The strange countess
the chocolates. It seems to me to be the moment for tea.”
Any occasion was the moment for tea so far as Lizzy was concerned. She
bustled off into the kitchen and came back in ten minutes with a hot
decoction which was very gratifying to Lois, and, in spite of Lizzy’s
making, unusually palatable.
“There are two things to do; one is to inform the police, and the
other is to see Mr. Dorn, and I think I will take the latter course.
Will you give me his address again?”
“You’re not going now?” said Lizzy, in a tone of horror.
“No, I’ll go before working hours.”
“He’ll be in bed. Maybe you’ll be able to get the chocolates back
while he is sleeping,” suggested Lizzy. “As I remarked before, he’s
got a nerve.”
Hiles Mansions was a magnificent block of flats near Albert Hall, but
Mr. Dorn’s apartment was the least magnificent of any, for it was
situated on the upper floor and consisted of two rooms, and a bath and
a tiny hall. The elevator man was in his shirt-sleeves, polishing
brasses at the early hour at which Lois made her call. But he showed
no surprise at her enquiry.
“Top floor, miss. If you’ll step into the lift and excuse my
shirt-sleeves, I’ll take you up.”
The elevator stopped at the sixth floor and the liftman pointed to a
plain rosewood door, one of three on the landing. She hesitated, her
finger on the bell-push, and then, mastering her courage, she pressed,
expecting to be kept waiting for a long time, for if Mr. Dorn was
really the night visitor, he would still be in bed. To her surprise,
however, her finger was hardly off the bell-push before the door
opened and Michael Dorn confronted her. He seemed to have been up for
some time, for he was dressed and shaved, and there was no evidence in
his eyes that he had spent a sleepless night.
“This is an unexpected pleasure, Miss Reddle,” he said. “Will you come
in?”
The study into which she was ushered was larger than she had expected
and the sloping roof gave it an odd but pleasant character. She saw at
a glance that the furniture was old, and probably valuable. The
writing-table, from which he had evidently just risen, for the morning
newspaper lay open at the top, was undoubtedly Buhl, and the deep
arm-chair before the fire was the only modern article in the room.
Etchings covered the soberly painted walls, and in one alcove was a
well-filled bookcase.
“Mr. Dorn, I have called on a very serious errand,” she said.
“I am sorry to hear that,” was his reply as he pushed a chair forward.
“I won’t sit down, thank you. Last night you sent me a box of
chocolates. I can understand that your intentions were well meant,
though I thought I had made it very clear that I do not wish to know
you, or to improve an acquaintance which began only yesterday. I am
very grateful to you for all you did,” she went on a little
incoherently, “but----” she paused.
“But----?” he suggested.
“Your conduct is abominable!” she flamed. “The gift of chocolates was
an impertinence, but to follow that up by breaking into my lodgings
was criminal! I’ve come to tell you that, unless you cease your
persecution, I shall complain to the police.”
He did not answer. Standing by the table, he fiddled with a long
poignard which was evidently used as a letter-opener.
“You say I broke into your house--what makes you think that?”
“Because I recognised you,” she said emphatically. “You came and took
away the box--though I could have saved you the trouble. I intended
returning it in the morning.”
To her amazement, he did not deny his presence, but, on the contrary,
gave confirmation of his action.
“If I had known you were going to return it this morning I should
certainly not have called in the night,” he said with a calmness which
took her breath away. “I have been guilty of conduct which may seem to
you to be unpardonable, but for which there is a very simple
explanation. Until a quarter to two this morning I had no idea that
you had received the chocolates.”
He walked across the room to a cabinet, pulled open one drawer and
took out the painted box.
“These are the chocolates, are they not?”
She was so taken back by his audacity that she could not speak. He put
back the box carefully in the cabinet and closed the door.
“I underrated your intelligence, Miss Reddle,” he said. “I have done
that all too frequently in my life--taken too light a view of woman’s
genius.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand you,” she said helplessly. “Only I want
to tell you----”
“You want to tell me that if this act of mine is repeated, you will
notify the police.” He took the words from her mouth. “And I think you
would be wise. When do you take up your new position?”
“On Monday,” she was startled into telling him, but, recollecting that
the object of her visit was not to furnish him with information about
her movements, she walked to the door. “You don’t deny that you came
into my room?”
He shook his head.
“No, why should I? You saw me. It was the flash of my lamp which woke
you. I am very sorry. But for that stupid blunder you would not have
known.”
She stared at him.
“You admit you were there?” she said, with growing wonder, as the
nature of his offence began to take shape in her mind. “How could you,
Mr. Dorn!”
“It is much easier for me to admit my fault than to lie about it,” he
said coolly. “Even you must give me some credit for my frankness.”
He followed her out on to the landing and rang for the elevator.
“You must keep your door locked, Miss Reddle,” he said. “No matter
where you are--even in the palatial establishment of the Countess of
Moron--you must keep your door locked.”
He looked down the lift shaft and saw that the cage at the bottom was
not moving. The elevator man was outside the building and had not
heard the signal.
“I don’t think, if I were you, that I should write to your mother,” he
said. “You may raise false hopes. At present she is well balanced. The
knowledge that you are alive--and know--may cut the thread that has
held her up all these years.”
