Chapter XVIIFayre saw Miss Allen into a cab and then drove straight to his club. After a hot bath and a leisurely breakfast he felt better able to face the world, but he was not sorry to spend a quiet Sunday morning drowsing in front of the smoking-room fire and it was with a distinct effort that he turned out, shortly before one, to keep his appointment with Grey at the Trocadero.He found the solicitor already seated and busy studying the wine-card. At the sight of Fayre he sprang to his feet and greeted him with a mixture of enthusiasm and deference which the older man found refreshing in these casual days.“How about a pick-me-up, sir?” he asked, with a keen glance at his guest. “Or do you despise cocktails?”“They have their uses,” admitted Fayre, a glint of mischief in his eyes, “especially after a long night in the train, but I’m not such a dug-out as you might think, you know!”Grey laughed.“I didn’t mean that!” he apologized hastily. “Only you look a bit done up.”He ordered a couple of Martinis and then plunged at once into the business which was engrossing both their minds.“My man rang up about an hour ago,” he said. “He got onto Gregg all right. He managed to square the ticket-collector and stood by his side as the passengers passed through. The collector spotted the Whitbury ticket and gave him the tip and he followed the man. He says he answered to our description. I think it was Gregg all right.”“Where did he go?” asked Fayre.His lips twitched involuntarily, for he guessed what was coming.“To a doctor’s house, or rather flat. Brackley Mansions, Victoria Street. He took his luggage in, so that looks as if he meant to stay there, unless it was a blind.”“Good work,” was Fayre’s only comment.Grey looked at him sharply.“What’s the joke?” he asked.“Nothing much, only we had our noses pulled rather thoroughly over that address by Lady Cynthia!”He told Grey what had happened.“I like that girl,” was Grey’s enthusiastic comment. “She’s keen. We’ll get Leslie off, if only for her sake.”“We don’t look much like doing it at present,” said Fayre rather hopelessly. “It seems to me that until we can get Gregg to account for that extra hour he spent getting from Whitbury to Hammond’s farm we’re pretty well stuck. And, if he won’t speak we’re not in a position to make him.”“I can’t for the life of me see any connection between Gregg and the Page car,” said Grey thoughtfully.“There is none. Of that I feel convinced. My opinion is that Page simply turned up the lane and, finding it a cul-de-sac, came back again. He may have seen something, but I don’t believe he took Mrs. Draycott to the farm.”“The tramp seemed to think there was a woman in the car, though, the first time it passed him.”“He was very vague about it and admitted he could hardly see the occupants. I believe we ought to concentrate on Gregg.”Grey deliberated for a moment.“I’m not sure that I agree with you,” he said at last. “Gregg’s not behaving like a guilty man. I fully expected that he’d make a break for the boat-train, instead of which he’s gone quite openly to the address at which he always stays, according to his servants, when he comes to town. He may have come up merely to get legal advice.”“Lady Cynthia’s certainly got a strong feeling that this man Page is implicated,” admitted Fayre.“I think she’s right and her suggestion that the car may have been stopped if it ran to London with a broken number-plate is quite sound. We can work on that, anyhow.”“In the meanwhile, is there anything I can do?”“Yes,” answered Grey decisively. “Get in touch with Sir Edward, if you can, and see if he won’t arrange an interview with us. He’s got one of the acutest brains in England and I’d welcome his advice. Besides, he’s got a personal interest in the case.”Fayre laughed.“He hasn’t exactly encouraged my maiden efforts!” he complained. “In fact, he told me flatly to go to the police just before he left Staveley.”Grey nodded.“That’s the line he would take. Like all competent people he distrusts the capacity even of professionals; and amateurs simply don’t exist for him. I don’t think he’ll take that line now, however, especially when he realizes how far we’ve got. He’ll admit that we’ve every reason now to keep the thing in our own hands.”“I’ll call on Lady Kean this afternoon and see if I can get hold of him. He’s sure to be there unless they are week-ending out of town, and I don’t think she’s well enough yet for that.”