XXII

As he walked up the gangway of the cross-Channel boat at Calais, Miles Rushworth’s heart was full of two women. The one was his dead sister, the other Ivy Lexton, the woman to whom he was hastening, and whom he expected to see today. Every fibre of Rushworth’s being longed consciously, hungrily, thirstily, for Ivy.

It was a source of real grief to him that these two could never now meet and love each other. He had been painfully aware that his sister hoped he would marry her own dearest friend, Bella Dale, and he had not dared to speak to her of Ivy.

During his long, dreary journey home he had often asked himself if all she had gone through had changed her from the deliciously pretty, kindhearted, rather irresponsible little creature he remembered her as being, into a more serious woman. Not that he wanted Ivy different. To him she was already absolutely perfect. But her letters had grown shorter, as his had grown longer, and vaguely they had disappointed him.

Roger Gretorex? How often had Rushworth tried to visualise the young man who had committed so dastardly a crime in order to set free the woman he had loved hopelessly, and without return, from the degradation of being tied to such a waster as had been Jervis Lexton.

Though even the South African papers had been full of the wretched fellow’s photographs, proving that he had a singularly handsome face, Rushworth had no clear vision of him. Also, Ivy had never once mentioned him in any of her letters.

Suddenly that fact, Ivy’s absolute silence concerning Gretorex, struck him as being strange. He also realised, what he had not realised till now, that poor lovely Ivy could not but be, all her life long, even after she changed her name, a marked woman. She would be always pointed at, and that wherever she went in English-speaking lands, as the heroine of a great cause célèbre.

Yet stop! In the circumstances, would it not only be right, but reasonable, that she should marry him, Miles Rushworth, almost at once? He would beg her, entreat her, to consent to an immediate marriage. And then he would take her away in his yacht to the South, to some quiet place where they two could be hidden in a trance of love, while people forgot the sordid story of the murder of which she had been the innocent cause.

It was a fine winter day, though bitterly cold, so the homecoming traveller found himself a comfortable spot in a sheltered place, on the upper deck of the steamer, where was just room for three.

Two deck-chairs were already occupied, one by a big man with whose powerful, humorous face Rushworth felt he was vaguely familiar, the other by a delicate, fragile-looking, little grey-haired lady. The third chair was unoccupied, and so he sat down in it.

Perhaps because he was in a sentimental mood today, he felt queerly moved when he saw that, under their rug, the big man was holding the hand of the grey-haired little lady. They were talking together eagerly, happily; obviously, so Rushworth told himself, an old-fashioned husband and wife, never so happy as when they were together.

His heart swung back to Ivy Lexton, and to the bliss of their coming meeting.

Poor, precious darling! What a terrible ordeal she had been through! He would regret all his life, all their joint life, that he had been far from her during the weeks that had followed the strange death of Jervis Lexton.

And then⁠—for a moment he thought his ears had misled him⁠—he heard that very name of “Lexton” uttered aloud by the man sitting one from him.

“That Lexton affair? Come now. If you really read your loving husband’s letters⁠—I sometimes suspect that you don’t, you naughty little thing⁠—well, there’d be nothing left to tell you! It’s hunting I should be today, instead of coming to meet an ungrateful woman.”

“I want to know what’s happening now, Joe. Also, most of all, what led to the extraordinary reprieve on the very day this man was to have been hanged?”

A reprieve? Miles Rushworth felt a sudden rush of anger and surprise. He was, of course, aware that Roger Gretorex, the man whose name and personality he loathed, and for whom he felt he would ever feel an intense, retrospective horror, was to have been hanged this very morning. That fact had been stated in both the daily papers which are published in English in Paris.

If it was true that there had been a reprieve that morning, how had this stranger already become aware of the fact?

“You know I told you, Eileen, long ago, that the poor chap had refused to appeal?”

“Yes, I remember that,” she murmured.

