Chapter VI: Part 6

Mrs. Gretorex took a step forward. She shook hands quietly, unemotionally, with her son.

And then something very unexpected happened--unexpected, that is, by every one of the four people there.

Enid Dent approached Roger a little timidly. Had he not, a few moments ago, called her his friend? When she was close to him, she looked up into his face, for he was far taller than she. And then, all at once, he bent forward and, putting his arms round her, he kissed her good-bye.

Chapter Twelve

As Ivy stepped down out of the telephone box, after her conversation with Roger Gretorex, she felt, though partially relieved, yet at the same time agitated and still terribly frightened. She was, indeed, so much affected that she did not even notice the admiring glance thrown at her by a man in the next box.

Her interview that morning with Inspector Orpington and his subordinate--for he had brought with him a sergeant--had made her feel sick with fear. True that, after she had answered with apparent frankness the first probing questions put to her, she had felt, as she almost always did feel with any man with whom life brought her into temporary contact, that the inspector was beginning to like her and to sympathise with her. But, even so, she had experienced this morning what she had never experienced before--not only a sensation of abject fear, but also as if she were becoming entangled in a horrible, close-meshed net.

During a brief visit to Paris, in the old days when she and Jervis still had plenty of money to burn, she had gone with a gay party to the Grand Guignol. There she had seen acted a terrifying little play which showed the walls of a room closing in on a man. That was exactly how she had felt during the long examination and cross-examination she had endured this morning.

One of the things that had made her feel so dreadfully frightened was that the two men from Scotland Yard had not begun their investigations by seeing her, the widow of the dead man. They had first interviewed Nurse Bradfield, and then the cook.

While this had been going on, Ivy had waited in the drawing-room, sick with terror and suspense, wondering what the two women were saying about her. At long last, the strangers had come into the drawing-room, looking very grave indeed.

And now, as she walked back to Duke of Kent Mansion, choosing instinctively a roundabout way, Ivy kept living over again that strange, even she had realised momentous, interview.

The inspector had gone straight to the point. When had she, Mrs. Jervis Lexton herself, last been in the company of her husband before his unexpected death? After an imperceptible pause, during which she was wondering fearfully if Nurse Bradfield had remembered all that had happened on that sinister last afternoon, she had answered the question truthfully. She said that she had been with Jervis after luncheon, while the nurse had gone out for a short time.

When Ivy had made this admission, there had come a look of alert questioning on the inspector’s face, for Nurse Bradfield had not mentioned that fact, which indeed she had forgotten. And then it was, on seeing the sudden change of countenance on the part of her inquisitor, that Mrs. Jervis Lexton had gently volunteered the statement that, after she herself had gone out, the sick man had had another visitor that afternoon, a friend of her own and her husband’s, a young man named Roger Gretorex, who was a doctor.

She had allowed, and consciously allowed, herself to look embarrassed, as she made what sounded like an admission. As she had intended should be the case, the inspector had at once run after that hare. But she had not bargained for what had followed immediately--insistent questioning as to her own and her husband’s relations with the man who had been, with the exception of the cook and the nurse, the last person to see Jervis Lexton alive.

How long had they known Dr. Gretorex? Did they see much of him? What had been her own relations with him? When, for instance, had she herself last seen him before the death of Jervis Lexton?

At last, when she was beginning to feel as if the meshes of the net were becoming smaller and smaller, he had “got out of her,” so Ivy put it to herself, that Roger Gretorex cared for her far more than a bachelor ought to care for the wife of a friend.

Nevertheless, everything would now have been “quite all right” from Ivy’s point of view if it had stopped there. But to her dismay and surprise, Inspector Orpington suddenly began on quite another tack.

In spite of the fact, which he assured her he accepted as true, that she had rejected with indignation Dr. Gretorex’s advances, he suggested that it was odd that her own and her husband’s friendship with the young man had gone on. He “presumed” that Lexton had known nothing of Gretorex’s unwelcome attentions to Mrs. Lexton? Ivy had reluctantly admitted that that was so. And, as he pressed her, with one quick, probing question after another, she saw, with a clear, affrighted, inward vision, that what she had intended should be a molehill was growing into a mountain.

At last had come the most alarming query of all--had she ever been to see Dr. Gretorex at 6 Ferry Place?

All the questions put to her she had answered with apparent ease and frankness. And, as to the last, she explained that she had gone to Dr. Gretorex’s house with a great friend of hers, a lady who had then been a widow, a Mrs. Arundell, but who had married again, and was now in India. They had been accompanied by a young man who was a friend of Mrs. Arundell.

As to going out with Roger Gretorex, she had done so only occasionally, and never since he had confessed he loved her. No, never since her husband’s illness.

How deeply thankful was Ivy Lexton that she had really seen so little of Roger Gretorex of late!

And then, all at once, the inspector had said something which had made, as she put it to herself, her heart stand still.

“I suppose there is a surgery attached to the house in Ferry Place?” he had remarked, speaking his thought aloud. And it had been those words, as to the probable existence of a surgery, that had suddenly made up her mind for her as to the line she would take concerning Roger Gretorex and their relations to one another.

Did Ivy Lexton then realise the full import of what she had done? Most certainly not. Subconsciously she was aware that her avowals, her timorous admissions as to his passion for her lovely self, could do Gretorex no good. But her only object had been to shift, at any cost, suspicion from herself.

