Run! by Patricia Wentworth Page A

loose.
    â€œI oughtn’t to be here,” said Sally in rather an irresolute voice. “We ought never to see each other, or telephone, or anything. It’s frightfully dangerous.”
    â€œFor you?” said James.
    â€œFor both of us,” said Sally.
    She sat up straight in the leather chair and threw back her cloak. It was very long, and it was made of black velvet with a lining of white fur. Under it she had on a soft white filmy dress. There was a string of pearls round her neck. James told himself that there was no earthly reason why he should not admit that she was easy to look at—very easy—very, very easy.
    â€œYou’re not listening,” said Sally.
    James blushed under the unshaded electric light. To his own horror, he heard himself say, “I was looking at you.”
    â€œStaring,” said Sally.
    James pulled himself together with a jerk.
    â€œPerhaps you wouldn’t mind repeating what you’ve said.”
    â€œI didn’t say anything.”
    â€œBut you said—”
    â€œNo I didn’t. What was the good of saying anything when you weren’t listening?”
    James gave it up. Girls were like that. He said in a forbearing voice,
    â€œAll right, I’m sorry. Let’s begin again. You said it was dangerous for us to meet. Why?”
    Sally opened her green eyes wide.
    â€œCan’t you see that they mayn’t be sure about you and they mayn’t be sure about me, but if they see us together, they’ll be sure about both of us.”
    â€œWhy couldn’t we have met at Daphne’s? As a matter of fact we did. If you know Daphne, why should it be so compromising for you to know me?”
    â€œI’ve known Daphne for more than a year. We met in the Tyrol. But that’s not the point. Don’t you see that if they saw your car the other day, and if they took the number, they could find out what firm it belonged to? Say they were rather suspicious of me, but not sure enough to do anything about it—well then, don’t you think that if I’m friendly with someone employed by that firm, they’ll be much, much more suspicious about both of us. They mayn’t know you drove the car, but they’re bound to keep an eye on anyone who might have driven it.”
    â€œI’ve got to tell her about Jackson,” said James to himself.
    He got up and went over to the stove and rattled at the thing that let the ashes through and came back again.
    â€œLook here,” he said, “you keep on saying they, and I don’t know who they are, but they don’t think it was I who drove the car— they think it was Jackson.”
    â€œJackson?” said Sally in a small startled voice.
    â€œHe was at Atwell’s with me. He did most of the demonstrating.”
    â€œDid?” said Sally.
    â€œHe’s dead,” said James.
    â€œOh!” said Sally. It was more of a startled breath than a word—the sort of sound that she might have made if she had hurt herself. Only when they were running away together and she had cut her foot she hadn’t made any sound at all. James remembered that.
    He saw her black lashes dip for a moment and rise again. Her eyes were steady. So was her voice, though she only managed one word,
    â€œHow?”
    â€œSomeone rang up—after I’d gone, a couple of nights ago. He said he was Mr. Hazeby. Hazeby, Meredith & Hazeby are a very respectable firm of solicitors. I’ve made enquiries about them. I’m quite sure they hadn’t anything to do with the business. I’m certain someone was just using their name.”
    Sally took a breath.
    â€œGo on. What happened?”
    â€œJackson took the call, but the clerk, a girl called Daisy Callender, told me about it. She swears she could hear both ends of the conversation. I believe she did, because she told me what Lucas’s said to me when I was talking to them this afternoon. She’s