“Any time he chooses to appoint will suit me. Meanwhile, if nothing further transpires as regards Gregg, I’ll beard him myself. He may not resent my curiosity as much as yours, and if he has been to see his solicitor he’ll no doubt have had it impressed upon him that his attitude is not only stupid but dangerous, if he’s really got nothing to hide.”They lingered over lunch and again over their coffee. When they at last parted Fayre strolled down Piccadilly and across Green Park and it was close on four o’clock when he reached Kean’s house in Westminster.Two cars were standing before the door when he reached it. Evidently he was not the only caller, a discovery which afforded him a certain satisfaction. If there were other people there Sybil would have little opportunity for discussing the Draycott murder and he might manage to slip away and transact his business with Kean.He had hardly taken his hand off the bell when the door was opened and, without waiting for his inquiry as to whether Lady Kean was at home, the butler stood aside for him to pass into the hall.“Sir William is waiting for you, sir, if you’ll step up,” he said.“Sir William?” repeated Fayre, puzzled. “Isn’t this Sir Edward Kean’s?”For a moment the man seemed taken aback; then he realized his mistake.“I beg your pardon, sir; I took you for the doctor the gentlemen are expecting. Lady Kean is very ill. The doctors are holding a consultation upstairs. Sir Edward is at home, but I don’t know . . .”“I won’t trouble him now, of course,” said Fayre quickly. “I’m very sorry about this. When was she taken ill?”“Her ladyship had a heart attack yesterday evening soon after she arrived from the North. The doctor thinks the journey was too much for her. We are very anxious about her, sir.”The man looked genuinely distressed. Evidently Sybil Kean was of those who endear themselves to their servants.Fayre produced a card and scribbled the address of his club on it.“Tell Sir Edward that this will find me if I can be of any use. I’ll call again later in case there is better news.”As he went down the steps a car drove up, no doubt bearing the third doctor. His heart was very heavy as he made his way slowly back to his club. For the moment his mind was swept completely clear of the Draycott case and he could think of nothing but the Keans: the hushed house and the possibly fruitless consultation that was now taking place. Sybil Kean was the oldest of all his friends in England and he was very fond of her. Edward could, on occasion, exasperate him almost beyond endurance and he was an unsatisfactory companion in the sense that he gave little and asked for nothing where the ties of friendship were concerned, but Fayre had always both liked and admired him. He had struck him from the first as one of the loneliest beings in existence, a man fated to remain detached, too strong to invite sympathy and too engrossed in his own interests to offer it. Fayre pictured him, waiting alone for the verdict of the doctors, and wished he had had the courage to break in upon his privacy.He dined at the club and, after a fruitless attempt to enjoy a quiet cigar, was driven by sheer anxiety to return to Westminster.To his surprise he was told that Sir Edward wished to see him.“It was good of you to call, Hatter,” was Kean’s brief comment as he rose to greet him.His voice had lost none of its resonance, but Fayre thought he had never seen a man look so ill. His face was a grey mask and his eyes, bleak and lifeless, seemed literally to have receded into his head. Fayre cast a swift glance round the room.“Look here, old man,” he said, “have you dined?”Kean stared at him vaguely.The butler, who had been making up the fire and was about to leave the room, turned at his words.“Sir Edward made a very poor dinner, sir,” he ventured.Kean swung round on him impatiently; but he was too exhausted to act with his customary vigour and Fayre forestalled him.“Do you think you could raise a few sandwiches?” he asked the man pleasantly. “I see drinks are here.”The butler responded with alacrity.“Cook did cut some, sir, on the chance.”He vanished, only too thankful to feel that Sir Edward was at last in the hands of some one who seemed able to influence him. He had hardly eaten or slept, in the opinion of his household, since his wife had been taken ill.Fayre strolled over to the little table near the window, on which stood a tantalus and a couple of syphons. He poured out a stiff drink, but withheld it until the butler returned with a tray of fruit and sandwiches.Kean sat gazing into the fire. He did not show the slightest interest in Fayre’s movements and the fact that his old friend had coolly taken possession and was issuing orders to his servants seem to have escaped him.Fayre moved the table with the tray to Kean’s elbow.