There had been an interval, perhaps as long as a quarter of an hour, when she had been alone with Inspector Orpington. He had sent away his sergeant into the dining-room next door. At the time she had not known why.

Then he had spoken to her kindly, yet in a very solemn, searching tone, adjuring her to be frank, and to tell him of any knowledge, or even suspicion, she might harbour in her mind. But though every word he said added to her secret terror, that terror which was at once tangible and vague, for she knew nothing of the law, she had been wary, and very clever, in her answers.

Then the other man had come back, and to her surprise and horror she found she was expected to sign a statement.

“You had better read it over,” the inspector had said quietly.

And Ivy had read it over, hardly realising what it was she was reading, but having the wit to know that this man from Scotland Yard had played fair by her.

Though in a sense Ivy had said nothing of any importance, apart from that fatal admission of Roger Gretorex’s love for her, Orpington had left the flat well satisfied. He believed he now had the threads of what had seemed at first such a mystery, all clutched up into his hands. Incidentally, at the end of that long searching inquisition he had reconstituted every moment of the last day of the dead man’s life.

But as he had got up to leave, he had suddenly returned to the fact that Mrs. Lexton had been with her husband alone on that last afternoon of his life. That the inspector evidently attached importance to this fact brought back all Ivy’s terrors. But her remarkable powers of dissimulation stood her in good stead, and she again gave a pathetic little account of those few last minutes with her husband.

“I don’t quite know how long it was. Time went by quickly, for I thought he was better; and we had a little chat, making up our minds where we would go when he was well enough to have a change.”

“Did he have anything to drink--a dose of medicine while you were with him, Mrs. Lexton?”

“Oh, no! Nurse was not out long enough for that.”

And then it was that Orpington made his one mistake. Not that it made any difference at all in the long run. But, unconsciously, he had been affected by Ivy’s soft, feminine charm, as well as by her fragile loveliness.

“Of course we shall let you know the result of our investigations as soon as I have concluded my inquiries. As for Dr. Gretorex, I shall go and see him as soon as I have had something to eat.”

See Roger? Roger, who was so truthful, so incapable of telling even a white lie?

The knowledge that Gretorex was going to be subjected to a searching examination made her turn faint with fear. Had she been guilty of folly, and worse than folly, in admitting, nay, in volunteering the information, that Roger loved her? Within herself she debated that question. If Orpington had suspected the truth, then, of course, she had been wise. But had he--had he?

In any case, the warning of Gretorex had seemed the only thing to do, and on the whole she now felt strengthened, comforted, by his unquestioning faith.

As at last she went up in the lift of the Duke of Kent Mansion, she heard quick, light steps running up the stairs, and she shivered with apprehension. But it was only a telegraph boy, and as they arrived together at the door of the flat, she asked quickly, “Is the name Lexton?”

“Yes, ma’am, ‘Mrs. Lexton,’” and he handed her the telegram.

In her bedroom she tore open the buff envelope and looked first at the signature:

Just read with great concern result post-mortem. Have cabled John Oram solicitor instructing him to afford you all help financial and other on my behalf. Sister dangerously ill or would return at once myself. Please keep me acquainted with any developments. Deepest sympathy.

Miles Rushworth.

She burst into hysterical tears of relief. Nothing, surely, could happen to her now that Rushworth had come to her help?

Always Ivy Lexton had been sheltered, guarded, lifted over the rough places of life by men--men who had been conquered, pressed into her service, by that alluring quality which means so much more than beauty. But not one of the many men to whom she had cause to be grateful in her life had been in the powerful position of Miles Rushworth, as regarded either character or wealth.

She lay down on the comfortable couch which stood at right angles to her pretty bed. It was the first time she had ever done so, for she was a strong young woman, in spite of the air of delicacy which added so much to her charm in the eyes of many people, women as well as men. But she felt tired--dreadfully, consciously tired, to-day.

She closed her eyes and, deliberately, she lived over again Rushworth’s last long, passionate embrace on the yacht. It was as if she heard spoken aloud his ardent, broken-hearted words, “_If only you were free!_”

Well? She was free now, even at what she was beginning to realise might be a fearful cost. Even so, it could only be a question of months, perhaps of weeks, before she became Rushworth’s wife.

She opened her eyes and smiled for the first time that day, a radiant, secretly confident smile.

Leaping off the couch she read through Rushworth’s long telegram again.

John Oram? What a curious name. Being a solicitor, he must be on the telephone. She would ring him up immediately after she had had lunch, and ask him to come and see her.

Going into the hall, she called out, in almost a joyous voice, “Nurse? Here I am! I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting.”

Nurse Bradfield came slowly down the corridor. The events of the last few days had aged her, and Ivy was struck by her sad, bewildered expression. She secretly wondered why Nurse Bradfield looked so old and unlike herself? Nurse Bradfield, lucky woman, had nothing to be afraid of.

Ivy Lexton never knew all she owed to the woman who had tended Jervis Lexton through his last illness. When Inspector Orpington had done with the nurse, he had formed, albeit unconsciously, a very definite view of the dead man’s widow. Thus, even before he had seen Ivy, he had accepted Nurse Bradfield’s view of young Mrs. Lexton’s nature and way of life. That is, he regarded her as selfish, feather-headed, and extravagant; but good-natured, easy-going, and quite incapable of planning and of executing such a crime as that which had brought about her husband’s death.

