XIV

While that, to both of them, woeful conversation was going on between the mother of Roger Gretorex and the old lawyer, Ivy Lexton sat in her drawing-room, waiting impatiently for John Oram, and⁠—his cheque.

She felt quite differently from what she had felt the day before, and happier from every point of view. For fear, that most haunting of secret housemates, had gone from her. Indeed, after seeing Mr. Oram, she had spent the rest of the afternoon at the establishment of the dressmaker who was just then the fashion in her set. Whilst there she had bought four black frocks “off the peg,” and she had also ordered a splendid fur coat.

No wonder that she was now waiting feverishly for the old lawyer to call and take her across to the bank. Two thousand pounds? What an enormous lot of money! It was the first time Ivy had had even a quarter of such a sum absolutely at her disposal. In the old days, when Jervis was still a man of means, she had never had a regular allowance. She had simply run up bills, and Jervis, grumbling good-naturedly, had paid them.

But the moments, the minutes, the quarters of an hour slipped by, and Mr. Oram dallied. What could have happened? She had become uncomfortably aware yesterday that Miles Rushworth’s solicitor did not like her, and that he thought Rushworth’s interest in her strange and inexplicable, so she began to feel thoroughly “rattled,” as she expressed it to herself.

At last she heard the lift stop outside the flat. What did that portend? The longed-for coming of Mr. Oram with his bountiful cheque, or more trouble for her, for poor little Ivy?

Then she gave a gasp⁠—but it was a gasp of joy, for she had heard the lawyer’s frigid voice inquiring whether she were in. Before the maid could open the door of the drawing-room she had opened it herself and exclaimed, “Is it Mr. Oram?”

She was too full of instinctive tact when dealing with any man to utter even a light word of reproach, though the solicitor was over an hour later than he had said he would be.

Mr. Oram walked into the drawing-room, and then, very deliberately, he shut the door behind him.

Again there came over Ivy a sick feeling of fear. He looked stern, forbidding, and as a certain kind of man looks when he is the bearer of bad news.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he said abruptly, “but I couldn’t help myself. I’ve brought the cheque, and we will proceed in a few moments to the bank. But first I would like to tell you, Mrs. Lexton, that circumstances have arisen that will make it impossible for me to act as your lawyer with regard to any proceedings that may arise in connection with your husband’s death.”

He cleared his throat, and then went on: “As I cannot act for you, I will find you a first-class man, who will probably have far more time to devote to your affairs than I should have been able to do.”

She looked at him, wondering what this really meant, and a tide of dismay welled up in her heart.

“But Mr. Rushworth,” she began falteringly, “again told me, in a cable that I received only this morning, that you would do everything you could for me, Mr. Oram?”

She had not meant to tell anyone of that long, intimately-worded cable, the first in which Rushworth had allowed something of his intense exultation at the knowledge that she was now free to pierce through the measured words. It seemed to her impossible that anyone could disregard the wishes of so important and, above all, so wealthy a man as Miles Rushworth. To Ivy the sound of money talking drowned every other sound in life. But this, to her discomfiture, was not the case with John Oram.

“I know that,” and this time he spoke more kindly. “And I’m sorry I shall not be able to do what Mr. Rushworth very naturally hoped I could do. But I have discovered⁠—” and then he stopped for what seemed to her a long time.

He was wondering whether she was yet aware that Roger Gretorex had been arrested on the charge of having murdered her husband. Already the fact was billed in all the early editions of the evening papers.

“The truth is,” he began again, and in a colder tone, “not only I, but my father before me, and my grandfather before him, acted in a legal capacity for the Gretorex family.”

The colour rushed into Ivy’s face. She said defensively, “But need that make any difference, Mr. Oram?”