“Is Sybil conscious?” he asked quietly and with what seemed deliberate cruelty.Her name was enough to rouse Kean from his abstraction.“Her mind’s quite clear, but she’s so weak she can hardly speak,” he said. “The doctors won’t say anything definite yet.”“Then, if she’s able to think at all she’s worrying about you. Don’t give her more cause for anxiety than you can help, old chap. She’ll need you as soon as she picks up a bit and what earthly use are you going to be to her if you let yourself go to pieces now?”He held out the tumbler and Kean, after a moment’s hesitation, took it and drank thirstily.“I wanted that,” he said.For answer Fayre silently pushed over the plate of sandwiches. Then he sat quietly watching the dancing flames while Kean forced himself to eat. The self-discipline he had always practised stood him in good stead and the plate was half-empty before he leaned back in his chair and fumbled for his cigarette-case.“Sorry, Hatter,” he said with the ghost of a smile, “but that’s the best I can do.”Fayre grinned back at him.“Good enough,” he answered. “Feel better?”Kean nodded.“I’d lost grip of myself for the moment, that’s all. Those confounded doctors took such a time this afternoon and then I couldn’t get a thing worth having out of them. I suppose they couldn’t help it, poor beggars, but it seemed a lifetime to me. It was decent of you to come, Hatter.”“I came because I couldn’t stand the suspense any longer myself. Glad I did, now.”“So am I. I’ll tell you as much as I know myself. If she pulls through the night they think she’ll do and she’s no weaker than she was this morning. That’s all I’ve got to go on. If there’s any change the nurse will come for me, otherwise she’s to see no one. The doctor’s coming again in an hour’s time.”“Thanks,” said Fayre appreciatively. “I’m glad to know. It’s not such a bad lookout as I feared. Like so many people with frail bodies, Sybil’s always had more than her share of nervous vitality and I’m ready to bank on that. And you’ve given her an incentive to live, old man,” he finished gently.Kean stared at him for a moment without speaking. Then:“I’ve done my best,” he said with a curious grim note in his voice that made Fayre wonder whether, after all, he had not always realized how very little of her heart Sybil Kean had to give when she married him.There was a pause; then Kean rose to his feet and thrust his hands into his pockets with the gesture that was so characteristic of him.“I can’t stand this,” he said abruptly. “I must get my teeth into something or my imagination will get away with me. What have you and Grey been doing?”“As a matter of fact, I came here to-day at Grey’s request. He wants to consult you and suggested I should make an appointment. Of course, that’s all off now.”“For the present, anyhow. But there’s no reason why you shouldn’t put meau faitwith things. I should be grateful for anything to hitch my brain onto at this moment.”Fayre realized that he was actuated by sheer instinct for self-preservation and met him half-way by plunging at once into a recital of all that had happened in the last few days.Kean listened attentively. Now and then he interrupted to ask a trenchant question; otherwise he heard him in silence. When he had finished Fayre handed him the little red cap the tramp had given him.“This may as well go with the other exhibit,” he said. “Anyhow, we know now that it was lost before, and not after, the murder.”Kean dropped it into the drawer of his writing-table and turned the key.“It would be interesting to know how much that fellow, Gregg, really knows of Mrs. Draycott’s past,” he said slowly.“Whatever it is, he’s made up his mind not to speak.”Kean stood rocking backward and forward on his heels, lost in thought. Fayre watched him in amazement. Half an hour ago he had been a broken man. Not only had he pulled himself together by sheer force of will, but he was now giving his whole mind to the matter in hand with a lack of effort that seemed almost superhuman.“Gregg ought to be get-at-able,” he said at last. “His treatment of you was nothing but a display of bad temper. If he’s innocent it ought to be possible to convince him of the folly of the line he’s taking. If he’s guilty, the only course will be to put the matter in the hands of the police. My own impression is that he’s shielding some one. Miss Allen said that this man Baxter, Mrs. Draycott’s first husband, was dead. She also went so far as to say that he was the one person she could think of connected with her sister’s past who would have been capable of killing her. Have we any proof that the fellowisdead?”