That Jervis Lexton had died as the result of a foul crime on the part of some man or woman who had a strong motive for wishing him to be obliterated had appeared plain to the man in charge of the case, even before he had interviewed any of the people concerned with it.

But if Ivy, unknowingly, had reason to be grateful to Nurse Bradfield, Nurse Bradfield just now had cause to be very grateful to Ivy. It meant a great deal to her that she could stay on here, in this luxurious flat, living in quietude and comfort, instead of going back to the hostel which was her only “home” between her cases.

She had already learnt, and great was her dismay thereat, that she would become an important witness for the Crown, should the mystery be so far cleared up as to bring about a trial for murder. Small wonder that to-day she felt too upset and too disturbed to eat, and she watched, with surprise, Ivy’s evident enjoyment of the good luncheon put before them.

The nurse was the more secretly astonished at the newly made widow’s look of cheerfulness because she was well aware that “little Mrs. Lexton” was most uncomfortably short of money.

All that morning, and especially during the latter half of that morning, there had come a procession of tradespeople to the flat requesting immediate payment of their accounts. Some of them had been interviewed by the cook, others by Nurse Bradfield herself. As for Ivy, she had absolutely refused to see any of them. “I have no money at all just now,” she had observed sadly. “But of course everybody will be paid in time.”

Nurse Bradfield had even begun to wonder if she would ever be repaid a certain ten pounds which she had lent Mrs. Lexton a few days before. But she was not as much troubled by that thought as some of Ivy Lexton’s fairly well-to-do friends might have been. She even told herself that, after all, she was now receiving far more than ten pounds’ worth of comfort and quiet.

As if something of what she was thinking flashed from the nurse’s mind to hers, Ivy said suddenly, “I shall have plenty of money soon, Nurse. And the moment I’ve got anything I’ll give you back that money you were kind enough to lend me.”

There was a tone of real sincerity in her voice, and Nurse Bradfield felt reassured.

“I only want it back,” she said quietly, “when you can really give it me conveniently, Mrs. Lexton. Of course ten pounds is a good deal of money to me. But now that I know poor Mr. Lexton was not insured, I realise that things must be very difficult for you.”

“It’s going to be quite all right,” exclaimed Ivy impulsively.

Oh! what a difference to life Rushworth’s cable had made! She felt almost hysterical with joy and relief.

And then, as there came a ring at the bell, she said quickly to the maid who was waiting at table, “Do tell whoever it is that I shall be able to pay up everything soon--I hope even within the next few days.”

But this time the visitor was not an anxious tradesman. He was a tall, thin, elderly man, with a keen, shrewd face, who gave his name as “Mr. Oram.”

After a few moments spent by him in the hall, he was shown into the drawing-room, there to wait for the lady concerning whom he already felt a keen curiosity.

Chapter Thirteen

John Oram was an old-fashioned solicitor of very high standing. His firm had always managed all the private business of the Rushworth family, and he was a personal friend of the client from whom he had received a long and explicit cable about two hours ago. The receipt of that cable, and above all the way it had been worded, had induced Mr. Oram to come himself to Duke of Kent Mansion, instead of sending one of his clerks. He felt intensely curious to see this newly made widow in whom Miles Rushworth evidently took so intimate and anxious an interest.

Rushworth’s cable to John Oram had been nearly three times the length of his cable to Ivy; and the purport of it had been that the solicitor was to help Mrs. Lexton in every way in his power. The last words of the cable had run: “Find out from Mrs. Lexton the name of her bankers, and place two thousand pounds to her credit.”

After reading the cable, Mr. Oram had sent for his head clerk, an acute, clever man named Alfred Finch, who was some twenty years younger than himself.

“Can you tell me anything of some people of the name of Lexton, who live in Duke of Kent Mansion? I gather there’s some sort of legal trouble afoot.”

The answer had been immediate, and had filled him with both surprise and dismay.

“Yes, sir, I know all there is to be known. It’s not very much, yet. A Mr. Jervis Lexton died some days ago in one of the Duke of Kent Mansion flats. And, as the result of a post-mortem, it has been discovered that death was occasioned through the administration of a large dose of arsenic.”

The speaker waited a moment. His curiosity was considerably whetted, for he had seen a look of astonishment, almost of horror, come over his employer’s usually impassive face.

Alfred Finch went on, speaking in a more serious tone:

“This Mr. Jervis Lexton must have been a man of means, for you may remember, sir, that he drew up the lease of a flat in Duke of Kent Mansion for the Misses Rushworth about eighteen months ago.”

“Aye, aye, I do remember that. I think the rent of their flat was four hundred a year, and the two ladies had to pay a considerable premium on going in. As you say, the Lextons must be well-to-do.”

Mr. Finch allowed himself to smile.

“There’s only one of them now, sir--the dead man’s widow. She’s said to be very attractive, and well known in smart society.”

“I see. That will do.”

It was no wonder that John Oram, while waiting in the drawing-room of the flat for Ivy to join him, gazed about him with a good deal of interest. Then, all at once, he recognised a fine picture which he knew to be the property of the Misses Rushworth, his clients, and Miles Rushworth’s cousins. In a moment what had appeared a mystery was to his mind cleared up. There must be, there was, of course, some sort of connection between the Rushworths and the Lextons; and the rich, precise, old-fashioned maiden ladies, who, he now remembered, were wintering abroad, had lent their flat to these family connections.