“Well, there seemed nothing left to be done! I was in despair, and it was only the day before yesterday that by⁠—well, I suppose old-fashioned folk like you would call it an intervention of Providence, some astounding new evidence was produced. And what’s more, I’ve been proved right!”

And there was a tone of triumph in the, now low, organ-like voice.

“D’you mean that what you half suspected was true all along, Joe?”

She had turned her head round, and was gazing up into her husband’s face.

Rushworth saw the big man bend his head as jovially he exclaimed, “Bedad! I think we’ve got her cold!”

A tremor ran through the lady. “What a horrible expression,” she murmured.

“Still, so far there’s something lacking, me dear, and it’s causing me a bit of anxiety.”

“What’s that, Joe?”

“Motive!” the man exclaimed, in a voice that had become suddenly grave. And then he went on: “I don’t mind telling you that everything fair and⁠—well, a bit near the wind, also, was done to try and find out if our lovely, clinging Ivy had another man in tow. She is a”⁠—the speaker sought for something in place of the Biblical word trembling on his lips, but he gave it up, and said instead:

“We heard that there was one chap who went about with her a good deal last autumn, and who was far more often at Duke of Kent Mansion than Gretorex ever was. But though we ran him to earth and gave him⁠—at least I hope so⁠—a pretty bad quarter of an hour, it was clear that he would never have married her, not if she had been a hundred times free! Also, though he’s a gay bachelor, and manages to give his lady friends a scrumptious time, he’s not a rich man, and our practical little Ivy wants money, money, money all the time.”

“Then what’s going to be done now? You don’t want your man, if he’s really innocent, to languish in prison half his life,” observed the little lady shrewdly.

“I do not,” he answered, in his rich, Irish voice. “What’s more, I want to shift that noose. Once we get her in the dock I’ll see there’s no recommendation to mercy; trust me for that! The woman’s a double-dyed murderess. She poisoned her husband, and she as good as hanged her lover.”

“You haven’t got her in the dock yet, and maybe you never will,” said his wife calmly.

“Hold on! Hold on! Did you ever see me miss a kill I’d set my heart on? There’s another woman whose neck I’d like to wring⁠—that of an old charwoman, who, if she’d told the truth when Gretorex was first arrested, might have made all the difference, for there would still have been time, then, to find out something.”

“Has that poor, pretty woman had a chance of saying anything for herself?” asked his wife slowly.

“That artful little Jezebel is staying with a woman friend in the country at present, and the police are determined that everything is to be OK this time. It’s for hell she’s making⁠—” and he laughed a jolly laugh. “Ivy’s held all the cards in her hand up to now, but she’s going to lose the rubber.”

“I do wonder, Joe, what her motive can have been⁠—her husband had just got a good job, hadn’t he?”

For a few moments the speaker remained silent, then he said in a singular voice:

“If Gretorex had hanged this morning, I’d have betted a hundred to one that within a year we should have seen, in all the papers, a paragraph announcing that the beautiful Mrs. Lexton, whose husband had died in such tragic circumstances, was about to be married very quietly to Mr. Dash, a gentleman of great wealth and considerable position!”

Rushworth moved slightly in his seat. He felt as if, within the last few minutes, the whole world, his world, had stopped going round, and that when it began again it would be in quite a different world that he would find himself.

“Then you think it will come out, now, that Mrs. Lexton was in love with some man⁠—?”

“I don’t think anything of the kind! My view is that among the innumerable young fools who have made love to her in the past year or two, she marked down some rich man as a possible husband, were she only free. One thing we learned only the other day. This was that two or three years ago she did her best to persuade that rotter Jervis Lexton to consent to an arranged divorce. He refused, unluckily for himself, for, though he was a poor mutt, he adored his wife. She’s the sort of woman over whom men go fantee⁠—”

“It’s unlucky that you can’t put a name to the happy man, Joe! Eh, my dear?”

