The strange countess
“No--nothing,” she said unsteadily.
He stood surveying her with a critical and speculative eye.
“You nearly drove into that lamp-post. Aren’t you feeling well?”
“Not--not very,” she said.
In another second he had swung himself into the car by her side, and
she made room for him behind the steering wheel.
“I’ll take you down to the Lion Hotel and get them to send up for my
car.”
She was dimly aware that the long machine with the damaged mudguard
was parked by the side of the prison wall.
“I shall be quite all right----” she protested.
“Nevertheless, I will drive you back to town,” he said, and she made
no further demur.
He stopped outside the Lion Hotel long enough to communicate with a
little man who seemed to be expecting him; then turned the damaged
nose of the Ford towards London; and she was intensely grateful to him
that he made no attempt to improve his opportunity, for the rest of
the journey was carried out in almost complete silence. From time to
time he glanced at her, and once he looked at the crumpled papers
which she held tightly gripped in her little hand, the documents which
Mr. Shaddles’ client had signed, and which were now in a more ruffled
condition than most legal documents are supposed to be.
“179 Bedford Row, I think it is?” he said, as they crossed the traffic
of Holborn, and she had recovered sufficient of her spirits to answer:
“I think you should know.”
One side of his mouth went up in a smile.
“I’m pretty well acquainted with this neighbourhood,” he said coolly.
And then, as the car came to a standstill behind a big Rolls that
stood before the doorway of 179:
“You’ve been awfully kind to me, Mr. Dorn,” she said. “I am very
grateful to you indeed.”
“What worried you?” he asked. “At the prison, I mean?”
She shook her head.
“Nothing--only it is a rather dreadful shock, seeing so many women.”
His eyes narrowed.
“You saw the women, did you? Pretty queer lot, eh?”
She shivered.
“Do you know the prison? Have you been inside, I mean?” she asked.
“Yes, I’ve been inside once or twice,” he answered.
Glancing up at the window behind which was her office, she caught a
glimpse of a short, tilted nose and a pair of wide open eyes, and, in
spite of herself, laughed helplessly.
“Good-bye, Mr. Dorn.”
She held out her hand and he took it.
“I’m afraid I’ve been an awful nuisance to you. Will you be able to
get your car sent up to town, or must you go down to Telsbury for it?”
“Don’t bother about my car; it is here,” he said, and nodded to the
end of the road. To her amazement she saw his black machine come
slowly to the side-walk and stop.
She was about to say something, but changed her mind, and, running up
the steps, disappeared through the dark portals, the man watching her
until she was out of sight.
Chapter Five
The clerks had gone, only Lizzy Smith remained. That young lady came
flying to greet her, all of a twitter with excitement.
“Oh, you artful one! You picked him up, did you? Haven’t you got a
nerve to come back with him? Suppose old Shaddles had seen you! What
have you done to the juggernaut? All the mudguard’s bent. Lois, the
countess is here! She’s in with old Shaddles, and she’s got the Queen
of Sheba skinned to death! I’ll bet that chinchilla coat she’s got
cost a thousand if it cost a tenner. And me wearing dyed fox, and glad
to get it! Not that I’m struck on chinchilla--it doesn’t suit my
complexion, anyway----. And isn’t Mike lovely?”
“Mike?” said Lois, puzzled.
“Didn’t he tell you his name was Mike?” asked Lizzy contemptuously.
“Of course it is! Michael Dorn. You don’t mean to tell me that you’ve
been joy-riding with him all these hours and never called him ‘Mike’
once?”
Lois hung up her coat and hat, and sat down wearily. Miss Smith
regarded her with a gathering frown.
“You’re not looking very bright, old dear,” she said. “What’s wrong?”
“The prison upset me,” said Lois. “How long has the countess been
here?”
“You haven’t had a row with him, have you?”
“With him--whom? Oh, the man, you mean, Lizzy?”
“Of course I mean the man! Who else was there to row with? You can’t
start any backchat with a pre-war Ford.”
Happily Lois was saved the embarrassment of an answer, for at that
moment a buzzer sounded and Lizzy darted into Shaddles’ office, to
return with an uplifted and bending finger.
“The countess wants to see you!” she hissed fiercely, “and the thing
attached to her is her little boy--the earl!”
Lois went into the room and closed the door behind her. Mr. Shaddles
glared up from his table as she handed him the crumpled documents.
“What’s happened to these?” he asked.
“We had an accident with the car,” said Lois, a little incoherently.
She was not a fluent liar.
“‘We’? Who are ‘we’?”
“I mean, I ran into another car,” said the girl in some confusion.
Mr. Shaddles smoothed out the rumpled paper, glanced at the signature,
and then:
“This is the girl, your ladyship.”
For the first time Lois was conscious of the woman’s presence.
“Majestic” was a word which fitly described the Countess of Moron. She
was tall and stoutly made. The long chinchilla cloak which covered her
dress from head to heel was open to show the rich velvet brocade
dress, but for the moment Lois had no eyes for the woman’s apparel, or
her looped pearls, or the jewels which glittered from ears and
fingers. It was the face that held her. Big, dominating, in some
indefinable way menacing. Black eyebrows that met above a masterful
nose; a pair of eyes of so dark a brown that they seemed black. They
were what are called full eyes; the vulgar would describe them as
bulging. They were hard and bright and stared unwinkingly at the girl.