That would explain everything--Miles Rushworth’s urgent cable, as also his evident anxiety that everything should be done to help and succour Mrs. Lexton in her distress.

Just as he came to this satisfactory explanation of what had puzzled and disturbed him, the door of the drawing-room opened, and Ivy walked in.

She held out her little hand. “Mr. Oram?” she cried eagerly, “I’m so glad to see you! I had a cable just before lunch from Mr. Rushworth, telling me that you were going to help me. Everything is so dreadful, so extraordinary, that I feel utterly bewildered, as well as miserable----” and then tears strangled her voice.

For a moment her visitor said nothing. He was amazed at her exceeding loveliness, puzzled also, for he was very observant, by the expression which now lit up the beautiful face before him. Though tears were running down her cheeks, it was such a happy expression.

“Won’t you sit down?”

Her tone was quite subdued now; the hysterical excitement which had been there had died out of her voice.

He obeyed her silently, and there shot over Ivy Lexton a quick feeling of misgiving. Mr. Oram looked so grave, so stern, and he was gazing at her with so curiously close a scrutiny.

“It’s very kind of you to have come so soon,” she said nervously.

“I am anxious to help you in every way possible, Mrs. Lexton,” he answered quietly.

Though the old solicitor was exceedingly impressed by Ivy’s beauty, instead of being attracted, he felt, if anything, slightly repelled, by her appearance.

For one thing, he was sufficiently old-fashioned to feel really surprised, and even shocked, by her “make-up.”

Ivy had made up more than usual this morning, and before coming into the drawing-room just now she had used her lipstick quite recklessly. So it was that while Mr. Oram asked her certain questions, each one of which was to the point, and allowed for but very little prevarication on her part, he avoided looking straight at her.

How astounding, he said to himself with dismay, that such a woman should be a friend of Miles Rushworth! A direct question had shown him that she had no knowledge of, or even a bowing acquaintance with, the Misses Rushworth.

At last he said rather coldly, “I take it you are in possession of very little money?”

“Very little,” she answered, almost in a whisper.

“At the request of Mr. Miles Rushworth, I have a sum of money to place at your disposal. As a matter of fact, it is a considerable sum--two thousand pounds. If you will tell me who are your bankers, I----”

And then Ivy, keeping the joy she felt out of her voice, interrupted him:

“I have not got a banking account, Mr. Oram. I had one many years ago, before my husband lost all his money, but I have not had one for over three years. And oh! it’s been so inconvenient.”

A kinder look came into the lawyer’s grave face.

“In that case, Mrs. Lexton, I advise you to open an account at the local branch of the Birmingham Bank. It is close here, in Kensington High Street. Mr. Rushworth informed me in his cable that you would probably stay on in this flat for the next few weeks.”

“I should like to do that,” she said in a low tone.

“Your husband, I understand, was a great friend of Mr. Rushworth?”

“Yes, my husband was working in Mr. Rushworth’s office when he fell ill.”

“Was he indeed?”

That the Lextons could be what the sender of the cable had called “my closest friends” had surprised the solicitor. He had believed himself acquainted with all Miles Rushworth’s intimate circle.

Ivy had come across a good many lawyers in her life, and she had always found them bright, cheery, and pleasant. All of them, to a man, had admired her, and made her feel that they did so.

Very, very different was this lawyer’s attitude. She realised that he did not approve of her, and she even suspected that he regretted his client’s interest in her. That was quite enough for Ivy, and she began to long intensely for Mr. Oram to go away. She had already made up her mind that he was “horrid,” and she was sorry indeed that such a man should be Miles Rushworth’s representative.

“I will pay in the cheque to the Birmingham Bank to-morrow morning, Mrs. Lexton,” said the solicitor. “I will call for you, if I may, at eleven, for you will have to come too, in order that the manager may register your signature.”

At last he got up, and then he said suddenly: “Have you yet seen anyone from the police?”

“Yes, I saw a gentleman from Scotland Yard this morning.”

“I trust your legal adviser was present.”

“I have no legal adviser,” and she looked at him surprised.

“I’m sorry for that. I had hoped to learn that you had a solicitor, and that he had been present. However, I don’t suppose it will make any odds. I presume you told the gentleman from Scotland Yard everything that it was within your power to tell him, concerning the mysterious circumstances surrounding Mr. Lexton’s death?”

“Yes, I did,” she said falteringly.

It seemed to her that he was looking at her with such a hard, cold look on his bloodless face. She even had a queer feeling that this Mr. Oram could see right through her, and she felt a touch of deadly terror.

But Ivy’s fears were quite unfounded. The solicitor’s view of Ivy Lexton was very much what “the gentleman from Scotland Yard’s” had been. But whereas Inspector Orpington had liked and pitied her, Rushworth’s lawyer already regretted that, if only as a matter of common humanity, he must now secure for her the best legal advice in his power.

John Oram had the faults of his qualities. His life’s work had brought him in contact with more than one skilful adventuress. But against such a woman, when she came across his path, the dice were already loaded.