“Unlucky? I should think it is unlucky! Still, someone’s been supplying pretty Ivy with plenty of money during the last few weeks.”

“It’s strange she wasn’t suspected.”

“Of course she was! But not by the right people. My word, Eileen, she is a clever little woman! You should have seen her in the witness-box! Why, butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. But she overplayed her part. I think a good many people found it difficult to believe that she’s been what she made herself out to be⁠—a kind of plaster saint.”

“Is there any evidence to show that she was not that?” asked Lady Molloy quietly.

“There you go! Hate to believe anything of a certain sort about a woman! You’re a regular suffragette. A cold-blooded poisoner, yes⁠—but naughty? Oh dear no, not that, if you please.”

Half to himself, he added, “She wrote Gretorex two letters the poor chap’s servant got out of his paper-basket and pieced together. The minute I’d read ’em I knew there’d be a reprieve!”

“Why?”

“Because Eddie Law is a highly moral man. He loathes the sins he’s not inclined to.” Sir Joseph added candidly, “Most of us do, me dear.”

As Rushworth walked down the gangway at Dover two or three of his fellow-passengers nudged one another and smiled. They thought he was “a sheet in the wind,” for he did not seem to know quite what he was doing, or where he was going.

The moment Mr. Oram received the wire informing him that the execution of Roger Gretorex had been postponed, he hurried back to London, full of surprise and curiosity.

What an amazing⁠—he almost felt it to be, even now, an unbelievable⁠—story, was that told him with deferential clearness and dryness by Alfred Finch.

“God bless my soul!” he repeated at intervals.

And then at last, with some magnanimity, he observed, “Then you were right, Finch, and I wrong, all along. Though I thought her a vain little fribble, murder is the last thing I’d have suspected that young woman capable of.”

“I didn’t suspect her either, sir. I was looking for a man⁠—the successor to Dr. Gretorex in the lady’s affections. The police believe they’re on the track of what may be styled Mrs. Lexton’s motive. It’s a man, right enough! Orpington wouldn’t tell me his name. He simply said he was very rich, and seemingly infatuated with her.”

He gave the old solicitor a rather odd look. But that gentleman did not take up the challenge, though all Rushworth’s cables, both to Ivy and to the lawyer himself, had been traced. And Mr. Oram had just become aware of the fact.

“Well⁠—well⁠—well⁠—”

“I suggest, sir, that you appeal to Sir Edward Law to consider the release of Dr. Gretorex on licence. The letter which he wrote to Mrs. Lexton⁠—you have a copy of it here⁠—which someone, I suspect one of the maids at the flat, sent anonymously to the Home Secretary, though one can’t exactly call it evidence, makes it clear to any impartial mind that our man was absolutely innocent of the whole business. As soon as she got busy, Mrs. Lexton wanted him out of the way. That’s as plain as a pikestaff. After all, he is a doctor, and he might have spoilt her game. Also he must have known, if he stopped to think a bit, that she had had access to the poison.”

“More fool he to go to the flat on that last day,” said Mr. Oram crustily.

It was that fact which, as soon as he had learnt it, had seemed to fix the guilt definitely on Gretorex.

“He was dotty about her! When a chap’s in that peculiar condition, sir, it’s as if he can’t keep away,” murmured Mr. Finch.

And then, it might have seemed irrelevantly, he observed: “Mr. Rushworth will be back in London in a day or two. Earlier, if he travels overland from Marseilles.”

But even Alfred Finch felt a thrill of surprise when that same afternoon he was told that Mr. Rushworth was closeted with Mr. Oram. Indeed, he made a quick mental calculation. Either this must mean that their important client had come to Mr. Oram’s office straight from Victoria Station, or that he had flown from Paris.

Mr. Finch would have given a good deal to have been present at the interview which was taking place within a few yards of where he was working on a tiresome right-of-way case.

