Lindsay remained where he was for a minute or two. He had a feeling that the door might open again and disclose Drayton hovering. He waited. The door did not open. He crossed to it and turned the key. Then he took the note out of his sleeve and read it.
There was no beginning. The handwriting was rather pretty. It slanted downwards across a sheet of cheap paper stamped with the initial E.
“I must see you. Why won’t you let me come to the home? I can’t see why I shouldn’t come and see you. Who’s to know anyhow? If you are really coming out on Monday, will you meet me without fail on Tuesday at the same place as last time? I can be there by a quarter past six.”
“E. M.”
CHAPTER XII
LINDSAY SAT DOWN NEXT day to Restow’s arrears of correspondence. His job was certainly going to be no sinecure. He wondered how long Froth would have managed to hold it. Restow, from his own table, would fling him a couple of words to build a letter on—“Say no. Say yes. He asks too much.” Or, “Tell him I am once bit and one hundred times shy.”
When Lindsay came to a French letter, he remembered that he had only schoolboy French, and asked Restow to vet his stumbling translation. Restow was caustic about public schools.
“The more they charge, the less they teach! By Jing! I never had one sou, one nickel, one dime paid for my schooling—not one, I tell you—and I know more in my little finger than you with all your brain—if you have one! Many people do as well without. Are you one of them?”
Lindsay thought he might look a little offended.
“I don’t know about that,” he said, and Restow roared with laughter.
During the lunch hour Lindsay was left to his own devices. He read his own obituary and an account of his fatal accident in half a dozen different papers, and turned cold all down his spine at the discovery that three of them had photographs of the brilliant young author, Mr Lindsay Trevor. Some guardian angel must have been watching over the reproduction. In one paper he was a blurred figure in a group, and in the other two the round-faced boy he had been twelve years before. The obituary notices all spoke kindly of Golden Apples, and mentioned his second book now in the press.
He went on writing letters until five, when Restow told him to knock off.
“Half past nine to five until you polish off the arrears—the rest of the time you may dance, or drink, or play any fool you like just so long as you do not play it up on me. I do not know what your head is like, but if you come to type my letters with a shaky hand and an eye that blears and is looking for the next drink, we shall have a quarrel—and when I quarrel, my Fothering, what is left of the other one is not worth the trouble of picking up—here a little bit and there a little bit as Solomon says. So I give you my advice to climb on a water waggon and stay there.”
Lindsay left the house at half past five. He had to keep an appointment with E. M., who was Elsie Manning. She was expecting him to meet her at the same place as last time, and she would be there at a quarter past six. If it had not been for Drayton, he would not have had the remotest idea where, in all London, she would be waiting for him. According to Drayton, Froth had met Elsie Manning at the corner of Leaham Road. Lindsay had therefore to get to Leaham Road by a quarter past six, and to be quite certain that he got there without being followed.
He strolled easily across the square and along the rather narrow street which leads out of it on the north side. A couple of turnings, one to the right and one to the left, brought him down to a wide road brightly lighted and full of traffic. He was quite certain that he was being followed, not so much because of anything he had noticed as because he made sure that Drayton would be keeping him under observation.
He went into a stationer’s, bought an evening paper, and stood just inside the door turning over the sheets with one eye on the street. He made nothing of that, and presently took a side turning, then another, sprinted a hundred yards as noiselessly as possible, turned again, and ran up the first steps he saw.
The nearest lamp was a comfortable distance away. He stood on the top step as if about to ring the bell and watched the corner round which he had come. He watched it for five minutes. Nobody passed through the lighted space about the lamp-post.
Lindsay ran down the steps, sprinted again to the end of the road, and then made his way back to the thoroughfare, where he took a bus. He changed buses twice, keeping a sharp look-out. In the end he came into Cannington Square.
He was now quite sure that he was not being followed. His mind, relieved on this score, found another to deal with. If someone had been following him, only to be shaken off, would this someone have given up, or would he, with Drayton’s knowledge at his disposal, have taken a chance on Cannington Square and Leaham Road? Lindsay squared his shoulders. There was the risk, and it had to be taken.
The evening was turning to fog; Cannington Square was opaque with it, each lamp a yellow point in a nimbus like a yellow cocoon. He had to search for the opening of Leaham Road, and finding it, was confronted by a new fear. He did not know who Elsie Manning was, or what her relations with Froth were, but it was at least likely that they were of a sentimental kind. It wasn’t going to be easy to pass as Froth with a girl who, for all he knew, was in love with Froth. It seemed extraordinary to think of a girl being in love with Froth; but girls did fall in love with the most extraordinary fellows. No, it wasn’t going to be easy, and the fog—the fog was going to make it pretty well impossible.
He stood still on the kerb at the corner. He had no likeness to Froth except the surface likeness which lies in the colour of the hair, the shape of the features, the build and height. The fog, thickening and deepening the January night, was going to rob him of all this likeness and leave him just a chance-met stranger to a girl whose every perception must refuse to take him for Froth.