Thus he had never had much trouble with the kind of girl who infatuates a foolish “elder son,” and then, maybe, tries to extract an enormous sum out of him by a threat of a breach of promise case. More difficult to deal with had he found, in his long career as a family solicitor, the sort of woman blackmailer who has letters in her possession. But, even in regard to that type of woman, Mr. Oram, with the law on his side, invariably came out of the duel triumphant.

He had never had to do, even remotely, with a case of murder, and the last thing that would have occurred to his mind was that this lovely young fribble of a woman--for such was his old-fashioned expression--could be a secret poisoner.

“I think you must authorise me to instruct counsel to represent you at the inquest which I understand is about to be held.”

“What is counsel?” asked Ivy.

She felt surprised and uneasy. Was this disagreeable old man going to run up what she knew was called “a lawyer’s bill” which she would have to pay out of Rushworth’s munificent gift?

Mr. Oram looked at her with scarce concealed contempt.

“A counsel,” he replied drily, “is any member of the Bar. But naturally some are better than others, and, with your permission, I will obtain for you the services of a gentleman who is thoroughly experienced in cases of this kind.”

The next morning Mr. Oram arrived at his office early, and, after glancing over his letters, he had just made out a cheque for two thousand pounds to “the order of Mrs. Ivy Lexton,” when a card was brought into his private room. But before he looked at the card he had already fully made up his mind that he could see no one, however important their business might be, till his return from Kensington.

Already the solicitor and his head clerk, Alfred Finch, had gone into the question of who should represent Mrs. Lexton at the inquest, and at the various other proceedings which were likely to take place in connection with Jervis Lexton’s mysterious death. Money, as the saying is, being no object, they had selected as her counsel one known to them to be by far the soundest man for that sort of watching brief.

The old lawyer was sorry indeed that Miles Rushworth had brought him in touch with what he termed to himself “this very unpleasant business.”

His feeling was not shared by his head clerk. Alfred Finch was already keenly interested in the Lexton case. He was an intelligent man, keen about his work whatever it might be, and he already had managed to make certain pertinent inquiries. Indeed, he very much startled Mr. Oram by a remark he made towards the end of their discussion.

“They do say, sir, that Scotland Yard as good as know already who poisoned Mr. Lexton. I think it quite probable that you will see the news of an arrest on the newspaper placards on your way to Duke of Kent Mansion.”

“What sort of person has been, or is to be, arrested, Finch? Have you discovered that?”

“Well, sir, I haven’t yet got hold of the man’s name. But I gather he’s a gentleman, and one who was described to me as--” he coughed discreetly “--a beau of Mrs. Lexton. Mrs. Lexton seems to have been a bit of a flyer, sir. She was out every night dancing at what they call a smart night-club, or in some big hotel, during the days when her unfortunate husband was being slowly done to death by this friend of hers.”

“Have you heard anything serious against Mrs. Lexton’s character?”

Mr. Oram was very old-fashioned. The term “night-club” signified to him something vaguely terrible, and utterly disreputable.

“Oh, no, sir, there’s nothing against her. On the contrary, the story goes that, though the man under suspicion was crazy about her, she only flirted with him, so to speak. Mrs. Lexton, it seems, gave him away, quite unknowingly, to the C.I.D. inspector who is in charge of the case.”

Finch smiled, “They say it’s likely to be the most important case of the kind there’s been at the Old Bailey for many a long day. The public are about ready for another murder mystery.”

“Not much mystery about it, if your information is correct, Finch,” observed Mr. Oram grimly.

“It’s Mrs. Lexton--they say she is such a very pretty, smart little lady--who will provide the mystery and the sensation, sir. She’ll be the principal witness for the Crown.”

Mr. Oram felt very much disturbed on hearing this piece of information.

“I do not regard myself as being in any sense Mrs. Lexton’s legal representative,” he said stiffly. “With regard to this lady, I am simply acting as Mr. Miles Rushworth’s solicitor.”

And now, just as he was reaching out for his hat and coat, feeling more perturbed than he would have cared to acknowledge, a client for whom he had a great regard called to see him. Though John Oram was not the kind of man who changes his mind lightly when he saw whose name was engraved on the card which had been brought in to him, the lawyer at once made up his mind that he must spare time for this visitor.

For one thing, her business must be serious, for she lived in the country, and this was the first time she had ever called on him without first making an appointment. Further, she was a widowed lady he had known since he was quite a young man, and for whom he had a very high esteem, and, it might almost be said, affection. But he had despised her husband, and he did not really like her son--though the son had none of the faults which had brought his father to ruin. Lastly, Mr. Oram was willing to see this client because she was a woman of few words. She would tell him at once why she wished to see him, and then she would go away.

“Show Mrs. Gretorex in,” he said quickly.

“There is a young lady with her, sir.”

“A young lady?”

Did that mean that Roger Gretorex was thinking of getting married? If so, unless the girl had money, he would be doing a very foolish and improvident thing. Mr. Oram did not really think that this was at all likely to be the reason for Mrs. Gretorex’s unexpected visit; but a solicitor is apt to consider every possibility.

However, Mr. Oram’s old friend and client came unaccompanied through the baize door of his private room. Mrs. Gretorex had left Enid in the waiting-room, for there were certain things which she knew she would have to say, and which she felt she could only say when alone with the solicitor.

As she looked at her old lawyer’s stern face, though the expression on it was just a little softer than usual, even her high courage faltered.

