“Of course it is,” answered Rose. “Give her one,” she added to the waiter, “and bring something in here for us.”
All these preliminaries having been duly settled, the door was closed and the man and woman left to themselves.
“What a horrible place!” said Manners.
“Sorry you don’t like it,” answered Rose, patiently, “but we couldn’t meet in the flat, and this is the sort of place where one isn’t likely to meet your precious friend, Clay Harrison.”
“My friend!” exclaimed Manners in disgust.
“Isn’t he?” asked Rose, innocently.
“Just because I said I met him—” began Manners.
“You needn’t explain, Frances. It doesn’t worry me.”
“And don’t let it worry you, either,” snapped Manners. “That’s my business.”
“What did he say, all the same?” suggested Rose.
“Yes, what did he say?”
“I don’t know.”
“Didn’t I tell you to go back and listen?”
“So I did. But he turned me out.”
“Like his insolence.”
“A bright boy, your Clay Harrison,” said Rose, meditatively.
“Nonsense,” cried the man.
“Not a bit of it,” said Rose, cheerfully. “He had a good look at Dorice and then at me. You bet he spotted we were relations, for, quick as you like, he had me out of the room. I didn’t blame him. Just what I should have done myself.”
“Who cares what you would have done?” asked Manners, brutally. “Did Dorice tell you anything?”
“There didn’t seem much to tell. Dorice can’t keep much to herself anyhow. He questioned her a bit about Cant, and that was all.”
“Oh, that was all, was it?” asked Manners. “You’re certain, Rose?”
“Of course.”
“So much for your clever Mr. Harrison, eh?”
“He did his best with the caretaker, all the same. Put a lot of questions about you and Dorice.”
“He wouldn’t get anything there,” said Manners, with some satisfaction in his voice.
“I know,” answered Rose. “But you’re not the sort of man to underestimate him.”
“You bet I’m not,” said Frances. “I shall give the flat a pretty wide margin for a little while. He won’t get anything out of watching it. All the same, you bet he’ll try.”
“That’s wise.”
“You and Dorice will have to look after yourselves for a bit. By the way, how does Dorice feel about things?”
“That’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about,” said Rose. “But first of all, I think we two ought to have what the talkies call a show-down.”
“A loathsome American expression,” commented Manners. “Almost as bad as Dorice’s vile Cockney. What are you up to, Rose?”
“I’ll tell you, Frances, and don’t start getting offended with anything I say. It means too much to both of us. First of all, I’m not as attractive as Dorice.”
“Well—” protested Manners.
“I know I’m not. You met us together, and if I had been, you’d have fallen for me. I’ve got more brains than she has, anyhow. But she knows how to get the men. That may be important. I don’t say it isn’t. But what you want at the moment, Frances, is brains.”
“I never said you hadn’t brains, Rose,” said Manners.
“No, you may not have done, but Dorice has always come first.”
“You’re not jealous, Rose?”
“That doesn’t come into it. I can see you have been up to some game which isn’t straight, Frances.”
“Look here, Rose—” he began to protest.
“It’s no use, Frances,” went on Rose, inexorably, “I have tried to use my brains, that’s all. It’s something big, too. A fellow like Clay Harrison is only interested in big things. And I admire you for it, Frances, honestly I do.”
“Do you?” asked Manners, warming to the tone she was taking.
The door opened and a bibulous visage appeared, but was quickly withdrawn with a mumbled apology.
‘‘It’s all right,” said Rose, “only looking round for a game. They gamble in here later on. Now it isn’t hard for me to guess that you’re running something all on your own, Frances. You’ve got brains and so have I. I might be very useful to you if you trusted me a bit more. Even a man like you ought to have someone he can talk to occasionally.”
Manners realised the echo of his own thoughts when he had been at the flat earlier in the day, and looked at Rose with even more approval.
“Well,” she said, “what do you think?”
“It’s silly of you to say you’re not as attractive as Dorice,” said Manners.
“I don’t care about that,” said Rose, but she was secretly delighted at the remark.
“You’re each attractive in your own way,” said Manners. “I’ve told you myself how much I liked you.”
“I want to help you, Frances, and I think I can.”
“I think you can, too,” said Manners. “What were you going to tell me about Dorice?”
“Now I know you will take it in the right way,” she said, “I don’t mind telling you. It’s a hard thing for one sister to say about another, but you may not be able to trust her.”
“What?” shouted Manners.
“You know you’ve had your doubts. You can read character all right, Frances. Still, it’s more dangerous now. She was frightened to death after Harrison left. She thinks you’re mixed up in something queer, and she’s scared stiff.”
“I’ll cure her,” said Manners, grimly.
“You see, Frances, that’s the difference between Dorice and me,” Rose went on, in a gentle voice, “I think you’re up to something and I’m proud of you and want to stand beside you, while she—I hate to say it.”
“Well?”
“Still, I must say it, come what may. I know you’ll understand. If she really got scared I believe Dorice would run straight off to Harrison. It’s a dreadful thing to say, but I honestly believe it. Now you can curse me to your heart’s content.”
