The whole affair rested on that bullet. It was concrete evidence. It could be shown in court and could be matched up with the revolver, the turning-point of the evidence against Mannering. If there was no bullet, she reasoned, there was no evidence. Bristow could think what he liked, but thinking was no use in a court of law. She could swear that Mannering had been with her at the New Arts Hall from nine o’clock until half-past twelve, and others would support her, believing it to be the truth; the papers recorded the time of the crime as half-past eleven, and the alibi would be sufficient; but it would be useless in the face of that bullet. So it must go.
Very suddenly, and with a smile on her face that baffled Mannering and puzzled Bristow, she opened the door of the bedroom and entered the living-room.
Mannering paled. Bristow looked round in surprise.
Lorna stopped, as if startled to find two men instead of one. Just for a moment she looked alarmed, and Mannering was forced to admire her self-control. Then her smile returned, and she looked at Bristow.
“I didn’t know we had company,” she said. “Has John suggested tea, or don’t you believe in two breakfasts ?”
Bristow could not think of anything to say. His mind had been jerked away from contemplation of the bullet between his fingers, and he hardly realised that it was still there as he stared at Lorna.
“Two breakfasts?”
Lorna laughed lightly. Mannering, for all his admiration of her self-possession, could not for the life of him understand what she was driving at. But he knew she was playing with an idea. She looked at him once, quickly, but with a wealth of meaning. The helplessness that had surged through him when Bristow had seen the bullet and picked it from the table disappeared. There was a chance, faint perhaps, but definitely there. And Lorna was playing her hand confidently. If anyone could work the miracle she could. He felt his pulse quicken.
“I assume you’ve eaten once,” said Lorna, still smiling. She seemed blissfully unaware of the tension in the air, and looked at Bristow, who hesitated for a moment. Mannering caught his eye, and flashed an appeal to the policeman. He realised that Lorna wanted him to back her up; she wanted him to persuade Bristow not to broach the subject while she was there. It was expecting a great deal, but there was a faint possibility that Bristow could be induced to drop it, if only for a short while, and thus save Mannering from being unmasked in front of a woman.
Bristow fingered his moustache awkwardly. He read the appeal, and nodded slowly, while Lorna took another cup and saucer from a small cupboard, asked him how much sugar and whether any milk. He answered automatically. The seconds seemed to drag like hours.
Lorna filled three cups, and handed one to him, as if nothing was out of the ordinary.
Mannering marvelled again at her self-possession, but he was still puzzled. She knew about the bullet, and she must realise the situation, but she was carrying herself superbly. Bristow couldn’t know for certain whether she had overheard any of the conversation.
The detective reached for the cup, and then realised that he couldn’t take it while the bullet was in his hand. He didn’t know that Lorna was gambling on the belief that he would not give up the evidence he held, and he drew back quickly. But he was a fraction of a second too late. Lorna uttered a little cry of alarm. . . .
Mannering saw that she actually pushed the cup and saucer against the detective’s hand; it was the crucial moment, and he almost cried out in suspense. The cup tilted and went over. The tea, scalding hot, poured over Lorna’s fingers and over Bristow’s.
The detective gasped, and dropped the bullet as the tea stung his flesh. It wasn’t until a moment later that he realised that he had been tricked.
Lorna bent down like a flash, and Mannering realised what she was doing. He seemed to be laughing to himself, irrationally, at the cleverness of the ruse. And she was still playing a part, still fighting.
“I’m awfully sorry,” she said. “I really should have been more careful. No — I’ll pick it up. . . .”
But Bristow was alert now.
“Get up!” he snapped, and his voice was harder than Mannering had ever heard it before.
Lorna stood up, holding the cup and saucer, neither of which had broken; her expression was icy as she eyed the detective. Many a man would have been deceived by her words and her tone.
“I don’t quite understand,” she said.
Bristow grunted, and his eyes were like agate.
“I understand you now,” he said. “This isn’t going to be quite the picnic you seem to think, young lady. Where’s that bullet?”
“Bullet?” Lorna’s tone, the question in her voice, the expression on her face, and the apparent mystification in her eyes were perfect. She stared at Bristow, waiting for him to answer.
The detective swore beneath his breath, nonplussed for a moment.
Mannering was feeling an absurd relief. The reaction tended to make him feel light-headed, but he realised his weakness, and knew that he must do something to support Lorna without spoiling her ruse. He looked towards the floor at the pool of tea, and then into Bristow’s eyes.
“Did you mention a bullet?” he asked, and his voice sounded unnatural, even to himself. “I . . .”
Bristow snapped his fingers with a gesture of more than annoyance. He was bristling with anger, but beneath the anger was common sense and a knowledge of the strength of the powers behind him. He had been outwitted, but only temporarily. The bullet was still in the room, almost certainly in Lorna Fauntley’s slim hand.
“Don’t try to be funny,” he snapped, and his eyes flamed as he looked at Mannering. “There are some things which are out of bounds, Mannering, and that’s one of them.”
Mannering flushed, but laughed.
“You’re beside yourself,” he said easily. “You’ve come here excited, and you don’t know what you’re saying — or doing.”
“Excited!” Bristow blared the word. “Do you mean to tell me that there wasn’t a bullet?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Mannering. The gleam in his eyes belied the words, but his lips were steady and serious. “Do you, Lorna ?”
The girl shook her head; her eyes were inscrutable.
“He’s being abominably rude,” she said. “If he’s a specimen of the Yard policemen I’m inclined to agree with Lady Kenton.”
Mannering kept a straight face with difficulty. He knew, Bristow knew, and Lorna knew that unless that bullet were produced Bristow had no kind of a charge against him. The bullet was in Lorna’s hand. Bristow daren’t try to use force, and he would have to wait until a woman came from the Yard. That would give them half an hour or more to get rid of the bullet effectively. God, what a situation!
Bristow’s eyes hardened. He realised that he was being baited in the hope that he would do something foolish. But he was too seasoned an officer to take chances. His voice was harsh.
“So that’s how you’d like to make it, is it?” he snapped. “Well, you can’t get away with it, Mannering. You’re the Baron. That bullet will prove it. Now — where’s your telephone ?”
Mannering indicated a stand in the corner of the room. There was no object in trying to evade Bristow on that point, but the detective needn’t reach the instrument.
A moment later Mannering felt a quick revulsion of feeling, and again the situation swung round.
Bristow dipped his hand into his pocket, and pulled out a gun. There was a grim smile on his face, tinged with triumph.
“Yes, I know it’s against regulations,” he said, “but it pays to take a chance at times. I took this in case I bumped into the Baron — into you — last night. It’ll serve its purpose now. Get into the corner — both of you !”
Mannering hesitated. Lorna’s eyes widened, and fear tugged at her heart. This was a development neither of them had anticipated.