“Perhaps you know, Mr. Oram,” she said in a low voice, “what it is that has brought me here this morning?”

“No,” he said, surprised, “I have no idea at all, Mrs. Gretorex----”

He could see she was very much disturbed, and he drew forward a chair. After all, it wouldn’t hurt that frivolous little widow to wait for an extra half-hour or so for the two thousand pounds Miles Rushworth was so rashly presenting to her free and for nothing. Mr. Oram’s knowledge of human nature told him that probably a very great deal more money was coming Ivy’s way from the same source as this money came from.

Mrs. Gretorex bent a little forward. She fixed her sunken eyes, for she had not slept at all the night before, on the lawyer’s face.

“Roger has been arrested on the charge of having murdered a man called Jervis Lexton----”

“Roger arrested on a charge of murder? God bless my soul!”

He took off his eyeglasses and began cleaning them mechanically with a small piece of wash-leather which he kept for that purpose.

Here was indeed a complication! And a very troublesome as well as a painful complication, from his point of view. His own connection with the Gretorex family was hereditary. His grandfather had been, not only the lawyer, but the very close friend and trustee, of Mrs. Gretorex’s father-in-law. As for the rich Rushworths, they were in Mr. Oram’s estimation mere upstarts compared to the ancient, if now impoverished, county family.

“If you don’t mind,” he said suddenly, “I’ll send for Finch. In a case of this sort two heads are better than one. Also Finch can take notes of any information you can give me about the matter.”

Mrs. Gretorex would much rather have told her story to this good old friend alone. But she saw the sense of his suggestion, and they both waited in silence till the head clerk came in.

Mrs. Gretorex rose and shook hands with Mr. Finch. She was well acquainted with him, and she had always liked him.

“May I tell Finch what you have just told me?” Mr. Oram asked.

She bent her head, overwhelmed with a passion of agony and shame.

“Mrs. Gretorex has brought bad news, Finch. Her son has just been arrested on the charge of having caused the death, I presume by the administration of arsenic, of Mr. Jervis Lexton. I take it”--and he looked very straight into the younger man’s face--“that you had no notion of this fact, when you told me, this morning, that you had heard that an arrest was about to be effected in connection with the Lexton affair?”

Alfred Finch prided himself on his self-control, and wise lack of emotion, where anything connected with business was concerned. But his face was full of dismay as he answered instantly, “No name at all was mentioned, sir. I was simply told that an arrest was imminent.”

He turned to Mrs. Gretorex. “When was it that Mr. Roger was arrested?” He had known “Mr. Roger” from childhood.

Tears welled up to her tired eyes. “Last evening,” she answered.

“I wish he’d sent for us at once,” Finch exclaimed. “It’s always important to get one’s blow in first, and especially over a matter of this kind.”

“My son was arrested at Anchorford House. I came up by the night train, as the police inspector from Lynchester said he would be brought to town the first thing this morning. I suppose he is in London by now.”

Finch looked at his employer.

“In that case, don’t you think, sir, that I’d better go off at once and try to find Dr. Gretorex? Let me see. Where would he be charged?”

Mentally he answered his own question. Then he observed, “I hope he made no statement to the police?”

“He wished to make a statement, but the inspector advised him not to do so.”

“You think, Finch, that you’d better go off now, instantly?”

“I’m sure of it, sir. Even now, I fear I shall be too late to stop his saying something he’d best keep to himself.”

“I feel quite sure he has nothing to hide,” said Mrs. Gretorex rather stiffly. But neither of the two men made any comment on that.

Mr. Oram was the first to break the silence.

“Very well, Finch. You go off,” he said. “Start at once! And of course no expense is to be spared?”

He glanced at his client, and she quickly nodded.

“Meanwhile, I’ll make rough notes of any information that Mrs. Gretorex is good enough to give me. But I don’t suppose she really knows very much.”

And then in a serious tone he asked her, “Were you yourself acquainted with Mr. and Mrs. Lexton?”

He put the question just as the other man was leaving the room, and Mrs. Gretorex saw Finch stay his steps. It was clear that he wished to hear her answer.

“I’ve never seen Mr. Lexton; but Mrs. Lexton spent a week-end at Anchorford last winter.”

Both men noticed the somewhat embarrassed way in which Roger Gretorex’s mother answered that question.

At last, reluctantly, Finch shut the door. How useful it would be, sometimes, to find oneself in two places at once!

Being the manner of woman she was, Mrs. Gretorex did not try to conceal anything of what was in her heart from her old and trusted friend.

“I am absolutely certain, Mr. Oram, that Roger had nothing to do with Mr. Lexton’s death. On the other hand, it would be dishonest to conceal from you my conviction that he is in terrible danger.”

“What makes you think that, if you are certain he is innocent?”

“Because,” answered Mrs. Gretorex in a low tone, “he loves this woman, Ivy Lexton, desperately. He admitted as much to me last night, before we supposed there was any fear of an immediate arrest, but after he had already had an interview with someone from Scotland Yard----”

“Roger in love with a married woman. That’s the last thing I should have expected to hear!”

Mr. Oram got up. “I have a bit of business I must attend to this morning, Mrs. Gretorex. But I suggest that you wait here till a telephone message comes through from Finch.”

As they shook hands, “I beg you, I implore you,” she said in a stifled voice, “to try and believe Roger innocent.”

