I do want help terribly badly!”
He looked at her with momentary suspicion.
“How long have you been here, Janice?” he asked.
“I’ve just arrived. There’s my car.” She pointed to its dim lights. The shoulders of her skin coat were wet with rain. “Could we go anywhere? I want to speak to you. There’s been a murder, hasn’t there?”
He nodded.
“How dreadful! But I’m glad I knew where I could find you. There always seem to be murders here,” she shuddered. “And I’ve been murdered, too, Michael. All my vanity, all my pride—if it’s true. And I feel that you are the only person that can bring them to life again. Where can we go?”
He hesitated. He had supplied the needs of the last edition; there was nothing more for him to write tonight, though his work was by no means done. He went back to the car. She was in so pitiable a condition that he took the wheel from her hand and drove her to Bury Street. He had never been in her flat before, so that he was a stranger to the maid who opened the door.
Janice led the way to the pretty little drawing-room and closed the door.
“Take your coat off,” he commanded before she started speaking. “Your shoes and your stockings are all wet—go and change them.”
She went meekly, and returned in a few minutes with a dressing-gown wrapped round her, and cowered down in a low arm-chair before an electric radiator.
“Here’s the cablegram I had.”
She handed him a folded paper without looking up.
“Wait! Before you read it I want to tell you. He said he had a farm in Paarl and he was very anxious to buy an adjoining property…and I was buying it for him and cabled out to Van Zyl, that awfully nice boy I spoke to you about, and told him to buy it. That is his answer.”
He opened the telegram. It was a long message.
“The property you mention is not at Paarl but in Constantia adjoining the convict prison. It is not and never has been for sale. Donald Bateman, whom you mention as proprietor, is unknown as landowner either here or in Rhodesia. My friend Public Prosecutor is afraid man you mention is Donald Bateman, who served nine months imprisonment at Constantia for land frauds; tall, rather good-looking man, long scar under his chin, grey eyes. He left by “Balmoral Castle” five weeks ago en route England. His frauds take shape of persuading people advance money buy property and decamping with deposit. Please forgive if this little melodramatic. Always anxious to serve. Carl.”
He folded the telegram aim looked at her oddly.
And then he said in a strange voice:
“The scar under the chin. It’s curious, that’s the first thing I noticed.”
She turned and looked up at him, startled.
“You haven’t seen him? You told me you hadn’t. When did you see him?”
Michael licked his dry lips. Donald Bateman! So that was his name! He walked across to her and laid his hand gently on her shoulder.
“My dear, how perfectly rotten for you!” he said huskily. “Isn’t it?”
“Do you think that is true? That he is—what Carl says he is?”
“Yes,” he said. “You gave him the ring, didn’t you?”
She made an impatient little gesture.
“That was nothing; it had no value except a sentimental one—which made it rather appropriate,” she added bitterly.
There was something he had to ask, something so difficult that he could hardly frame the words.
“There are no complications, are there?”
She looked up at him wonderingly.
“Complications? What do you mean, Michael?”
She saw that he avoided her gaze.
“Well, I mean, you aren’t married already secretly married, you know? It can be done three days.”
She shook her head.
“Why should I? Of course not.”
He fetched a long sigh of relief.
“Thank the Lord for that!” he said. “Are you fond of him? Not too fond, are you, Janice?”
“No. I’ve been a mad schoolgirl, haven’t I? I’ve been realising it all the evening, that I didn’t—love him. I wonder
He looked at her with momentary suspicion.
“How long have you been here, Janice?” he asked.
“I’ve just arrived. There’s my car.” She pointed to its dim lights. The shoulders of her skin coat were wet with rain. “Could we go anywhere? I want to speak to you. There’s been a murder, hasn’t there?”
He nodded.
“How dreadful! But I’m glad I knew where I could find you. There always seem to be murders here,” she shuddered. “And I’ve been murdered, too, Michael. All my vanity, all my pride—if it’s true. And I feel that you are the only person that can bring them to life again. Where can we go?”
He hesitated. He had supplied the needs of the last edition; there was nothing more for him to write tonight, though his work was by no means done. He went back to the car. She was in so pitiable a condition that he took the wheel from her hand and drove her to Bury Street. He had never been in her flat before, so that he was a stranger to the maid who opened the door.
Janice led the way to the pretty little drawing-room and closed the door.
“Take your coat off,” he commanded before she started speaking. “Your shoes and your stockings are all wet—go and change them.”
She went meekly, and returned in a few minutes with a dressing-gown wrapped round her, and cowered down in a low arm-chair before an electric radiator.
“Here’s the cablegram I had.”
She handed him a folded paper without looking up.
“Wait! Before you read it I want to tell you. He said he had a farm in Paarl and he was very anxious to buy an adjoining property…and I was buying it for him and cabled out to Van Zyl, that awfully nice boy I spoke to you about, and told him to buy it. That is his answer.”
He opened the telegram. It was a long message.
“The property you mention is not at Paarl but in Constantia adjoining the convict prison. It is not and never has been for sale. Donald Bateman, whom you mention as proprietor, is unknown as landowner either here or in Rhodesia. My friend Public Prosecutor is afraid man you mention is Donald Bateman, who served nine months imprisonment at Constantia for land frauds; tall, rather good-looking man, long scar under his chin, grey eyes. He left by “Balmoral Castle” five weeks ago en route England. His frauds take shape of persuading people advance money buy property and decamping with deposit. Please forgive if this little melodramatic. Always anxious to serve. Carl.”
He folded the telegram aim looked at her oddly.
And then he said in a strange voice:
“The scar under the chin. It’s curious, that’s the first thing I noticed.”
She turned and looked up at him, startled.
“You haven’t seen him? You told me you hadn’t. When did you see him?”
Michael licked his dry lips. Donald Bateman! So that was his name! He walked across to her and laid his hand gently on her shoulder.
“My dear, how perfectly rotten for you!” he said huskily. “Isn’t it?”
“Do you think that is true? That he is—what Carl says he is?”
“Yes,” he said. “You gave him the ring, didn’t you?”
She made an impatient little gesture.
“That was nothing; it had no value except a sentimental one—which made it rather appropriate,” she added bitterly.
There was something he had to ask, something so difficult that he could hardly frame the words.
“There are no complications, are there?”
She looked up at him wonderingly.
“Complications? What do you mean, Michael?”
She saw that he avoided her gaze.
“Well, I mean, you aren’t married already secretly married, you know? It can be done three days.”
She shook her head.
“Why should I? Of course not.”
He fetched a long sigh of relief.
“Thank the Lord for that!” he said. “Are you fond of him? Not too fond, are you, Janice?”
“No. I’ve been a mad schoolgirl, haven’t I? I’ve been realising it all the evening, that I didn’t—love him. I wonder
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