“Well, yes, I’m sorry to say that it will, Mrs. Lexton. Roger Gretorex, as you are no doubt aware, was arrested last night on a charge of having poisoned Mr. Jervis Lexton. He has put his interests in my hands. It would not be to your advantage were you to employ the same solicitor as the man who is accused of having murdered your husband. I am sure,” he cleared his throat, “you are aware of what Dr. Gretorex’s motive is supposed to have been, assuming that he is guilty of that of which he is accused?”

Ivy looked so frightened that for a moment he thought she was going to faint.

Then she hadn’t known of Gretorex’s arrest? Even John Oram, who was already strongly prejudiced against her, could not doubt that the horror and distress with which she heard his news were genuine.

She sank down into a chair.

“But this is terrible⁠—terrible!” she moaned.

“It is terrible, Mrs. Lexton. And, incidentally, you see, now, how I am situated? When I came here to see you yesterday, I naturally did not associate my friend and client, Dr. Roger Gretorex, with the strange and mysterious circumstances surrounding your husband’s death. I have not yet seen a copy of the statement you appear to have made to the inspector who came to see you from Scotland Yard; but I gather that you made certain admissions that were very detrimental to my client.”

“The man pressed me so! I didn’t want to hurt Roger,” she exclaimed, and thought she spoke the truth.

Twenty minutes later, as the two came out of the bank, Mr. Oram said quietly:

“With your permission, Mrs. Lexton, I am going to put you in touch with an old friend of mine, a most able lawyer named Paxton-Smith. He will not only watch your interests in a general sense, but you can trust him to give you the soundest advice. In your place, I would make a point of being frank with him concerning everything connected with your husband’s life as well as with his death.”

It was strange what a feeling of repugnance, almost of horror, this beautiful girl⁠—for she looked a girl⁠—inspired in him. But that, so he told himself, for he tried to be fair-minded, was no doubt owing to the way Roger Gretorex’s mother had spoken of Ivy Lexton that morning.

“Tell Mr. Paxton-Smith, as far you know it, the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,” he went on. “Many ladies, when in conference with their legal adviser, are tempted to hold something back. There can be no greater mistake. You can be absolutely sure of Mr. Paxton-Smith’s discretion; and unless he knows everything you can tell him, it will be impossible for him to advise you adequately.”

She was gazing at him with affrighted eyes. Tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth? Why, she couldn’t even begin to think of doing that! But, even so, the old lawyer’s words impressed her. Why, oh! why, had she been tempted to tell the man from Scotland Yard that half-truth as to Roger and his love for her? By now, when it had become clear to her that no one suspected her, she had almost forgotten what had brought about that dangerous admission.

“You are, I understand, going to be the chief witness for the Crown,” said Mr. Oram solemnly.

“I didn’t know that! What does being that mean?” faltered Ivy.

“It means,” he said drily, “that the prosecution is counting on you to aid them in proving that Roger Gretorex became that most despicable of human beings, a slow, secret poisoner, in order that you might be free to become his wife.”

She unconsciously stayed her steps, and was staring up at him as if hypnotised by his words.

He looked down fixedly into her face. What lay hidden behind those lovely eyes, that exquisite little mouth, now spoilt, according to his taste, by a smear of scarlet paint?

“Only God knows the secrets of all hearts, Mrs. Lexton. I have not asked you, and I do not propose to ask you, if you believe that unhappy young man to be guilty of the fearful crime of which he is accused, and for which he is about to stand on trial for his life. But if there is any doubt in your mind, and, far more, if you believe him innocent, I beg you, earnestly, to consider and weigh every word you utter from now on.”

But, even as he made that appeal, moved out of his usual cautious self by his real regard for Roger Gretorex and his intense pity for Roger’s mother, he felt convinced that Ivy Lexton would, in all circumstances and contingencies, only consider herself and what was to her own advantage.

How amazing that such a man as was Miles Rushworth should be moved to passion by such a frivolous, mindless, selfish woman! But that such was the case John Oram had far too much knowledge of human nature to doubt, even for a moment. He was, indeed, by now as sure as was Ivy herself that, in due course, Mrs. Jervis Lexton would become Mrs. Miles Rushworth.