Mr. Oram said to himself, “I will--until he is proved guilty.” Aloud he exclaimed:

“Of course I believe him innocent! But, Mrs. Gretorex, I have something very serious to say to you; that is, I feel that this is not the kind of case of which I have the necessary experience, and I doubt if I should be able to afford your son the kind of legal assistance which he needs.”

He saw a look of terror and of fear flash over her face.

“Don’t desert me in my extremity!” she exclaimed. “You know as well as I do that I haven’t a single man relation in the world. You, Mr. Oram, are my only hope.” And he saw that tears were rolling down her cheeks.

“If you feel that, Mrs. Gretorex, then be assured that I shall do my best for Roger.”

Chapter Fourteen

While that, to both of them, woeful conversation was going on between the mother of Roger Gretorex and the old lawyer, Ivy Lexton sat in her drawing-room, waiting impatiently for John Oram, and--his cheque.

She felt quite differently from what she had felt the day before, and happier from every point of view. For fear, that most haunting of secret house-mates, had gone from her. Indeed, after seeing Mr. Oram, she had spent the rest of the afternoon at the establishment of the dressmaker who was just then the fashion in her set. Whilst there she had bought four black frocks “off the peg,” and she had also ordered a splendid fur coat.

No wonder that she was now waiting feverishly for the old lawyer to call and take her across to the bank. Two thousand pounds? What an enormous lot of money! It was the first time Ivy had had even a quarter of such a sum absolutely at her disposal. In the old days, when Jervis was still a man of means, she had never had a regular allowance. She had simply run up bills, and Jervis, grumbling good-naturedly, had paid them.

But the moments, the minutes, the quarters of an hour slipped by, and Mr. Oram dallied. What could have happened? She had become uncomfortably aware yesterday that Miles Rushworth’s solicitor did not like her, and that he thought Rushworth’s interest in her strange and inexplicable, so she began to feel thoroughly “rattled,” as she expressed it to herself.

At last she heard the lift stop outside the flat. What did that portend? The longed-for coming of Mr. Oram with his bountiful cheque, or more trouble for her, for poor little Ivy?

Then she gave a gasp--but it was a gasp of joy, for she had heard the lawyer’s frigid voice inquiring whether she were in. Before the maid could open the door of the drawing-room she had opened it herself and exclaimed, “Is it Mr. Oram?”

She was too full of instinctive tact when dealing with any man to utter even a light word of reproach, though the solicitor was over an hour later than he had said he would be.

Mr. Oram walked into the drawing-room, and then, very deliberately, he shut the door behind him.

Again there came over Ivy a sick feeling of fear. He looked stern, forbidding, and as a certain kind of man looks when he is the bearer of bad news.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he said abruptly, “but I couldn’t help myself. I’ve brought the cheque, and we will proceed in a few moments to the bank. But first I would like to tell you, Mrs. Lexton, that circumstances have arisen that will make it impossible for me to act as your lawyer with regard to any proceedings that may arise in connection with your husband’s death.”

He cleared his throat, and then went on: “As I cannot act for you, I will find you a first-class man, who will probably have far more time to devote to your affairs than I should have been able to do.”

She looked at him, wondering what this really meant, and a tide of dismay welled up in her heart.

“But Mr. Rushworth,” she began falteringly, “again told me, in a cable that I received only this morning, that you would do everything you could for me, Mr. Oram?”

She had not meant to tell anyone of that long, intimately-worded cable, the first in which Rushworth had allowed something of his intense exultation at the knowledge that she was now free to pierce through the measured words. It seemed to her impossible that anyone could disregard the wishes of so important and, above all, so wealthy a man as Miles Rushworth. To Ivy the sound of money talking drowned every other sound in life. But this, to her discomfiture, was not the case with John Oram.

“I know that,” and this time he spoke more kindly. “And I’m sorry I shall not be able to do what Mr. Rushworth very naturally hoped I could do. But I have discovered----” and then he stopped for what seemed to her a long time.

He was wondering whether she was yet aware that Roger Gretorex had been arrested on the charge of having murdered her husband. Already the fact was billed in all the early editions of the evening papers.

“The truth is,” he began again, and in a colder tone, “not only I, but my father before me, and my grandfather before him, acted in a legal capacity for the Gretorex family.”

The colour rushed into Ivy’s face. She said defensively, “But need that make any difference, Mr. Oram?”

“Well, yes, I’m sorry to say that it will, Mrs. Lexton. Roger Gretorex, as you are no doubt aware, was arrested last night on a charge of having poisoned Mr. Jervis Lexton. He has put his interests in my hands. It would not be to your advantage were you to employ the same solicitor as the man who is accused of having murdered your husband. I am sure,” he cleared his throat, “you are aware of what Dr. Gretorex’s motive is supposed to have been, assuming that he is guilty of that of which he is accused?”

Ivy looked so frightened that for a moment he thought she was going to faint.

Then she hadn’t known of Gretorex’s arrest? Even John Oram, who was already strongly prejudiced against her, could not doubt that the horror and distress with which she heard his news were genuine.

She sank down into a chair.

“But this is terrible--terrible!” she moaned.

