood him. But, now he’s dead, he’s someone else. Do you know that?
“Now, listen to me,” Rendell said abruptly, in the manner of one about to make an authoritative statement, though he scarcely knew what he would say next. “You’ve had a dreadful shock. You loved him and——”
He got no further. She shook her head so decisively that he broke off.
“No. I did