“Gregg told me that he had died in his arms. We haven’t followed the matter up, if that’s what you mean.”“A statement of that sort, coming from Gregg, is of no value to us. Get Grey to look the thing up, will you?”“It’s an idea!” exclaimed Fayre. “I wonder we never thought of it! Baxter was Gregg’s friend and Gregg hated Mrs. Draycott on his account. He’d certainly shield him if the necessity arose. And Baxter was a drunkard and half demented, at that, if the accounts be true. There may be something in it.”Kean made a gesture of impatience.“Don’t go off the deep end, Hatter. The man’s probably dead and buried. It’s worth investigating, though. And look here, Hatter, keep Grey off Gregg, will you? We don’t want this thing muddled and if Grey’s clumsy he’ll do more harm than good. Tell him I’ll make the doctor my business, that is . . .”He broke off and the lines on his face deepened. Fayre knew that his mind was back in the quiet, shaded room upstairs and that the words “if all goes well” had trembled on his lips and he had been afraid to utter them.“I’ll see to that, old chap,” he broke in hastily, “and I’ll put the Baxter theory to him at once.”Kean sank into a chair and closed his eyes. He looked mortally tired and Fayre forbore to disturb him. For a time they sat in silence; then Kean shook himself out of his abstraction.“As regards the Page business,” he began thoughtfully, “I doubt …”There was a sound in the hall and in a moment he was on his feet, everything but his wife forgotten. They heard the front door close, followed by the sound of subdued voices.“It’s the doctor. Wait here, old man, will you?” Kean flung the words over his shoulder as he left the room, and for the next half-hour or so Fayre, alone in the big shadowy library, gave himself up shamelessly to the depression which had haunted him all day.He waited till the departure of the doctor and the return of Kean with the news that his wife was, if anything, a little stronger and then walked back through the quiet, lamplit streets to his club.
Fayre saw Miss Allen into a cab and then drove straight to his club. After a hot bath and a leisurely breakfast he felt better able to face the world, but he was not sorry to spend a quiet Sunday morning drowsing in front of the smoking-room fire and it was with a distinct effort that he turned out, shortly before one, to keep his appointment with Grey at the Trocadero.
He found the solicitor already seated and busy studying the wine-card. At the sight of Fayre he sprang to his feet and greeted him with a mixture of enthusiasm and deference which the older man found refreshing in these casual days.
“How about a pick-me-up, sir?” he asked, with a keen glance at his guest. “Or do you despise cocktails?”
“They have their uses,” admitted Fayre, a glint of mischief in his eyes, “especially after a long night in the train, but I’m not such a dug-out as you might think, you know!”
Grey laughed.
“I didn’t mean that!” he apologized hastily. “Only you look a bit done up.”
He ordered a couple of Martinis and then plunged at once into the business which was engrossing both their minds.
“My man rang up about an hour ago,” he said. “He got onto Gregg all right. He managed to square the ticket-collector and stood by his side as the passengers passed through. The collector spotted the Whitbury ticket and gave him the tip and he followed the man. He says he answered to our description. I think it was Gregg all right.”
“Where did he go?” asked Fayre.
His lips twitched involuntarily, for he guessed what was coming.
“To a doctor’s house, or rather flat. Brackley Mansions, Victoria Street. He took his luggage in, so that looks as if he meant to stay there, unless it was a blind.”
“Good work,” was Fayre’s only comment.
Grey looked at him sharply.
“What’s the joke?” he asked.
“Nothing much, only we had our noses pulled rather thoroughly over that address by Lady Cynthia!”
He told Grey what had happened.
“I like that girl,” was Grey’s enthusiastic comment. “She’s keen. We’ll get Leslie off, if only for her sake.”
“We don’t look much like doing it at present,” said Fayre rather hopelessly. “It seems to me that until we can get Gregg to account for that extra hour he spent getting from Whitbury to Hammond’s farm we’re pretty well stuck. And, if he won’t speak we’re not in a position to make him.”