Suddenly Ivy said something which very much surprised her companion, and made him dislike her even more than he already disliked her.

“Are you going to cable everything that has happened to Mr. Rushworth?” she asked in a frightened tone.

“Mr. Rushworth will learn precisely what the Cape Town newspapers choose to publish, and what you choose to cable to him. He has not asked me to communicate with him, and I am not proposing to do so.”

He held out his hand. “And now I must say goodbye, Mrs. Lexton. I will try to arrange that Mr. Paxton-Smith shall ring you up before lunch. He will then make an appointment to see you. I should like, if I may, to give you one word of advice. It is this. Refuse, however great the temptation, to disclose anything that concerns your husband’s death to anyone, excepting, of course, to Mr. Paxton-Smith.”

“Then shan’t I see you again?” she asked.

Though deep in her heart she was glad to be seeing the last of Mr. Oram, she knew him to be her only link, in London, with Miles Rushworth.

“Should Mr. Rushworth cable me instructions to do so, I shall of course transmit to you any money or any messages he may choose to send through me. But, apart from that, it is clear that in your own interest Roger Gretorex’s legal adviser should have no more communication with you.”

That same afternoon Philip Paxton-Smith had his first interview with Ivy Lexton. Unlike John Oram, he took an instant fancy to the prettiest client and most attractive little woman, so he told himself, that a Providence which was apt to be kind in that way to the shrewd and popular solicitor had ever sent his way.

So it was that, after a very few moments, Ivy found herself chatting to him almost happily.

He listened with unaffected, indeed absorbed, interest to her sentimental half-true, half-false, account of her first meeting with Roger Gretorex. Of how the young man had “fallen for her” at once, and how she had seen coming, and tried to stave off, his declaration of passionate love.

She also managed to convey to her new friend’s sympathetic ears what manner of man she now desired Jervis Lexton to be supposed to have been. Easygoing, good-tempered, devoted to her, and yet entirely selfish, frightfully extravagant, and, when they were not out together enjoying a good time, a great deal at his club.

“Poor lonely little woman,” said the lawyer to himself. “The real wonder is that she remained as straight as she did.”

Paxton-Smith and his partner did a very different class of business from that associated with the firm of which John Oram was now senior partner. They were constantly associated with what are loosely called “society cases,” and Paxton-Smith himself, something of a gay bachelor, was seen a good deal in that section of the London world which seems to live for pleasure. He was well liked by men. As for women, well, he liked women⁠—and they liked him too.

During his first interview with Ivy Lexton, after he had, as he believed, won her entire confidence, he cleverly led her to give an almost verbatim report of the conversation which she had had with Inspector Orpington. And though once or twice he shook his head when he heard what she had admitted, he was able to do to her what he failed to do to himself, that is, make her believe that, on the whole, she had been wise rather than unwise in her dealings with the man in whose charge had been the preliminary inquiries concerning her husband’s death.

Philip Paxton-Smith was both a clever man and a clever lawyer. But “this dear little woman,” as he already called her to himself, was more than a match for him. How amazed would he have been could some entity outside himself have been able to convince him, at the end of the two and a half hours that he spent with Ivy Lexton that afternoon, that she had, as a matter of fact, so completely deceived him as to make him believe her everything she was not!

True, he had begun by thinking her just a little stupid; but he had ended by realising that she was far more intelligent than many of the women with whom he was in contact. That, naturally, had made him like her all the more, for there is nothing more tiresome or annoying to any good lawyer than having to deal with a dull and obstinate client.

As for Ivy, she was happier after Paxton-Smith had left her than she had felt since the terrible moment when the card of Inspector Orpington had first been brought in to her.