Manners sat for a while looking at the table, an ugly frown on his face.
“I’m not going to curse you, Rose,” he said, in a voice almost as gentle as hers. “You’re a true friend and I’m grateful. You’ve got intelligence, Rose, and I think you’re right. As for Dorice—”
“She may not, Frances.”
“But I can’t take risks.”
“You’ve got me there.”
‘‘That’s true, Rose. And you’ll keep an eye on her and let me know?”
“You trust me, Frances?”
“Would I talk like this if I didn’t?”
“Then may I ask you a question?”
“What is it?” he asked, suspiciously.
“Why do you go about with a brute like Goliath?”
“That’s my affair,” he snapped.
“So much for trusting me,” answered Rose, quite quietly. “Why should I worry about helping you?”
“What do you mean?” asked Manners, a little alarmed.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she answered. “If I tell this girl anything at all, she’ll give me away. Very well, if that’s how you feel, keep it to yourself. I thought you were a really big man, one who could judge other people and see whether they were worth while.”
“It isn’t that I don’t trust you,” answered Manners, weakly, his vanity badly stung by the last remark, “Goliath is useful to me, that’s all.”
“Only a man like you could make a horror like him useful,” said Rose.
“True enough,” said Manners, preening himself. “I’m the only one who can manage him.”
“And I should think he needs it, too,” commented Rose.
“He gets a bit troublesome at times,” said Manners. “But he knows who is the master.”
Rose said nothing, but put the word “master” at the back of her mind for future reference
.
“With anybody else Goliath could get out of hand quickly enough,” went on Manners. He was feeling that curious need to talk again. Well, why shouldn’t he? He had told Rose he trusted her, and he did. It was rather pleasant to think one had an ally, and an intelligent one at that. He could talk to her and she would understand. He wouldn’t tell her too much, of course. That wouldn’t do at all. But it might be wise to tell her something. It would flatter her and bind her more closely to him. Besides—and he realised that this feeling had been growing on him of late—what was the good of being remarkable if you could not talk about yourself occasionally. Working alone was safe, but you didn’t get much satisfaction out of it if you always had to keep everything to yourself.
In addition, although he hardly dared admit it to himself, Manners was a bit worried, and felt the need to “blow off” to someone.
“Nobody else would have kept him in hand even as long as this,” he added. “You’re a discreet girl, I know, Rose, and I don’t tell my business to a soul, but I don’t mind saying to you that Goliath gets more and more difficult.”
“I’m not going to ask you why, Frances,” said Rose, “because I know when you don’t want any questions.”
“You’re a good sort, Rose,” he said, “and some day you will be told all sorts of things. The trouble with a type like Goliath is that he wants more and more.”
“Pretty hard on you,” said Rose, sympathetically.
“That’s true, for I’ve done a lot for him.” He paused and I then said almost to himself, “If I could be certain about Dorice.”
“I expect she’ll be all right,” said Rose.
“It isn’t that. If I could be certain she wouldn’t be all right.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, Goliath was rather impressed with her when he saw her at the flat that day. He’s talked a lot about her since. I think he’s pretty keen on her.”
Rose swallowed uncomfortably, and whispered, “You mean you’d hand her over to him?”
“Rather crude, Rose,” answered Manners, with an ugly smile. “I admit that Goliath isn’t the marrying type.”
“But, Frances—”
“Nor is Dorice, for that matter,” added the man, in an icy tone.
“But a brute like Goliath—”
“He’s a very gentle fellow, really. All these big men are. Why feel so soft about it, Rose? If Dorice plays the game, nothing happens. But if she doesn’t, she gets what’s coming to her. And we kill two birds with one stone, for Goliath will be grateful, too. That’s fair, isn’t it?”
Rose looked at Manners. There was more about him than she had expected. By the way he talked he was the sort of man who did things. He wasn’t just boasting, she felt sure of that. If he made up his mind, he had the will-power and decision and intelligence, too, to get what he wanted.
Another intruder put his head round the door and speedily withdrew it.
Rose continued her meditation. Here was a man who was really worth while. She had often dreamed of belonging to someone strong, and now was her chance. The morality of the direction in which the strength was likely to be exercised did not trouble her. Manners was strong enough, and here was her chance. Dorice would have to take care of herself. As Manners said, if she played the game nothing would happen to her. If she didn’t, well, that wouldn’t be Rose’s fault. She might be her sister, but you had to forget that sort of thing. You had yourself to look after as well.
“Yes, it is,” she said, decisively. “Quite fair.”
“Good girl,” said Manners, his eyes half-closed as he thought to himself how absurdly simple it was to play off one woman against another.
The door opened again and the waiter appeared. He was very apologetic, but there were a few gentlemen who were anxious for a game of cards and if they could finish their conversation in the other room, the proprietor would be more than grateful. He did not want to disturb them, of course, and his voice trailed off into vague but inaudible explanation.
Both Manners and Rose were ready to take the hint, and went out into the hall. As they crossed it, a rough-looking man came up to them.