Mr. Oram’s head clerk had never much liked Miles Rushworth, and he could not help smiling to himself, as he considered the very awkward position in which that gentleman would find himself, if he was called as a witness for the Crown, as he most certainly would be if Mrs. Lexton were ever put on trial for the murder of her husband.

Alfred Finch knew that something of a most incriminating nature had been found in Ivy’s bedroom, when the flat in Duke of Kent Mansion had been searched yesterday. He thought it probable that this consisted of a series of letters between Mrs. Lexton and Miles Rushworth. Even a man of huge wealth does not give something for nothing to an attractive woman.

Lawyers are apt to overlook the exception which proves the rule in life.

Had Mr. Finch been able to look through a blank wall, he would have seen Mr. Oram sitting at his writing-table, and looking across it straight at Miles Rushworth. And could he have heard what was being said, he would have realised that his employer was speaking in a tone that was, for him, oddly hesitant and uneasy.

“I’m sorry to say, Rushworth, that I’ve no doubt at all but that there’s been a terrible miscarriage of justice. I take it that you knew comparatively little of Mrs. Jervis Lexton, even though her husband was in your employment?”

Miles Rushworth made a conscious effort to appear calm and unconcerned. But he failed in that endeavour, and was aware that he failed.

“I knew them both fairly well,” he answered at last.

Mr. Oram began playing with a paper knife. He was wondering how much the man who sat there, with overcast face, and anxious, frowning eyes, was concerned with this horrid business.

“What’s going to be the next move, Oram? I take it that you’ve been informed?”

“Well, yes, I have been informed, though quite unofficially. The⁠—ahem! authorities are very naturally perturbed. An innocent man was very nearly hanged. It was, in fact, a matter of hours⁠—”

Should he tell this old friend and client the truth? All his life long John Oram had cultivated caution, and technically he was now bound to silence. But he made up his mind that he owed the truth to Rushworth. Even now the solicitor had no suspicion of how really close had been the relations between the woman he now believed to have been a cold-blooded murderess, and this man whom she had so completely deceived. He was aware of how carelessly generous Rushworth could be and often was.

Still, a glance at his client’s face, now filled with a painful expression of suspense and acute anxiety, showed that this matter was of great moment to him.

“Mrs. Lexton,” he said in a low voice, “is going to be arrested, I understand, this evening, or tomorrow morning. The Criminal Investigation Department of Scotland Yard are completing what they consider a very strong chain of evidence against her. I have here copies of three letters which have come into their possession. You had better glance over them, Rushworth.”

He got up and, leaning across his table, handed a number of typewritten sheets to his client.

How strange looked those burning words of love and longing, transcribed on a bad old typewriting machine! But the man now reading them could visualise Ivy’s pretty flowing handwriting, and, as he read on, he turned hot and cold.

Then he started on Gretorex’s letter; the letter acquiescing in Ivy’s decision that there should be a break between them.

“That was written,” observed the solicitor, “after Lexton’s mysterious illness was well started. I think you will agree that it is the letter of a man who was certainly unaware of what was going on?”

He waited a moment, then he added: “They’ve unluckily traced all your cables to the lady, Rushworth, as well as yours to me. I fear that you are certain to be called as leading witness for the Crown, if Mrs. Lexton is sent for trial, as seems now inevitable.”

“That would be monstrous! What is my connection with the case?” exclaimed Rushworth. “Surely I had the right to give all the help in my power to the wife of one of my own people?”

“They will call you in order to prove that Mrs. Lexton had a strong motive for wishing to get her husband out of the way,” returned Oram in a doleful tone. “I hope you refrained from writing to her? If you did, I trust she had the sense to destroy your letters.”

“It is this man Gretorex, if, as you seem to think, he is entirely innocent, who should be called, not I,” said Rushworth in a hard voice.

“Roger Gretorex will certainly refuse to give evidence against her. They’ll try to make him. But they’ll fail. He worshipped Ivy Lexton, and I fear he still loves her.”