“What do you know?” she gasped, gazing at him in terrified amazement.
Then came the whine of the ascending lift.
“I don’t think I should write if I were you,” he said, and with a
smile handed the dazed girl into the elevator and waited until the
clash of the lift-gate told him that she had reached the ground floor.
Then he walked slowly back into his flat, closed the door behind him,
and resumed his place at the table, but this time he did not read.
For half an hour he sat, his chin on his hand, and then, rising, he
opened the door that led to the second room. A spare little man, with
a dark and melancholy face, sat patiently on the edge of a chair, as
he had sat ever since the ring at the door had announced the girl’s
arrival. A beckoning jerk of Dorn’s chin brought the man to the study.
“Go along and pick up Chesney Praye. Find out what he was doing last
night, and where he went. I think he was playing baccarat at the Limbo
Club, and, if so, find out what he lost. That is all.”
Without a word the little man made for the door. His hand was on the
latch when Dorn called him back.
“Call in at Scotland Yard and discover the owner of a blue Buick, No.
XC2997. I pretty well know, but I should like a little moral support.”
When the door had closed behind his servitor Michael Dorn took several
sheets of paper from the stationery rack and for half an hour was
writing rapidly. When he had finished, he addressed an envelope,
stamped the letter, and, going out to the landing, rang for the
liftman and handed him the letter to post. Then he returned to his
flat, and, taking off his collar and his tie, lay down on the bed for
the sleep he so badly needed; for Michael Dorn had not closed his eyes
for more than thirty-six hours.
Chapter Eight
All her life, Lois Reddle could never recall what happened that
morning. She went about her work mechanically, like one in a dream;
and that she did not commit the most appalling blunders was due to the
natural orderliness of her mind. She went out with Lizzy to lunch at a
neighbouring restaurant, and this was usually the meal of the day. But
she could eat nothing, and her room-mate was genuinely alarmed.
“Was it fierce, dear?” asked Lizzy anxiously.
Lois roused herself from her thoughts with an effort.
“Was what fierce?” she asked.
“The fight you had with his nibs?”
At first Lois did not comprehend what the girl was talking about.
“Oh, you mean Mr. Dorn? No, it wasn’t fierce at all. It was a
very--mild encounter.”
“Did you tell him about his nerve?” asked Lizzy.
“He seemed to know all about that!” said Lois with a smile.
“I’ll bet he was upset and asked for mercy. Did he go on his knees?”
She was anxious for details, but Lois shook her head.
“Nothing sensational happened. He was a little bit penitent, but only
a little bit. I am scared.”
“Scared?” said Lizzy indignantly. “What have you got to be scared
about? I’ll go and see him.”
“No, you’ll do nothing of the kind. He’s not likely to worry us
again,” said Lois Reddle hastily.
“But what happened? Didn’t you ask him what he meant by it?” said her
disappointed friend.
“Yes, I asked him something of the sort.” Lois was anxious to get off
the subject, but Lizzy was insistent.
“Of course, if you were properly engaged and you were ill, and you’d
had a tiff, it would have been all right his coming,” she began.
“We aren’t engaged, properly or improperly, and I am in disgustingly
good health, and we haven’t had a tiff, so it _wasn’t_ all right.
He’ll not trouble us again, Lizzy.”
“I’ve been trying all morning to get a word with you,” said the
disgruntled typist, “but you’ve been going about all blah and woozy,
and naturally I thought you’d been raising hell--if you’ll excuse the
unladylike expression--and that there had been an awful scene, but I
did think you’d tell me when we came out to grub.”
But Lois was adamantine, and the meal passed in what was to Lizzy a
wholly unsatisfactory discussion of her friend’s plans.
The one happy result of the morning’s interview was that, neither that
day nor the next, did she so much as catch a glimpse of Michael Dorn
and his long black car. But, as the days passed, this relief was not
as pleasant as she had anticipated, and on the Saturday afternoon she
found herself wishing that she had an excuse for meeting him.
What did he know about her mother? Had he known all the time, and was
that the reason he was taking so great an interest in her? That he
could have been associated, even remotely, with the case was
impossible. His age, she guessed, was in the neighbourhood of thirty;
possibly he was younger; and he must have been a child when Mary
Pinder stood her trial.
Lois remembered with a start that her own name must be Pinder, though
the question of names did not matter very much.
On the Monday morning she packed her two boxes, and, with Lizzy’s
assistance, carried them down into the street to the waiting cab.
Lizzy was inclined to be tearful. Old Mr. Mackenzie, in his black
velvet coat, hovered anxiously in the background, though he did not
emerge from the house which had been his voluntary prison for
twenty-five years.
“What’s he shoving his nose in for?” demanded Lizzy viciously. “I’ll
bet he’ll play ‘The Girl I Left Behind Me’ when you drive away!”
But it was to no such accompaniment that Lois left her old lodgings,
and she came to the chaste atmosphere of Chester Square without any of
the mishaps which Lizzy had so gloomily prophesied. The door was
opened by a liveried footman, and she was apparently expected, for he
led her up the broad, carpeted stairs to a wide and lofty room looking
out on to the square.