It seemed to him that they stood facing each other in the timeless realm of destiny.
Then terror overwhelmed him like an avalanche, till he was conscious only of the necessity for flight. He started to run towards the Frazers’ house, and continued to run until he reached the top of the steps. Then he glanced fearfully over his shoulder. Nothing was to be seen but the drifting chaos of the fog.
Nevertheless, terror swept him again and he began to beat with clenched fists on the door.
It was opened almost immediately by Mrs. Frazer.
“Mr. Trent! You are ill!”
He just heard the words, saw the white blur of a face, then fell senseless at her feet.
“Hullo, Rendell, you here! Damn it, you don’t mean to say you’re still in the Club?”
“Obviously. You’d better have a drink, Jordan. What’s it to be?”
“Pink gin. But, look here, you told me——”
“Wait till we get the drinks. What’s happened to everybody? This bar’s usually crammed at six o’clock.”
“Just a fluke. Damn it, I can do with a drink. Ah, here we are! But I say—seriously—you’re not going to stay here much longer, are you?”
“I can’t. I’ve got to go to-night. You know the rule here? I’ve had my room for the maximum period. My suitcases are with the hall-porter and he’s waiting for me to tell him to get me a taxi.”
“Where are you going?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea.”
“You’re not serious?”
“Perfectly.”
Jordan gave a boisterous laugh. It was well known in the club and it rasped the nerves of the more sensitive members. He was an overblown florid man, who assumed that he was immensely popular and invariably acted on the assumption. Owing to his initiative, certain rather suggestive paintings hung on the walls of the bar. He now surveyed these with heavy satisfaction for some moments, then said jocularly:
“Well, you’re a damn fine feller, Rendell! Been a member here for years, never put a foot inside it, and yet for the last few months you’ve haunted the damn place. And now you’ve got to leave—and you can’t think of anywhere to go.”
Jordan paused, then added, indicating Rendell’s glass:
“Better have the other half of that.”
“Right, but it’s my last.”
Jordan gave an order, then turned to Rendell.
“What the hell did you do yesterday? Sundays in London are the devil if you’re on your own.”
“I dined with a man I hadn’t seen for years—a man I don’t like.”
Again Jordan’s laugh jarred the room. As he spent the whole of his leisure with his mistress, the devices of others to cheat loneliness always amused him.
“Dined with a man you don’t like!” he echoed. “Who the hell was that?”
“A fellow called Marsden.”
“Never heard of him. What did you dine with him for if you don’t like him?”
“You often talk to a man you don’t like if you’re lonely, Jordan.”
After a perceptible pause, Rendell went on:
“Also, I wanted to discuss a man he knows—who happens to interest me.”
“Who’s that?”
“Ivor Trent.”
“Never heard of him either. Well, damn it, I’ll have to go. Dining at home to-night—worse luck! Still, I’ve cut it down to twice a week. You know the old saying about wives: get ’em young, tell ’em nothing, and treat ’em rough. Don’t like leaving you on your own, though. Here! I’ll tell you what! I’ll give you my paper. Save you sending for one. Here you are! Two more winners for Gordon Richards. Well, so long.”
Rendell took the paper mechanically, then watched Jordan’s exit, noting his attempt to hide unsteadiness under a swaggering gait.
When he had disappeared, Rendell muttered to himself:
“Jordan! God! Am I down to that?”
He turned over the paper, scarcely glancing at it. Suddenly a name at the top of a short paragraph made him start. He flattened the paper on the bar and read:
Rendell read the paragraph again.
Last night! . . . taken ill suddenly! . . . So, while he was talking to Marsden about Trent——
He glanced again at the paper.
77, Potiphar Street, Chelsea—in a delirious condition.
It was the oddest coincidence, why——
Suddenly an idea came to him.
He hesitated. Doubts, objections, advantages surged like an unruly crowd across his mind. A bit absurd, perhaps. And yet, why not? He’d got to do something. It might be interesting. Anyhow it would be a minor adventure. Yes, why
He strode out of the bar, ran down the stairs, got his overcoat, then said to the hall-porter:
“Get my things, Johnson, will you? And I want a taxi.”
“Yes, Mr. Rendell.” He struck a bell. . . . “Page! Get Mr. Rendell’s things—and look sharp about it. Then get a taxi.”
Two minutes later the boy returned.
“Taxi’s waiting, sir.”