Not only did the genial lawyer inspire her with confidence, but she was naturally pleased and relieved to feel that he believed everything she told him. It was such a comfort, such a moral support, to feel that he “liked” her, and that he was going to do his very best to help her through what even she now realised was going to be a dangerous and anxious time.

By the morning following the day of Ivy’s first memorable interview with her lawyer, it was obvious to all those concerned with the case that what was already called “The Lexton Mystery” was going to develop into a cause célèbre.

Already the personality of Jervis Lexton’s young widow was becoming of moment, indeed of absorbing interest, to hundreds of thousands of newspaper readers. And as the dark, early winter days slipped by, men and women engaged in wordy combat as to whether she was the sweet, wholly innocent, guileless woman portrayed by her admirers, or a typical example of the selfish, heartless, extravagant little minx old-fashioned folk are wont to describe the modern girl and young woman.

Very soon her exquisite face became as familiar to the public as those of the more popular actresses. She, not Roger Gretorex, emerged as the central figure of this drama of love and death; this if only because she was, to the mind of everyone interested in the story, the one point of mystery.

Had she loved in secret the good-looking young doctor who had almost certainly slowly, craftily, done to death the man who was now described as having been his best friend? Or was it, as she was said to aver, the truth that Gretorex had adored her with no touch of encouragement on her part?

Here and there some were found ready to whisper that perhaps “Ivy” had been “in it.” But they were a small minority of the vast public interested in such a story, and, for the most part, they kept their view to themselves. It is a dangerous thing to libel the living⁠—especially a woman blessed with as many ardent champions as was Jervis Lexton’s widow.

And Ivy herself? For a little while Ivy remained unaware of the amazing interest which was already being taken in her past thoughts, past secret emotions, and past way of life.

She went through many anxious, troubled solitary hours till, all at once, those acquaintances, both men and women, who become friends at a moment’s notice, crowded round her, pleased and excited to be associated with so terrible and mysterious an affair.

Their new mission in life, so they pretended to themselves and others, was to try to cheer up poor pretty little Ivy in her solitude. It must be admitted that these, for the most part, young friends, succeeded in their laudable object to an extent that sometimes amazed Paxton-Smith.

Those giddy, good-natured, carelessly heartless men and women all took so absolutely for granted the fact that Roger Gretorex had committed murder for love of Ivy Lexton. Some of the men about her indeed hinted with a half-smile that they could well understand the poor chap’s motive.

One of them, the well-to-do idle bachelor who had been about with her so much this last autumn, and who was acting as her cavalier at the theatre and supper party on the evening of Jervis’s death, actually said to her, “I wouldn’t back myself not to have done the same thing in his place! After all, ‘opportunity makes the crime.’ ”

But, if comforted, she had also been stung by that well-worn saying; for she knew, better than anyone in the whole world just now, how great is the awful truth embodied in those trite words.

The women who gathered round Ivy Lexton during those days were not all inspired by morbid curiosity and excitement. Especially was Lady Flora Desmond very kind to her.

Lady Flora thought she understood something of what Mrs. Lexton must be feeling because she herself had gone through such a terrible agony when her husband had died. Lady Flora was a real support to Ivy during those long days of waiting for the day when she would be compelled to appear as chief witness for the Crown at the trial of Roger Gretorex.

True, this kind friend wanted to take her away to her country cottage, but Ivy refused with quiet obstinacy. She knew that she would go melancholy mad were she left with no one to talk to except one affectionate, sympathising woman friend.

Mrs. Jervis Lexton had plenty of good excuses for remaining in London, for, during the comparatively short time which elapsed between Gretorex’s arrest and the opening of his trial, there took place the long-drawn-out legal formalities of which the public are only aware to an extent which whets, without satisfying, curiosity.

But at last everything was “in order”; so Paxton-Smith put it to the woman to whom he found himself devoting far more thought, as well as time, than he had ever done before to any client, however charming, in his successful legal career.