“It is terrible, Mrs. Lexton. And, incidentally, you see, now, how I am situated? When I came here to see you yesterday, I naturally did not associate my friend and client, Dr. Roger Gretorex, with the strange and mysterious circumstances surrounding your husband’s death. I have not yet seen a copy of the statement you appear to have made to the inspector who came to see you from Scotland Yard; but I gather that you made certain admissions that were very detrimental to my client.”

“The man pressed me so! I didn’t want to hurt Roger,” she exclaimed, and thought she spoke the truth.

Twenty minutes later, as the two came out of the bank, Mr. Oram said quietly:

“With your permission, Mrs. Lexton, I am going to put you in touch with an old friend of mine, a most able lawyer named Paxton-Smith. He will not only watch your interests in a general sense, but you can trust him to give you the soundest advice. In your place, I would make a point of being frank with him concerning everything connected with your husband’s life as well as with his death.”

It was strange what a feeling of repugnance, almost of horror, this beautiful girl--for she looked a girl--inspired in him. But that, so he told himself, for he tried to be fair-minded, was no doubt owing to the way Roger Gretorex’s mother had spoken of Ivy Lexton that morning.

“Tell Mr. Paxton-Smith, as far you know it, the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,” he went on. “Many ladies, when in conference with their legal adviser, are tempted to hold something back. There can be no greater mistake. You can be absolutely sure of Mr. Paxton-Smith’s discretion; and unless he knows everything you can tell him, it will be impossible for him to advise you adequately.”

She was gazing at him with affrighted eyes. Tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth? Why, she couldn’t even begin to think of doing that! But, even so, the old lawyer’s words impressed her. Why, oh! why, had she been tempted to tell the man from Scotland Yard that half-truth as to Roger and his love for her? By now, when it had become clear to her that no one suspected her, she had almost forgotten what had brought about that dangerous admission.

“You are, I understand, going to be the chief witness for the Crown,” said Mr. Oram solemnly.

“I didn’t know that! What does being that mean?” faltered Ivy.

“It means,” he said drily, “that the prosecution is counting on you to aid them in proving that Roger Gretorex became that most despicable of human beings, a slow, secret poisoner, in order that you might be free to become his wife.”

She unconsciously stayed her steps, and was staring up at him as if hypnotised by his words.

He looked down fixedly into her face. What lay hidden behind those lovely eyes, that exquisite little mouth, now spoilt, according to his taste, by a smear of scarlet paint?

“Only God knows the secrets of all hearts, Mrs. Lexton. I have not asked you, and I do not propose to ask you, if you believe that unhappy young man to be guilty of the fearful crime of which he is accused, and for which he is about to stand on trial for his life. But if there is any doubt in your mind, and, far more, if you believe him innocent, I beg you, earnestly, to consider and weigh every word you utter from now on.”

But, even as he made that appeal, moved out of his usual cautious self by his real regard for Roger Gretorex and his intense pity for Roger’s mother, he felt convinced that Ivy Lexton would, in all circumstances and contingencies, only consider herself and what was to her own advantage.

How amazing that such a man as was Miles Rushworth should be moved to passion by such a frivolous, mindless, selfish woman! But that such was the case John Oram had far too much knowledge of human nature to doubt, even for a moment. He was, indeed, by now as sure as was Ivy herself that, in due course, Mrs. Jervis Lexton would become Mrs. Miles Rushworth.

Suddenly Ivy said something which very much surprised her companion, and made him dislike her even more than he already disliked her.

“Are you going to cable everything that has happened to Mr. Rushworth?” she asked in a frightened tone.

“Mr. Rushworth will learn precisely what the Cape Town newspapers choose to publish, and what you choose to cable to him. He has not asked me to communicate with him, and I am not proposing to do so.”

He held out his hand. “And now I must say good-bye, Mrs. Lexton. I will try to arrange that Mr. Paxton-Smith shall ring you up before lunch. He will then make an appointment to see you. I should like, if I may, to give you one word of advice. It is this. Refuse, however great the temptation, to disclose anything that concerns your husband’s death to anyone, excepting, of course, to Mr. Paxton-Smith.”

“Then shan’t I see you again?” she asked.

Though deep in her heart she was glad to be seeing the last of Mr. Oram, she knew him to be her only link, in London, with Miles Rushworth.

“Should Mr. Rushworth cable me instructions to do so, I shall of course transmit to you any money or any messages he may choose to send through me. But, apart from that, it is clear that in your own interest Roger Gretorex’s legal adviser should have no more communication with you.”

That same afternoon Philip Paxton-Smith had his first interview with Ivy Lexton. Unlike John Oram, he took an instant fancy to the prettiest client and most attractive little woman, so he told himself, that a Providence which was apt to be kind in that way to the shrewd and popular solicitor had ever sent his way.

So it was that, after a very few moments, Ivy found herself chatting to him almost happily.

He listened with unaffected, indeed absorbed, interest to her sentimental half-true, half-false, account of her first meeting with Roger Gretorex. Of how the young man had “fallen for her” at once, and how she had seen coming, and tried to stave off, his declaration of passionate love.

She also managed to convey to her new friend’s sympathetic ears what manner of man she now desired Jervis Lexton to be supposed to have been. Easy-going, good-tempered, devoted to her, and yet entirely selfish, frightfully extravagant, and, when they were not out together enjoying a good time, a great deal at his club.

“Poor lonely little woman,” said the lawyer to himself. “The real wonder is that she remained as straight as she did.”