The mouth was big, the lips thin, and the chin full and powerful. Lois
found herself trying to guess her age. Whether it was due to artifice
or not, her hair was a jet black, untouched by a vestige of grey; and
later she was to learn this was natural.
“You are Miss Reddle?” said the countess. Her voice was almost as deep
as a man’s, and she had a slow, deliberate enunciation which was a
little disconcerting.
Lois had the feeling that she was in a witness-box, under
cross-examination.
“Yes, madam, I am Lois Reddle,” she said.
For a moment the countess said nothing; then she turned to her
companion.
“This is Miss Lois Reddle, Selwyn,” she said.
He was a thin, bent man, with a weak face almost innocent of chin, and
a drooping yellow moustache, the twirling of which seemed to occupy
most of his spare time.
“May I introduce my son, the Earl of Moron?” said her ladyship, and
Lois bowed.
“Glad to meet you,” murmured the earl mechanically. “Rather nice
weather we’re having, what?”
Having made this speech, he seemed to have exhausted his vocabulary,
for he was silent during the remainder of the interview.
Lady Moron withdrew her scrutiny and turned her eyes slowly to the
lawyer.
“She seems entirely satisfactory, Shaddles,” she said.
Shaddles pursed his lips.
“Yes, she’s a very good girl,” he said, “quite reliable.”
He glanced disparagingly at the crumpled documents on his
blotting-pad.
“Quite reliable. I’ve no doubt that Miss Reddle, in her anxiety to get
back to interview your ladyship, has slightly damaged my car; that
will be a matter for adjustment between your ladyship and myself.”
He had glanced out of the window and had taken in with an assessor’s
eye the amount of the damage. Lady Moron looked at him for a time.
“She had no idea I was here, Shaddles. And of course I shall not be
responsible for any damage to your car.”
He squirmed in his seat.
“And, personally, I should doubt if the car has any value. At any
rate, in my eyes it has none. Come, Selwyn.”
For a moment Lois had the illusion that the young man was holding on
to his mother’s skirt, and she had an insane desire to laugh, as her
ladyship went forth majestically, followed by what Lizzy had
described, not unfaithfully, as “the thing attached to the Countess.”
Shaddles bustled through the outer office, opened the door for them,
and went down to see her ladyship into her car before he returned.
“Now, what the devil do you mean by smashing up my car?” he grated.
“And look at the condition of these documents. Is that the sort of
thing that can go before a Master in Chambers? Pah!”
Before she could reply:
“Whatever are the cost of the repairs I shall send the bill to you,
and I shall expect you to act in an honourable manner, for I’m not
sure that you are not liable in law. You will have a good salary and
you owe your position entirely to the fact that I happen to be her
ladyship’s solicitor.”
“If there is any damage, I will pay for it, Mr. Shaddles,” said the
girl, and was glad to make her escape.
Lizzy Smith did not find her a very communicative companion, and she
was responsible for most of the conversation on the way back to their
lodgings. Lois was glad when her companion left her that night to join
a girl friend who had two tickets for a theatre. She wanted to be
alone, she wanted to think out this most terrifying problem of hers.
There were other problems too, for suddenly she remembered the look of
utter horror and amazement that had come to Michael Dorn’s face when
she told him she was going to the prison. Did he know, and was he
dogging her footsteps for any other than the obvious reason--the young
man’s desire to get acquainted with the girl who had taken his fancy?
That seemed impossible.
She was glad she was taking up a new post. She would have leisure, in
the service of Lady Moron, and opportunities, perhaps, for meeting
people who would be helpful to her in the conduct of her
investigations.
A thought occurred to her as she was sitting before her untasted
supper, and, getting up, she put on her hat and went eastwards to
Fleet Street. She had been to the _Daily Megaphone_ before to make
searches on behalf of Mr. Shaddles, but now she found that the
offices, which are usually open to the public, were closed. She sent
up a note from the jealously guarded lobby of the editorial offices,
and to her joy her request was granted, and a messenger conducted her
to the file room.
Taking down one of the many big black volumes which filled the shelves
on one side of the room and opening it at the date she had remembered,
the messenger left her; and for two hours she studied the details of
what she would ordinarily have dismissed as a sordid and wicked crime.
She was half-way through the account of the trial when she saw a name
that made her gasp. It was the name of a witness who had been called
by the defence--Mrs. Amelia Reddle!
Then it was true! This was the kindly neighbour, about whom the prison
governor had spoken. It was her mother, that tall, lovely woman who
paced the prison flags with such unconcern. “A kind neighbour took the
child”--Mrs. Reddle was the kind neighbour, and had brought her up in
ignorance of her origin.
The printed page swam before her eyes as she sat, her hands tightly
clasped, her mind confounded by the confirmation of this tremendous
discovery.
Her mother was innocent. It was something more than a natural revolt
against the thought that in her veins ran the blood of a murderess; it
was a conviction, an inspiration, the faith which is knowledge.
She went back to her lodgings, calm and determined. She would prove
her mother’s innocence, devoting her life to that object.
Chapter Six
Charlotte Street was deserted when she turned the corner. Passing a
small closed coupé that stood by the side-walk, she was half-way up
the street, and was turning to cross, when she saw the car coming
towards her at full speed, and stopped in the roadway to let it pass.