The shrewd solicitor sometimes felt something like angry contempt for the foolish, selfish, talkative men and women who buzzed round the young widow during these, to him, anxious and tiring days. He supposed himself, naturally enough, to be just now her only real standby in life.

How amazed, how piqued, he would have been, had some tricksy spirit whispered in his ear the news that every morning, and sometimes in the evening too, Ivy received a long cable of sympathy, support, and even, as the days went on, of disguised passion!

Of that passion of love which can assume so infinite a variety of shapes and disguises, Ivy Lexton had had many an exciting experience, but none so satisfying as that conveyed thousands of miles, and in a shadowy form, from the man for whom, as she now dimly realised, she had run at any rate the risk of a shameful and horrible death.

Ivy, for once, was quite alone, lying down in the drawing-room, reading a magazine, one evening, when suddenly the door opened.

“Mrs. Gretorex wishes to see you, madam,” said the maid in a nervous tone.

Ivy leapt up from the sofa, and by the shaded light of the reading lamp which had stood close to her elbow, she saw a tall, spectral-looking figure advancing into the room.

But it was a firm and very clear voice that exclaimed: “I did not write and ask you to receive me, Mrs. Lexton, as I feared you might say ‘No.’ I’m not acting on Mr. Oram’s advice in thus coming to see you, but I know he doubts, as I do too, if you are really aware in what deadly danger my son now stands?”

“Do sit down,” murmured Ivy.

She felt a surge of angry fear of Roger Gretorex’s mother, but she had quickly made up her mind to be what she called “sweet” to her unwelcome visitor. When, always against her will, the thought of Gretorex forced itself on her mind, there was coupled with it the terrifying perception that by now he must be well aware of who it was who had brought about the death of Jervis Lexton.

“Appearances,” said Mrs. Gretorex in a low, quiet voice, “are very much against Roger. His counsel is thinking, we understand, of putting forward a theory that your husband committed suicide. I have come to ask you if you can advance anything to add even a tinge of probability to that theory? Was there insanity in Mr. Lexton’s family? Did he, above all, say, even once, that he might be tempted to take his life?”

These clear, passionless questions gave Ivy no opportunity for the display of her special gifts. She asked herself nervously what she ought to say in answer to these definite queries.

Would it be to her interest to allow it to be thought that she, at any rate, believed it possible that Jervis had done away with himself? Then she decided that, no, it would not pay her to accept what everyone who had ever come in contact with her husband, including Nurse Bradfield, and the two doctors who had been attending him, would know to be impossible. So:

“I never heard him say anything of that sort,” she answered regretfully, “except in fun, of course.” She added, as an afterthought, “But I know how much Jervis hated to be poor, Mrs. Gretorex.”

The older woman threw an imperceptible look round the luxurious room.

“But he wasn’t poor,” she said quickly. “He had just got, or so we understand, a good new post.”

“I know he had. That’s one of the things that makes it all so dreadful⁠—”

And then Mrs. Gretorex, who was herself a very honest woman, felt impelled to ask what was perhaps a dangerous question.

“I need hardly ask you what you think? Whatever be the truth, you do not believe, Mrs. Lexton, that my son poisoned your husband?”

Ivy did not answer for what seemed to Mrs. Gretorex a long, long time. Then she exclaimed, twisting her fingers together:

“It’s no good asking me that sort of thing, because I honestly don’t know what to think. It’s all so strange!”

“But surely you know Roger to be innocent?”

Ivy let her eyes drop.

“Of course, I want to think that,” she said in a low tone.

“You want to think it, Mrs. Lexton? D’you mean that you have any doubt about it?”

Again Ivy twisted her fingers together.

“It’s all so strange,” she repeated falteringly. “And it’s so unfortunate that Dr. Gretorex was the last one to see my husband alone on the day he died.”

Mrs. Gretorex got up.

“I see,” she said in a dull tone. “Then you are half inclined to believe that Roger did do this terrible thing⁠—for love, I suppose, of you?”