“I can’t for the life of me see any connection between Gregg and the Page car,” said Grey thoughtfully.
“There is none. Of that I feel convinced. My opinion is that Page simply turned up the lane and, finding it a cul-de-sac, came back again. He may have seen something, but I don’t believe he took Mrs. Draycott to the farm.”
“The tramp seemed to think there was a woman in the car, though, the first time it passed him.”
“He was very vague about it and admitted he could hardly see the occupants. I believe we ought to concentrate on Gregg.”
Grey deliberated for a moment.
“I’m not sure that I agree with you,” he said at last. “Gregg’s not behaving like a guilty man. I fully expected that he’d make a break for the boat-train, instead of which he’s gone quite openly to the address at which he always stays, according to his servants, when he comes to town. He may have come up merely to get legal advice.”
“Lady Cynthia’s certainly got a strong feeling that this man Page is implicated,” admitted Fayre.
“I think she’s right and her suggestion that the car may have been stopped if it ran to London with a broken number-plate is quite sound. We can work on that, anyhow.”
“In the meanwhile, is there anything I can do?”
“Yes,” answered Grey decisively. “Get in touch with Sir Edward, if you can, and see if he won’t arrange an interview with us. He’s got one of the acutest brains in England and I’d welcome his advice. Besides, he’s got a personal interest in the case.”
Fayre laughed.
“He hasn’t exactly encouraged my maiden efforts!” he complained. “In fact, he told me flatly to go to the police just before he left Staveley.”
Grey nodded.
“That’s the line he would take. Like all competent people he distrusts the capacity even of professionals; and amateurs simply don’t exist for him. I don’t think he’ll take that line now, however, especially when he realizes how far we’ve got. He’ll admit that we’ve every reason now to keep the thing in our own hands.”
“I’ll call on Lady Kean this afternoon and see if I can get hold of him. He’s sure to be there unless they are week-ending out of town, and I don’t think she’s well enough yet for that.”
“Any time he chooses to appoint will suit me. Meanwhile, if nothing further transpires as regards Gregg, I’ll beard him myself. He may not resent my curiosity as much as yours, and if he has been to see his solicitor he’ll no doubt have had it impressed upon him that his attitude is not only stupid but dangerous, if he’s really got nothing to hide.”
They lingered over lunch and again over their coffee. When they at last parted Fayre strolled down Piccadilly and across Green Park and it was close on four o’clock when he reached Kean’s house in Westminster.
Two cars were standing before the door when he reached it. Evidently he was not the only caller, a discovery which afforded him a certain satisfaction. If there were other people there Sybil would have little opportunity for discussing the Draycott murder and he might manage to slip away and transact his business with Kean.
He had hardly taken his hand off the bell when the door was opened and, without waiting for his inquiry as to whether Lady Kean was at home, the butler stood aside for him to pass into the hall.
“Sir William is waiting for you, sir, if you’ll step up,” he said.
“Sir William?” repeated Fayre, puzzled. “Isn’t this Sir Edward Kean’s?”
For a moment the man seemed taken aback; then he realized his mistake.
“I beg your pardon, sir; I took you for the doctor the gentlemen are expecting. Lady Kean is very ill. The doctors are holding a consultation upstairs. Sir Edward is at home, but I don’t know . . .”
“I won’t trouble him now, of course,” said Fayre quickly. “I’m very sorry about this. When was she taken ill?”
“Her ladyship had a heart attack yesterday evening soon after she arrived from the North. The doctor thinks the journey was too much for her. We are very anxious about her, sir.”
The man looked genuinely distressed. Evidently Sybil Kean was of those who endear themselves to their servants.
Fayre produced a card and scribbled the address of his club on it.
“Tell Sir Edward that this will find me if I can be of any use. I’ll call again later in case there is better news.”