Then the old man sighed. “It’s an awful story, Rushworth,” he observed, “however you look at it.”

The other threw the typewritten sheets of paper back on the table. He rose, and rather blindly he felt for, and found, his hat and stick.

“I must be going now,” he said shortly. “If I’m wanted, you know where to find me, Oram.”

He felt humiliated to the depths of his being. His passion for Ivy Lexton had turned to bitter hatred. Yet he knew that their fates were linked together, and that through what had been his mad infatuation for this woman, a name which was known and honoured all over the world, was not only going to become a laughingstock, but also to be smirched and befouled forever.

As he went down the fine staircase of the old house, he exclaimed wordlessly, “By God, that shall not be!”

He waited a moment in the hall, and in that moment he thought of a way out.

It was a way made possible by the fact that an unpleasant experience at the beginning of August, 1914, had taught him the value of gold. Since the Saturday which had preceded the outbreak of war, he had always kept a thousand pounds in gold, and a thousand pounds in Bank of England ten-pound notes, in the private safe of his London office.

He walked quickly to the corner of a quiet street where he had left his car, and threw the chauffeur the address.

Then he looked at his watch. If what old Oram had said was true with regard to the probable arrest of Ivy Lexton, there was just time to accomplish that which he had planned to do in what had seemed but one flashing second.

“Stop at the nearest telephone box,” he called out. And the chauffeur drew up at a tube station.

Rushworth was in the telephone box for a long time, for he had to a certain extent to speak in parables. But the young man whom he had called up, and had had the good fortune to find at home, at last understood exactly what was wanted of him. He was an airman to whom Rushworth had once been magnificently generous.

“Right-ho!” came the young voice down the line. “I’ll be quite ready. I understand you want me to take my wife, too, and that you’ll motor her down here from town. Her passport’s always OK. You can trust me. Afraid? Not much!”

Rushworth’s face looked strained and white as he came out of the telephone box.

He was well aware that he was inciting that lad to do, from pure gratitude, a very wrong thing. Well? If it “didn’t come off,” he, Rushworth, would take all the blame, of course. But he felt pretty sure that the plan he had made would succeed, for it had the two essential qualities which spell success. His plan was bold and his plan was simple.

True, he wondered uncomfortably if the police had traced that last wire of his from Paris. He was glad indeed that Ivy had had the wit to telegraph her country address. And then, as he evoked her lovely face, her beckoning eyes, his own darkened, and filled with wrath and pain.

He did not go himself into his London office. Instead he sent in his chauffeur, with the key of his private safe, and armed with minute instructions as to what he was to take out of it.

Then, when the man had brought him the heavy little canvas bag, and the envelope containing a hundred ten-pound notes, he threw him the address of some lodgings in a quiet street off Piccadilly, where he knew Lady Dale and her daughter were staying just now. His sister had made him promise that he would see Bella the moment he reached London, and he was fulfilling that promise.

When he was told that her ladyship was out, but that Miss Dale was in, and alone, he suddenly felt as if his luck was holding, after all!

Ivy had insisted on coming back to London before luncheon.

Not only was her mind now full of vague, unsubstantial fears, but she was aware that Miles Rushworth would call at her flat some time this evening. That, indeed, was a fact to which she clung and constantly returned with a feeling of reassurance and hope. Even so she had not allowed Lady Flora to telephone the fact that she was returning unexpectedly to the flat. She felt, somehow, that she wanted no one to know about her movements just now. She was beginning to feel that most terrifying of sensations⁠—that of being hunted.

Even when settled comfortably, and alone, in a first-class carriage of the train taking her to town, she found she could not rest, and she actually got up and began moving about.

It was such an awful sensation⁠—that of feeling that human hounds might be hot on her scent.⁠ ⁠…

She had bought her favourite picture paper at the station, and then she had had a shock, for a large photograph of Roger had confronted her on the front page.