And there flashed a look of awful condemnation over the mother’s worn face.

“Please don’t say that, Mrs. Gretorex! I never said that I thought poor Roger really did it!” cried Ivy hysterically. “Perhaps Jervis did commit suicide, but, as nurse says, if he did poison himself, where did he get the stuff to do it with? Also Roger was so fearfully gone on me. It’s all so very, very strange!”

Oh, why had Mrs. Gretorex come here, just to torture her and frighten her? It was too cruel!

Then Roger Gretorex’s mother did make to the woman who stood before her, this woman whom her son loved to his undoing, a desperate appeal, though she worded what she had to say quietly enough.

“I understand that you’re going to be the principal witness for the Crown at my son’s trial?”

Ivy began to cry.

“Yes,” she sobbed. “Isn’t it dreadful⁠—dreadful? As if I hadn’t gone through enough without having to go through that too!”

“On what you say,” went on Mrs. Gretorex firmly, “may depend Roger’s life or death. After all, you and he were dear friends?”

She uttered that last sentence in a tone she strove to make conciliatory.

Ivy stopped crying. Then Roger hadn’t given her away, even to a very little extent, to his mother? It was a great relief to know that.

“I implore you to guard your tongue when you are in the witness-box,” went on Mrs. Gretorex.

“I will! I will indeed⁠—”

“Can you think of no natural explanation with regard to the utterly mysterious thing which happened?”

Her eyes were fixed imploringly on the beautiful little face of this frivolous⁠—Mrs. Gretorex believed mindless⁠—woman, whom Roger still loved so desperately.

“I’ve thought, and thought, and thought⁠—” whispered Ivy.

And then for the fourth time during this brief interview she uttered the words, “It’s all so strange.”

As, a few minutes later, she walked down Kensington High Street, still full of bustling, happy people on shopping intent, Roger Gretorex’s mother was in an agony of doubt, wondering whether she had done well or ill in thus forcing herself on Mrs. Jervis Lexton.

Again and again there echoed in her ear the silly, vulgar little phrase: “Roger was so fearfully gone on me.”

Gone on her? Alas, that had been, that was still, only too true. Even now his one thought seemed to be how to spare Ivy pain, and, above all, disgrace.

She stepped up into a crowded omnibus at the corner of Chapel Street, and for a while she had to stand. Then a girl gave up her seat to her, and heavily she sat down.

Who, looking however closely at Mrs. Gretorex sitting there, her worn face calm and still, would have thought her other than an old-fashioned, highly bred lady, leading the placid life of her fortunate class, that class which even now is financially secure, and seems to be so far apart from and above the sordid ills and anxieties of ordinary humanity?

Yet there can be little doubt that Roger Gretorex’s mother was the most miserable and the most unhappy woman of the many miserable and unhappy women in London that night. To the anguish, which was now her perpetual lot, was added a feeling that she had done, if anything, harm, in forcing herself on Mrs. Lexton.

“I’ve done no good!” she exclaimed as she walked into the sitting-room of the lodgings in Ebury Street where she and Enid Dent had taken refuge, after spending two or three days with a kind friend who, they had soon discovered though no word had been said, considered Roger almost certainly guilty.

The girl looked dismayed, for it had been at her suggestion that Mrs. Gretorex had gone to Duke of Kent Mansion.

Enid Dent now felt convinced that Ivy Lexton held the key to the mystery of Jervis Lexton’s death. She had never seen this woman whom she now knew that Roger loved, but she had formed a fairly clear and true impression of Ivy’s nature and character. Hatred, as well as love, has sometimes the power of tearing asunder the most skilfully woven web of lies.

And then there began for them all what seemed an interminable time of waiting. And all those nearly concerned with the case, apart from Ivy herself, felt almost a sense of relief when the winter day at last dawned which was to see Roger Gretorex stand his trial at the Old Bailey.