As he went down the steps a car drove up, no doubt bearing the third doctor. His heart was very heavy as he made his way slowly back to his club. For the moment his mind was swept completely clear of the Draycott case and he could think of nothing but the Keans: the hushed house and the possibly fruitless consultation that was now taking place. Sybil Kean was the oldest of all his friends in England and he was very fond of her. Edward could, on occasion, exasperate him almost beyond endurance and he was an unsatisfactory companion in the sense that he gave little and asked for nothing where the ties of friendship were concerned, but Fayre had always both liked and admired him. He had struck him from the first as one of the loneliest beings in existence, a man fated to remain detached, too strong to invite sympathy and too engrossed in his own interests to offer it. Fayre pictured him, waiting alone for the verdict of the doctors, and wished he had had the courage to break in upon his privacy.
He dined at the club and, after a fruitless attempt to enjoy a quiet cigar, was driven by sheer anxiety to return to Westminster.
To his surprise he was told that Sir Edward wished to see him.
“It was good of you to call, Hatter,” was Kean’s brief comment as he rose to greet him.
His voice had lost none of its resonance, but Fayre thought he had never seen a man look so ill. His face was a grey mask and his eyes, bleak and lifeless, seemed literally to have receded into his head. Fayre cast a swift glance round the room.
“Look here, old man,” he said, “have you dined?”
Kean stared at him vaguely.
The butler, who had been making up the fire and was about to leave the room, turned at his words.
“Sir Edward made a very poor dinner, sir,” he ventured.
Kean swung round on him impatiently; but he was too exhausted to act with his customary vigour and Fayre forestalled him.
“Do you think you could raise a few sandwiches?” he asked the man pleasantly. “I see drinks are here.”
The butler responded with alacrity.
“Cook did cut some, sir, on the chance.”
He vanished, only too thankful to feel that Sir Edward was at last in the hands of some one who seemed able to influence him. He had hardly eaten or slept, in the opinion of his household, since his wife had been taken ill.
Fayre strolled over to the little table near the window, on which stood a tantalus and a couple of syphons. He poured out a stiff drink, but withheld it until the butler returned with a tray of fruit and sandwiches.
Kean sat gazing into the fire. He did not show the slightest interest in Fayre’s movements and the fact that his old friend had coolly taken possession and was issuing orders to his servants seem to have escaped him.
Fayre moved the table with the tray to Kean’s elbow.
“Is Sybil conscious?” he asked quietly and with what seemed deliberate cruelty.
Her name was enough to rouse Kean from his abstraction.
“Her mind’s quite clear, but she’s so weak she can hardly speak,” he said. “The doctors won’t say anything definite yet.”
“Then, if she’s able to think at all she’s worrying about you. Don’t give her more cause for anxiety than you can help, old chap. She’ll need you as soon as she picks up a bit and what earthly use are you going to be to her if you let yourself go to pieces now?”
He held out the tumbler and Kean, after a moment’s hesitation, took it and drank thirstily.
“I wanted that,” he said.
For answer Fayre silently pushed over the plate of sandwiches. Then he sat quietly watching the dancing flames while Kean forced himself to eat. The self-discipline he had always practised stood him in good stead and the plate was half-empty before he leaned back in his chair and fumbled for his cigarette-case.
“Sorry, Hatter,” he said with the ghost of a smile, “but that’s the best I can do.”
Fayre grinned back at him.
“Good enough,” he answered. “Feel better?”
Kean nodded.
“I’d lost grip of myself for the moment, that’s all. Those confounded doctors took such a time this afternoon and then I couldn’t get a thing worth having out of them. I suppose they couldn’t help it, poor beggars, but it seemed a lifetime to me. It was decent of you to come, Hatter.”
“I came because I couldn’t stand the suspense any longer myself. Glad I did, now.”
“So am I. I’ll tell you as much as I know myself. If she pulls through the night they think she’ll do and she’s no weaker than she was this morning. That’s all I’ve got to go on. If there’s any change the nurse will come for me, otherwise she’s to see no one. The doctor’s coming again in an hour’s time.”
“Thanks,” said Fayre appreciatively. “I’m glad to know. It’s not such a bad lookout as I feared. Like so many people with frail bodies, Sybil’s always had more than her share of nervous vitality and I’m ready to bank on that. And you’ve given her an incentive to live, old man,” he finished gently.
