Rollison sat down and began to eat, and then said:
“There is a snag about Shayle—have you seen it, Jolly?”
“Not yet, sir.”
“Shayle wanted Phyllis Armitage to go back on duty. Would he have worried about that if Lady Lost had been dead— or if he thought she would die? Why did he try to poison her, and then show such anxiety about her well-being? Why did he get the nurse out of the room, when, later, he wanted her to report to him anything that Lady Lost said?”
“I see, sir,” said Jolly.
“Contradictory motives,” remarked Rollison.
He continued to eat, making an occasional comment. Jolly interpolated a word now and again, but did nothing to brighten his spirits. A little before half-past nine Rollison left for Barrington House. Lights were shining through gaps in the curtains as he entered the garden. There as a wait of some minutes after he had rung the bell, and then a footman opened the door—the man who had been on duty that morning. He recognized Rollison on sight.
“Good-evening, sir.”
“I’m a little late,” said Rollison. “Is Mrs. Barrington-Ley at home?”
“I believe so, sir. If you will wait just one moment, I will make sure.”
The footman went off, and as Rollison waited in the hall he had an uncomfortable feeling that he was being watched. While showing great interest in an oil-painting which he did not admire, he looked about him. There were several closed doors, and only one, on the first landing, which was ajar. A light was coming from it, and there was a shadow on the wall nearby. Rollison turned towards the opposite wall, and, after a moment, swung round quickly.
Outlined in the doorway was the round face of the sporting gentleman, his nose very swollen!
The man closed the door quickly. Rollison moved slowly towards the stairs, but before he reached them the footman came from a downstairs room and announced that Mrs. Barrington-Ley would see him.
“Thanks,” Rollison said. “Who is the gentleman in draughtboard tweeds?”
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“The man I saw upstairs just now,” said Rollison.
He thought that the man was going to be evasive, but the fellow changed his mind, and said:
“Perhaps you mean Mr. Pomeroy, sir.”
“Has he a right to be here?”
The footman stared. “Naturally, sir, or he wouldn’t be here. Perhaps you would like to inquire from Mrs. Barrington-Ley?”
There was an undercurrent of insolence in the man’s manner, reminding Rollison of his earlier doubts. He nodded, and walked to the door of the sitting-room.
Hilda Barrington-Ley rose quickly from an easy chair and approached him with hands outstretched. She was a demonstrative little creature for whom most of her friends had much affection. She wore an evening gown of midnight blue satin, in which she looked chic and attractive—and, thought Rollison, she was trying hard to pretend that she had nothing on her mind.
“Why, Rolly, how delightful!”
“The word is beautiful.” smiled Rollison, taking her hands. “You ought to be prostrate after the ball, and instead you look as if you want to compete with the morning dew. How are you?”
“Very pleased,” said Hilda. “We made nearly six thousand pounds for charity, Rolly, isn’t it magnificent? I do wish you had been there, but how sweet of you to send a cheque. Do sit down. What will you have to drink?”
“Nothing, thanks.”
“Oh, you must!” She fluttered to a table where there were decanters, bottles and glasses which shone in the light from an electric chandelier. I feel like champagne,” she said, “but I don’t suppose you do. Whisky or brandy?”
Rollison laughed. “Whisky, thanks. You’re very bright.”
“Haven’t I every reason to be bright?” she demanded.
“I suppose so. Hilda” He stepped to her side and
watched her handle the decanter, the rings on her small, white hands glittering, everything about her light and lively and lovely. She deliberately ignored the more sober note in his voice as he went on: “Who is Pomeroy?”
“Pomeroy?” echoed Hilda. Her hand tightened on the glass, but she had herself under control and looked at him brightly. “Oh, that funny little fat man. He’s come to see David. Isn’t he sweet?”
“Why does he want to see David?” demanded Rollison.
“I don’t know,” said Hilda. “Is that as you like it?” She handed him his glass and looked him squarely in the eyes. “I never interfere with anything David does. Finance is absolutely beyond me, Rolly. Cheers!”
“Cheers,” said Rollison, and sipped his drink. “Is David in?”
“No, he’s not,” said Hilda. “But you know what it is like these days—loans for Africa, loans for India, loans for every country which needs them; he’s so busy, poor dear, that he hardly ever gets in early. Oh! If you’re thinking of Mr. Pomeroy, he’s waiting for David—he said he would wait until half-past ten, and I didn’t like to refuse him, although goodness knows when David will come back. Is that all right?”
“I can’t interfere,” said Rollison, deliberately obtuse.
“I mean the whisky?”
“Oh, yes, thanks.” Rollison followed her as she walked to a chair, and sat down. He had not suspected Hilda of such ability to dissemble. She was worried, but determined not to admit it. “How is the lady of the lost memory?” he asked, casually.
“Poor thing, she’s had a relapse,” said Hilda, brightly. “I was hoping she would be able to come here for a few days, but she isn’t likely to be released from the nursing home for a week. Perhaps she’ll have recovered her memory by then. Wasn’t it a strange business?”
“Very.”
“No one seems to know her,” said Hilda. “After the story in the newspaper I quite thought a lot of people would prove they had seen her before. A few have claimed to know her; a policeman was here a little while ago and he told me so, but he said they were just seeking publicity. Don’t people do strange things?”
“Very strange,” agreed Rollison.
“But then, you’re an expert on odd happenings, aren’t you?” said Hilda. She put down her glass. “Why, Rolly! Perhaps you can help her!”
“What makes you say that?” asked Rollison, a little heavily.
“Why, it’s a mystery, isn’t it?” asked Hilda, eagerly. “It’s exactly the kind of thing that interests you—I’ll introduce her to you when she’s a little better. Will you have another?”
“No, thanks,” said Rollison. “And I ought to be going.”
“What, so soon?” Her voice suggested that she wanted him to stay, but she stood up promptly. “Do come again when you can spare a few minutes, Rolly, and if you are interested in my lost lady, that would be splendid!”
Rollison found himself in the hall, with Hilda chattering all the time. The footman appeared from a doorway and opened the door. Hilda repeated how delighted she was that he had called and how she hoped that he would come again soon— and then Rollison found himself on the porch, with the door closed firmly behind him, and a feeling of great disquiet in his mind.
The disquiet continued.
The lost lady did not die, and the doctors said that she would be able to leave the nursing home by the end of the month. There were no further attempts to attack her. Phyllis Armitage resigned from her post, and, as far as the police and Rollison were able to find out, did not seek other work. Her sister came to stay with her at the flatlet.
On the day after Rollison’s burst of activity, Grice went to the offices of Pomeroy, Ward & Pomeroy. The two firms were in many respects as one, and had the same principals. Grice was received by a pompous, well-dressed gentleman who denied all knowledge of the sporting gent, but admitted that Marcus Shayle was his head clerk. Shayle had not come to the office that morning.