Underneath the picture ran a long paragraph, stating that Dr. Gretorex, who was to have been hanged this morning for the murder of Jervis Lexton, had had his execution postponed on the very eve of its being carried out. Such a thing had not taken place in England for close on eighty years. But important new evidence had been placed before the Home Secretary at the eleventh hour.⁠ ⁠…

“New Evidence”⁠—Ivy turned those two ominous words over and over again, in her troubled, anxious mind. They now forced her to do what she had believed she would never, never have to do⁠—live over again, in imagination, a certain fortnight of her life, the first fortnight of last November.⁠ ⁠…

She found herself imagining, suspecting, wild, crazy things. For instance, the existence of minute peepholes in the ceilings of certain rooms in the flat? Even that seemed more likely than that Roger Gretorex should have “given her away” with regard to the fact that she had been once left alone by him with a jar of arsenic on the table of his surgery.

Besides, even if he had done such a cruel, despicable thing, what he had it in his power to reveal proved nothing, and could prove nothing. She knew herself to have been not only very clever, but also very very careful.

And yet, as the train sped nearer and nearer to London, she became more and more afraid.

The old cook was quite pleased to see “the missus,” and volubly she described the visit of Inspector Orpington and of his sergeant.

“No, they didn’t find nothing. How could they⁠—when there was nothing there?”

This Ivy believed to be nothing but the truth, and yet the fact that the two men from Scotland Yard had come to search the flat, filled her with a terrible foreboding.

And then, suddenly, she remembered Mrs. Huntley! With a sensation of sick fear she recalled how Gretorex’s servant had surprised her on what she now perceived to have been the most dangerous day of her life.

Vile, wicked, cruel old woman! However, she, Ivy, had already replaced the cap on the jar labelled “Arsenic” when Mrs. Huntley had crept into the surgery so slyly and softly behind her. But the jar had been there, on the table before her, and no doubt the old fox had noticed it.

Yes! It was probably some sort of gossip traced to Gretorex’s day-servant which had been the cause both of the reprieve, and of the presence yesterday of the Scotland Yard inspector here, in the flat. But, thank God, there was nothing⁠—nothing⁠—nothing that could be found, and for the best of reasons, that there was nothing to find.

Even so, all this was very frightening, as well as very annoying, if only because it meant new trouble and worry, just at a time when she, Ivy, would be wanting to pick up the old, and create the new, links, between herself and Rushworth.

She went into her bedroom feeling a little reassured. It is always better to know the worst, and Ivy Lexton thought she did know the worst now. And it was not so bad as she had feared.

Already she was mentally preparing the tale she would tell. And it ran somewhat like this: She had gone just for a moment to see Gretorex on the evening Mrs. Huntley had seen her in the surgery, with a message from Jervis, who was waiting for her hard by Ferry Place in a taxi. They two were on their way to a dance, and Jervis had suggested that Gretorex should come with them. But the fact had made so little impression on her mind that she had forgotten all about it, when asked if she had ever been to Ferry Place alone. If Mrs. Huntley mentioned the supper, she would simply deny that she had been the lady entertained by Gretorex. Mrs. Huntley had not actually seen her with her host. She had only seen her for that moment or two in the surgery.

But, even so, Ivy’s nerves were so far upset that she made an involuntary and violent movement of recoil, when she heard a sudden loud knock on the front door of the flat.

There followed a moment of delay, and then she heard the cook waddling down the passage. She told herself that it was probably Inspector Orpington, and she mentally prepared her story, the explanation, that is, of that unfortunate encounter with Mrs. Huntley.

And then her heart leapt with joy in her bosom, for, “Is Mrs. Lexton at home?” was uttered in Miles Rushworth’s voice.

“I don’t know that Mrs. Lexton can see you, sir.”

“I think she’ll see me. Will you kindly say Mr. Rushworth has called to see her?”

Ivy heard him go into the drawing-room, and, after a few moments spent before her dressing-table in making up her face, she followed him.