Kean stared at him for a moment without speaking. Then:
“I’ve done my best,” he said with a curious grim note in his voice that made Fayre wonder whether, after all, he had not always realized how very little of her heart Sybil Kean had to give when she married him.
There was a pause; then Kean rose to his feet and thrust his hands into his pockets with the gesture that was so characteristic of him.
“I can’t stand this,” he said abruptly. “I must get my teeth into something or my imagination will get away with me. What have you and Grey been doing?”
“As a matter of fact, I came here to-day at Grey’s request. He wants to consult you and suggested I should make an appointment. Of course, that’s all off now.”
“For the present, anyhow. But there’s no reason why you shouldn’t put meau faitwith things. I should be grateful for anything to hitch my brain onto at this moment.”
Fayre realized that he was actuated by sheer instinct for self-preservation and met him half-way by plunging at once into a recital of all that had happened in the last few days.
Kean listened attentively. Now and then he interrupted to ask a trenchant question; otherwise he heard him in silence. When he had finished Fayre handed him the little red cap the tramp had given him.
“This may as well go with the other exhibit,” he said. “Anyhow, we know now that it was lost before, and not after, the murder.”
Kean dropped it into the drawer of his writing-table and turned the key.
“It would be interesting to know how much that fellow, Gregg, really knows of Mrs. Draycott’s past,” he said slowly.
“Whatever it is, he’s made up his mind not to speak.”
Kean stood rocking backward and forward on his heels, lost in thought. Fayre watched him in amazement. Half an hour ago he had been a broken man. Not only had he pulled himself together by sheer force of will, but he was now giving his whole mind to the matter in hand with a lack of effort that seemed almost superhuman.
“Gregg ought to be get-at-able,” he said at last. “His treatment of you was nothing but a display of bad temper. If he’s innocent it ought to be possible to convince him of the folly of the line he’s taking. If he’s guilty, the only course will be to put the matter in the hands of the police. My own impression is that he’s shielding some one. Miss Allen said that this man Baxter, Mrs. Draycott’s first husband, was dead. She also went so far as to say that he was the one person she could think of connected with her sister’s past who would have been capable of killing her. Have we any proof that the fellowisdead?”
“Gregg told me that he had died in his arms. We haven’t followed the matter up, if that’s what you mean.”
“A statement of that sort, coming from Gregg, is of no value to us. Get Grey to look the thing up, will you?”
“It’s an idea!” exclaimed Fayre. “I wonder we never thought of it! Baxter was Gregg’s friend and Gregg hated Mrs. Draycott on his account. He’d certainly shield him if the necessity arose. And Baxter was a drunkard and half demented, at that, if the accounts be true. There may be something in it.”
Kean made a gesture of impatience.
“Don’t go off the deep end, Hatter. The man’s probably dead and buried. It’s worth investigating, though. And look here, Hatter, keep Grey off Gregg, will you? We don’t want this thing muddled and if Grey’s clumsy he’ll do more harm than good. Tell him I’ll make the doctor my business, that is . . .”
He broke off and the lines on his face deepened. Fayre knew that his mind was back in the quiet, shaded room upstairs and that the words “if all goes well” had trembled on his lips and he had been afraid to utter them.
“I’ll see to that, old chap,” he broke in hastily, “and I’ll put the Baxter theory to him at once.”
Kean sank into a chair and closed his eyes. He looked mortally tired and Fayre forbore to disturb him. For a time they sat in silence; then Kean shook himself out of his abstraction.
“As regards the Page business,” he began thoughtfully, “I doubt …”
There was a sound in the hall and in a moment he was on his feet, everything but his wife forgotten. They heard the front door close, followed by the sound of subdued voices.
“It’s the doctor. Wait here, old man, will you?” Kean flung the words over his shoulder as he left the room, and for the next half-hour or so Fayre, alone in the big shadowy library, gave himself up shamelessly to the depression which had haunted him all day.
He waited till the departure of the doctor and the return of Kean with the news that his wife was, if anything, a little stronger and then walked back through the quiet, lamplit streets to his club.