“Carr Robertson… How old is the boy?”

“Beyond being called one. He’s twenty-eight.”

“Married?”

“He was. She died two years ago.”

And Catherine leaning sideways to put down her coffee-cup and saying,

“None of us really knew Marjory.”

He must have known then. James Lessiter must have known then.

She came out on the gravel sweep at the front of the House. The huge square building stood up black against the sky, the light wind moved in the open space before it. All the windows were dark-not an edge to any blind, not a glow behind any curtain.

She turned the near corner of the House where a flagged path ran between a narrow flower-bed and the hedge which presently bent back to enclose a small formal garden. Here the flower-bed ended and a clump of shrubs took its place beside the glass door leading from the study. Passing them, Rietta drew a breath of relief. The study curtains were drawn and a red glow came through them. It was plain that the room was lighted. Two steps led up to it. Rietta stood on the bottom one and knocked upon the glass. There was a moment in which she listened and heard a chair pushed back. Steps came to the window, the curtain was held aside. She could see the room brightly and warmly lit-the writing-table facing her-the hand which held the curtain back.

As the light fell on her face, James Lessiter came from behind the heavy red drapery, turned the key in the lock, and opened the door. She stepped in, shutting it behind her. The curtains fell again in their accustomed folds. Outside among the bushes someone moved, came up the two steps, and stood there pressed close against the glass, all without a sound.

James stared in astonishment and some admiration.

“My dear Rietta!”

Her colour was bright and high, her breath a little uneven. The room was very warm. She let the raincoat slip down upon a chair. He exclaimed,

“What have you done to your hand?”

She looked down, startled, and saw the blood running from a scratch on her wrist.

“I must have done it coming through the wood-I didn’t know.”

He offered his handkerchief, and she took it.

“It’s nothing at all-I didn’t know I’d done it. I ought to have a handkerchief somewhere, but one has no pockets.”

She wore the dark red dress she had worn last night. There was a small triangular tear near the hem.

“There must have been brambles in the wood-I didn’t notice.”

He laughed.

“In such a hurry?”

“Yes.”

She came round the table to the hearth behind it and stood there. He had been burning papers. The grate was full. Heat came from it, but no glow. It was strange to be here in this room with James. Everything in it was familiar. Here they had kissed, agonized, quarrelled, parted. Here they met again. Nothing in the room had changed-the massive table; the old-fashioned carpet; the wallpaper with its sombre metallic gleams; the family portraits, rather forbidding. A handsome half-length of Mrs. Lessiter with an ostrich-feather fan over the mantelpiece, and on the black marble shelf below, the heavy ormolu clock. Two on either side of it, the golden Florentine figures which she had always loved. They represented the four Seasons-Spring, with a garland trailing across her slim body-a naked Summer-Autumn, crowned with vine-leaves and holding up a bunch of grapes-Winter, catching a wisp of drapery about her. Even now she could think them lovely. Some things perished, but others endured. The room was hot, but everything in her shivered with cold. She looked at him and said gravely,

“Carr has found out.”

James leaned back against the writing-table, handsome, sure of himself, not exactly smiling but with a definite hint of amusement.

“That sounds intriguing. What has Carr found out?”

“That you ran away with his wife.”

He raised his eyebrows slightly.

“Didn’t he know?”

“Of course he didn’t. Nor did you until last night at Catherine’s.”

He reached into his pocket for a gold cigarette-case, opened it, selected a cigarette, and then, as if suddenly recollecting himself, held out the case to her.

“My dear Rietta, forgive me.”

She shook her head.

“I don’t smoke.”

“Quite right!” The case went back into his pocket, he struck a match. “It would be quite out of character-” he drew at his cigarette, blew out a mouthful of smoke, and added- “Pallas Athene!”

She was suddenly, sharply angry. Colour burned in her cheeks. Her voice hardened.

“I’ve come to warn you. It was a frightful shock-I don’t know what he might do.”

“Really? May I ask why?”

“Do you have to ask? I didn’t like Marjory very much, but she was quite young-only twenty-four when she died. You took her away from her husband and her home, you left her penniless in France. She had to sell nearly everything she had in order to struggle back. She travelled in bitter weather without a coat, and died two days later of pneumonia. Carr didn’t know the name of the man she’d gone off with, but he found your photograph in the back of her powder-compact. He saw a reproduction of the same photograph with your name under it in a picture-paper this evening. He regards you as Marjory’s murderer, and I’m afraid of what he may do.”

James had his cigarette held lightly between the second and third finger of a well groomed hand. He sketched a salute with it.

“And you came here to protect me? How extremely charming of you!”

Her dark brows drew together. She said,

“Don’t!”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t talk to me like that. Carr rushed out of the house. I don’t know where he is, and I don’t know what he may do. He thinks you murdered his wife.”

“Then he ought to have gone to the police station.”

Rietta stamped her foot. In a stormy voice which obliterated more than twenty years of separation she said,

“Stop it, James!”

He stood up, came over to her, and tossed his cigarette into the fire.

“All right. Now suppose you listen to a few facts. You’re forty-three years old, and if you don’t know what Marjory was like you’ve been wasting your time. I don’t pretend to morality, but I shouldn’t have wasted my time over a girl who wasn’t easy money. Marjory was dead easy. She was bored with her life, she was bored with her husband-and she was fed to the teeth with being a grass widow, she wanted to have a good time. I took her to France and I gave her a rattling good time. Then I had to fly over to the States on business, and she got bored again. She walked out of the flat where I’d left her and moved in on a gentleman who had been running after her a good deal-wealthy international financier. I could have told her he wasn’t a good investment. I imagine he found her out doing something he didn’t care about and pitched her into the street. He was perfectly capable of it. It may surprise you, but I’m not. I should at least have given her a third-class ticket back to London.”

“Is that the truth-all that about her leaving you and going to someone else?”

“Gospel, my dear.”

She said bitterly, “When you talk like that you make everything sound like a lie.”

He said quite soberly, “It’s true nevertheless.”

He went back to the table and stood half turned away, fingering the papers which lay there. Presently he lifted one of them, looked at it, laughed, and turned to face her.

“Your young firebrand hasn’t turned up here, so I imagine he’s walking his feelings off. When he comes home you can administer those cooling facts. He can’t have been married to Marjory for three years without finding her out. I think you’ll be able to get him to see reason. I’ve got a good deal of business on hand just now-I don’t particularly want to be murdered!” He laughed a little. “Funny you should come along tonight, Rietta. I’ve been burning your letters.”

“My letters?”

“Love’s young dream! Most instructive-a little black ash in the fireplace. But they made a very hot fire-that’s why the room is so warm.”