He must make the best of it and trust to luck. He removed his hat by way of giving the red hair its full value, and moved into the misty circle of light about the corner lamp. If he were being spied upon, he was giving himself away. He thought of that and chanced it. He stepped into the light, waited, and hoped that he would not have to wait long. A church clock somewhere away on his left struck the quarter.
He did not have to wait at all. Someone came running to him out of the fog, catching at him, pressing against him, and saying in a little panting voice,
“O-oh—you’ve come! I’m so glad! Are you all right again? O-oh—I was so afraid you wouldn’t come! Are you really quite all right?” She shook him lightly, a hand on either arm. “Why don’t you say something? You’re nearly as depressing as the fog.”
There was an intimacy about her touch, her manner. The lamp-light, yellow and diffused, seemed to hang like a veil between them. He had an impression of warm colour and bright eyes. He disengaged himself, put a hand through her arm, and walked her out of the yellow light into a deep, dark, comforting patch of fog.
“Why—Trevor! “said the girl in a tone of astonishment.
Lindsay brought his voice down to a whisper.
“We can’t stay here.”
“Where shall we go?” She was whispering too.
“I don’t know. Ssh!”
She pressed closer to him. She felt very little and soft—little, and young, and soft.
They stood leaning together, and from across the way a solitary footfall sounded through the fog. There was something terrifying about it. It had the quality of a sound heard on the edge of sleep. The girl was trembling up against him on tiptoe. He felt her lips at his ear, her warm panting breath tickled his neck.
“I’m frightened.”
“Run!” said Lindsay, whispering sharply. With the word, he caught her arm in a compelling grip and ran with her back across the corner of Cannington Square and down the narrow turning which leads into Fosdyke Row.
Elsie Manning ran well. They turned out of Fosdyke Row on the right, ran up Gree
n Street, turned again, and found themselves in a street of dark old houses set back behind gloomy squares of garden full of fog. Lindsay stopped running, but still held her arm.
They stood listening in a profound silence. From one end to another of the long dark street nothing stirred. The windows kept their lights shut in like secrets. Not a door opened, not a footfall sounded, not a car went by. The place might never have emerged from the century in which it had been built. It seemed a good place to talk.
The girl drew in her breath with a trembling laughing sound.
“You haven’t kissed me,” she said, and put up her face in the dark.
Lindsay bent his head and kissed the tip of a soft little nose. An extraordinary sense of guilt touched him, and then withdrew. The little nose slid away and two warm, soft lips touched his. As he kissed them, they kissed him back. Then, with a gasp, Elsie Manning slipped from him.
“Who are you?” she said.
Lindsay said her name under his breath:
“Elsie—”
Her voice throbbed and shook, though she kept it low.
“Oh—who are you?”
“Elsie—”
She came close again, beating down on him like a startled bird. He could not see her, but he had that picture of her—a bird with bright, startled eyes, beating itself against glass. There was the feeling of an impalpable barrier between them. Her hands caught at his arm and shook it.
“Who are you? Who are you? Where’s Trevor? What have you done with Trevor? You must tell me!”
It was no good. He knew when he was beat. He had been a fool to kiss her; but it would have been all the same if he had refused her kiss. If she and Trevor were on kissing terms, the hand was lost before he had played a card.
She was still shaking him and demanding Froth, when he said, “Miss Manning—” And at once her hands were gone from his arm. She had sprung back, pushing him away. He guessed at a wild, frightened gesture suddenly checked. Somewhere in the darkness close to him she was standing quite still, waiting.
“Miss Manning—”
He heard her catch her breath. He could not see her, but he had the feeling that she had come a little nearer. When she spoke, he knew it for certain. A whisper that was just the return of that caught breath came to him through the fog:
“Who are you?”
“Why do you think I’m not Trevor?”
He heard her foot tap the pavement.
“Don’t be stupid! Tell me who you are. If you don’t—” Her voice stopped short.
“Well? If I don’t?”
“I shall scream.”
Lindsay laughed.
“But why?”
“You wouldn’t like me to—that’s why. Why did we run away? Who did we run away from? If I scream, they’ll hear me.”
Lindsay had been playing for time. He wanted her to talk, to give him some impression of the girl who met Froth. He was getting his impression, but it wasn’t quite what he expected. Courage, presence of mind, quickness of thought, and intuition—he had that impression of her, and the memory of her soft little nose and warm soft lips.
“I hope you won’t scream,” said Lindsay in his own natural voice.
“Then tell me why—and tell me who you are—quick!”
Lindsay had made up his mind.
“Tell me who you are first.”
He heard her foot tap again.
“You know. I’m Elsie Manning.”
“Yes, I know that—but it doesn’t tell me very much. Who is Elsie Manning?”
He heard her bring her hands together sharply.