“Going?” he asked.
“Why not?” cried Rose. “What’s it to you, anyway?”
“I want a word with the boy friend,” was the answer. “You go on and wait for him.”
“Come along,” said Rose, anxiously pulling at Manners’ arm.
“Better not,” said the other man, menacingly.
“You go on,” said Manners to Rose, “I’ll settle him.”
As soon as Rose had opened the front door, the man said softly to Manners, “I know you.”
“Who cares?” answered Manners, with a sneer. “I don’t know you.”
“That’s a pity,” came the mocking reply. “I’ve seen you at old Solomon’s.”
“Well?”
“I know Solomon sells you things, and not pretty things, neither.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“You don’t want a row here, do you?” said the man, “or for me to follow you when we get outside?”
“What’s your name?” asked Manners.
“Same as yours,” came the quick answer.
“How much?”
“A quid will help.”
Manners took a pound note from his case and handed it to the man, who saluted in mock military fashion and held open the door. Rose was waiting with a look of extreme anxiety on her face, but Manners did not speak until they were safely inside a taxicab.
“What happened?” she asked.
“I said it was risky,” he answered. “We’re not going there again. We must fix up somewhere else to meet, but I’ll do it next time. No more of your social clubs, my girl.”
“Sorry.”
“Why on earth are we going to Notting Hill Gate?” she asked.
“We’re not,” he answered, curtly.
“That’s what you told the driver, anyway,” she said.
“It’s risky,” he replied. “Someone might have been listening, and I’m taking no more chances.” His voice suddenly rose with anger. “Curse that Harrison for driving me out of the flat. I’ll make him pay for it.”
“You bet,” echoed Rose, and Frances Manners was too absorbed in his own thoughts to reprove her for the use of slang.
Chapter XI
Eric’s Field Day
On Harrison’s arrival at the chambers next morning, he found that, although it was obvious that Henry and Eric had gone off on their respective errands, all his correspondence had been opened and carefully arranged on his desk by Henry at some unearthly hour before his departure. Nothing, however, seemed to call for immediate action. For a moment Harrison wondered whether Henry, in his position as confidential clerk, might not have carried off the more important letters with him for fear that action might be taken on them in his absence. Henry was almost capable of it.
Harrison felt restless. He was not used to sitting at his desk while others made inquiries for him, and yet he felt that in neither case would personal action on his part have been appropriate. Still, until he heard the results, he could not even think any further about the strange deaths of Sybil Norton and Lewis Cant. He had a definite theory, which had been strengthened by his visit to the queer flat which harboured Dorice Locket, but many more facts would be needed before he dared hope that his line of reasoning was correct.
Yet the case occupied his thoughts to the exclusion of everything else. It was no good sitting there pretending that he was trying to work on other matters demanding his attention. That was sheer waste of time. He would not admit that he even felt a trifle lonely. There were one or two questions worth asking his friends at Scotland Yard, and his would be an excellent opportunity for calling on them. With a sigh of relief, and then almost a feeling of guilt, he closed the front door of the chambers behind him and did not reappear again until early afternoon.
He was greeted by a pained and somewhat indig
nant Henry. Nothing particular was said, but the implication of Henry’s manner was that the chambers had been shamefully neglected and that he could not trust Harrison to keep an eye on things in his absence. The question obviously on the tip of his tongue was “Where on earth have you been and what is likely to happen to telephone calls and visitors if nobody is here to look after things?” and his magnanimous restraint was overpowering.
Henry followed his master into the inner room.
“Well, Henry?” asked Harrison, almost too cheerfully. “What is your report?”
“I called on Mrs. Cant, sir,” answered Henry. “At least, at Mrs. Cant’s house. Bonnington’s playing a fine game.”
“Yes?”
“I rang the bell and expected the young woman to open the door to me just as she did to you, sir, but the most forbidding female appeared.”
“In nurse’s uniform?” asked Harrison.
“Yes, sir,” answered Henry, with great surprise. “How did you know?”
“Bonnington practically told us so,” was the reply.
“I don’t see that, sir,” said Henry. “At all events, she eyed me up and down and asked me my business. I said I had come from you, sir, and she looked all vacant, and asked who you might be.”
“Rather heavy, don’t you think?”
“Rather crushing, I thought, sir.”
“Hardly, Henry, if her orders were to refuse admission to anyone connected with the same Clay Harrison.”
“Do you think so, sir?” asked Henry. “I said you were a friend of Mrs. Cant and had sent me with a particularly urgent message which had to be delivered to the lady herself. The forbidding female looked horrified and answered that it was as much as her life was worth or Mrs. Cant’s, for that matter, for anyone so see her at the moment—especially with an urgent message. I told her what a terrible shock her news was and asked if anything had happened.”
“Good, and, of course, she explained?”
“Oh yes, at length, sir. Mrs. Cant was suffering from a bad nervous breakdown. It had been coming on for some time, but had suddenly taken such a bad turn as to cause the most acute alarm.”
“She said that?”
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