Miles Rushworth was standing in the centre of the room, and when the door opened, and Ivy came through it, she looked so innocent and so appealing, as she advanced towards him in her plain black dress, that suddenly he felt as if all that had happened today had been only an evil dream. Almost he held out his arms.

And then he took a step backwards, for alas! he knew all that had happened today was no dream, but stark reality.

In silence she held out her hand, and perforce he took it in his, for a moment.

“I felt so sad, even in the midst of my own troubles, when I heard about your sister,” she murmured.

“Don’t speak of her!” he exclaimed violently. And involuntarily she shrank back.

She had put down that terrible, stern, sorrow-laden expression on his face to grief for his sister. But all at once she saw that he was gazing at her with an alien look⁠—the look of a stern judge⁠—on his sunburnt face.

What had he heard? What did he know? As she met that awful, accusing shaft of contempt, and yes, of loathing, a sensation of icy despair began slowly to envelop her.

“Do you remember Bella Dale?” he asked suddenly.

She answered in a faltering voice, “The girl on the yacht? Of course I do.”

“She was my sister’s dearest friend,” his voice sank. More strongly he said, “I went to see her this morning, and⁠—and now we are engaged.”

And then he could not but admire her, for Ivy threw back her head, and in a hard, clear tone she exclaimed:

“I wish you joy, Mr. Rushworth! Also I do want to thank you from the bottom of my heart, for all you have done for me.”

She knew now why he looked “like that.” He was ashamed, and well he might be.

Quickly she told herself that he wasn’t married yet. The fact that he was so moved showed the power she had over him. It had been foolish of her to suppose, as she had done for a moment, that he had heard something to her disadvantage⁠—why, there hadn’t been time!

But what was this he was saying?

“I’m the bearer of bad news, Mrs. Lexton.”

His voice had become almost inaudible. She moved, timorously, a little nearer to him.

“Bad news?” she echoed uncertainly, and once more terror filled her burdened, fluttering heart.

“You are to be arrested tomorrow morning on the charge of having caused the death of your husband by poison. The police claim to possess ample evidence to ensure a conviction; so you are in frightful danger.”

Arrested? In one fleeting moment she saw herself a prisoner in the dock where Roger Gretorex had stood. She visualised the Judge, the jury, the lawyers in the well of the Court, even the pitiless crowd of sightseers. The lifting of the black cap on to the Judge’s wig⁠—his awful words of admonition⁠—the condemned cell⁠ ⁠… the gallows.⁠ ⁠…

She who now had always fainted so easily, why did she not faint now? Because she was tasting the bitterness of death.

Yet she made no sign, though she was staring at Rushworth with dilated eyes. But for those large, terror-filled eyes, he would have thought that she had not understood the purport of his awful revelation of what now awaited her. And something like a spasm of pity shook him to the depths of his being.

“I think, nay, I’m sure, I can save you,” he exclaimed confidently.

Then he went on, speaking in low, quick tones: “I’ve arranged with a friend of mine who has got an aeroplane⁠—you remember Jack Quirk, on the yacht?⁠—to take you by air now, at once, today, to Spain. You will travel as his wife, on her passport. I’ve brought you a thousand pounds in gold, and another thousand in notes. From Spain you ought to be able to get a passage to South America without too much trouble. Quirk will arrange it all for you, and he will give you an address, where, if in need of help, you can write to me, once you are safe, far, far away.”

His voice broke. He was remembering a moment⁠—an immortal moment⁠—in their joint lives, when Ivy had certainly loved him, in her fashion.

He saw her lips, which were quivering under the dab of lipstick rouge, try to form the words, “Thank you.”

“I’m afraid there’s no time to be lost. We’d better not be seen leaving the flat together. I’ll say goodbye to you in the hall, and you’d better follow in about five minutes. My car is in Palace Row. Don’t bring anything with you. The front door may be watched, but I think not, as you are believed to be in the country.”