“No—no—that’s not fair! You know my name, and I don’t know yours. It’s not fair!”
“If I tell you my name,” said Lindsay, “I—well, it sounds melodramatic, but quite frankly I believe I shall be putting my life in your hands.”
She pressed up against him suddenly, catching him by the arm. Even then he could not really see her. She clutched him and said breathlessly,
“Is he dead? Please, please tell me if he is.”
Lindsay found himself patting her arm a little awkwardly.
“But he isn’t. I’m most awfully sorry if I frightened you. He’s as right as rain.”
“Where is he?”
“I can’t tell you that. He’s all right.”
Her hands dropped, but she remained pressed up against him. They spoke in whispers.
“Tell me who you are then.”
“I can’t tell you that either. This—” He hesitated, and then went on again. “This is a serious business. I can’t talk to you about it unless I know how much you know already.”
“I see.”
She put a hand on his arm again, but did not hold it.
“How did you know he was going to meet me?”
“I’ve taken over his job. I—found your note.”
Her hand dropped again. She said in a steady undertone,
“You’ll have to tell me who you are.”
Lindsay had just arrived at this conclusion himself.
“I’ve taken over his job.”
“Why?”
“He’s broken down. They’ve got him away. It’s a job you want all your nerve for.”
“Yes.”
Lindsay struck quickly.
“Yes? What do you know about it?”
She receded into the fog.
“I’m asking you that seriously. As I said before, it’s a serious business. I want you to tell me if you know just how serious it is.”
There was a silence. He had the feeling of their being shut in by it whilst something of enormous importance hung in the balance. It was ridiculous to feel like that. The silence hemmed them in. He could feel that her thoughts were moving in it. She broke it, not with a word, but with a movement that brought her close to him. After a moment she said,
“Yes”; and then, quickly, “I don’t know—I know it’s serious.”
“How do you know?”
“Trevor told me.”
The words were what he had been hoping for, but they shocked him into sudden anger with Froth and a sense of her danger.
“Will you tell me exactly what he told you?”
“I can’t do that.”
Lindsay put out a hand and touched her.
“He told you not to tell anyone?”
He felt her movement of assent.
“We’ve got a bit tangled up, haven’t we?” he said. “I’ve trusted you, but you’re not trusting me. There is no reason why you should, but unless you do—”
She took no notice of his unfinished sentence.
“Why did you trust me?” she said in a little voice like a child’s.
“I don’t know,” said Lindsay, and he laughed. He wondered what she would do if he came out with “Perhaps it was because you’ve got a soft little nose like a baby.”
“Why did you laugh?” she said.
“Because I hadn’t got a reason,” said Lindsay, and laughed again.
Then suddenly he changed his tone. His hand lay on her shoulder. It was soft and slim under a rough coat. Softness, and youth, and a pretty voice—he knew no more of her than this. And he was putting his life in her hands. What had reason to do with it?
“Miss Manning,” he said, “I’m trusting you. Froth is quite safe and out of the country. I’m here, and I’ve got to carry the job through.”
“Why do you call him Froth?”
He laughed.
“Don’t you think it’s a good name for him?” He heard the faintest gurgle of amusement, and went on, “We were at school together—everyone called him roth. But that doesn’t matter. I want to know what he told you. I’ve trusted you. Can’t you trust me enough to tell me what he told you?”
She stood quie
t under his hand.
“Why should I?”
Lindsay’s hand fell.
“From my point of view there are plenty of reasons. There’s no reason why that should interest you. But from your point of view there is a reason. I think you ought to consider it a strong reason. I think what Froth told you is dangerous. I think it will be safer for you if you tell me what it was.”
He waited for her answer in an odd suspense. All of a sudden she moved to him and slid her hand under his arm.
“There’s someone coming,” she whispered.
Lindsay had not heard a sound, but as she spoke, he saw a moving luminous point and caught the faint impact of a stick tapping along the kerb. Someone was coming towards them, feeling his way through the fog with an electric torch. The torch dazzled on the opaque air, the stick tapped nearer. The girl pulled Lindsay off the pavement and set a diagonal course across the road.
They stood on the farther side and watched the faint shine of the torch go past. It served to make the fog visible. They saw it high above them as if they were drowned in the depths of a still yellow river bounded by high black houses which they could not see at all. When there was no light and no more sound, Elsie Manning said,
“Shall I be safe if I tell you?”
“No—I can’t promise you that,” said Lindsay.
She still had her hand through his arm. It lay there quite motionless.
“But you haven’t told me who you are,” she said.
“I’ve told you everything except my name. And you’ve told me nothing at all, not even your name—I knew that already.”
“What do you want to know?” she said.
“Who you are.”
“Elsie Manning.”
“That tells nothing.”
“Ask then.”
He felt rather helpless, and had to remind himself that this was not a social encounter.
“Who are your people?”
Her hand moved, a quick, involuntary movement.
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