“Where have you come from?” he enquired.
“Winchester,” the man groaned. “Rain in my carburettor, only three cylinders working, and pretty well wet through.”
“You’d better get round to the back, through the courtyard gates there,” the butler directed. “See Mr. Heggs, my second. He’ll look after you.”
The taximan scented hospitality, and his face relaxed. He jumped into the driving seat of his wheezy vehicle and hobbled off. Parkins now found himself face to face with a puzzle.
“Her ladyship is at home,” he admitted. “You’d better come this way and give me your name.”
He led the woman to a pleasant sitting room, with a warm fire burning in the grate—a room hung with sporting prints, furnished with many easy-chairs and having a general air of comfort. It was here that he was wont to entertain superior tradespeople, farmers and others, who called to see the steward. The woman crept shuddering to the fire. For the second of October, it was a cruel day.
“Her ladyship’s always been very kind to me,” she said, looking at Parkins. “Why, you’ve let me in | yourself once at Glenlitten House in Curzon Street. She’ll see me—I’m sure she’ll see me. My name’s Drayton—Mrs. Drayton.”
Parkins looked at her with mute sympathy. The rain had played havoc with her cheap clothes; her hair was standing out in straight wisps under her soaked hat, her shoes were pitifully thin.
“I had to walk about in Winchester for some time,” she explained, “before I could get anything to bring me. There was no train, and I had to come.”
“I’ll let her ladyship know that you’re here,” he promised. “May I send you a glass of port?”
“It’s a Christian household this—’ the woman declared, with a little gulp. “Don’t make it too small, sir, and a biscuit if you can. I left London at six this morning. They told me my husband was going dotty. Not a thing has passed my lips yet to-day.”
The butler himself arranged a little tray, which he sent by an underling, before he made his way in search of Annette. He found that cheerful young lady in a sewing room on the first floor, with her feet up and reading a novel.
“Mademoiselle,” he said sternly, “pas permis.” Annette crushed her cigarette into a saucer.
“Mr. Parkins,” she enjoined, “we will remain friends so long as you do not attempt to speak French with me. Why are you disturbing me at my work?”
“Disturbing you fiddlesticks!” was the emphatic retort. “Supposed to be sewing, aren’t you?”
“That,” Annette assured him, smiling sweetly, “is a matter entirely between her ladyship and myself.” Mr. Parkins relaxed. After all, she was the young lady of the household with whom he preferred to foxtrot in the evening, and to have on his righthand side at dinner time.
“It’s that woman, Mrs. Drayton,” he told her. “The burglar’s wife, you know. She’s come up from Winchester—from the jail, I expect—to see her ladyship. Terrible state she’s in too—half wet through, and come all the way in a mouldy taxi. Don’t see what we can do for her, I’m sure, but so long as she’s here, will you see if her ladyship will receive her, or if I am to send her away.”
Annette swung round and held out her very pretty hands.
“Help me, please,” she begged. “I am tired this morning.”
“Her ladyship went to bed early enough,” Parkins reminded her, having duly lingered over his pleasant task.
“Yes, but I was playing bridge in the housekeeper’s room,” Annette yawned. “You had the gentleman to entertain, and very unsociable you were.”
“I cannot stand Mrs. Anderson’s bridge,” Parkins confided solemnly. “I’m used to an intelligent game myself and I prefer a hand or two at poker, when Mrs. Anderson chooses to play. However, that doesn’t matter. Another evening I shall fetch you myself. Kindly deliver my message to her ladyship. I will wait for you here.”
Annette looked at the various garments lying around.
“I am not at all sure, Mr. Parkins,” she hesitated, “that this is a fit place for you. I am filling in a little spare time by making some garments for myself.”
The butler sat stolidly down, with his eyes upon a mass of pink-coloured material.
“Don’t hurry,” he enjoined. “The young person downstairs is taking a glass of port.”
Annette returned in a few minutes. She sat upon the table and swung a very shapely leg back and forth.
“Well?” she asked. “What do you suppose the answer is?”
“Knowing her ladyship’s infallible good nature,” Parkins predicted, “I should say that she has decided to hear what the young woman has to say.”
“What sagacity!” Annette exclaimed. “You are always right, Mr. Parkins. You make no mistakes. I have turned on the water for her ladyship’s bath. In half an hour, Mr. Parkins, and please leave this room at once. I can see already that you have been too curious. I declare that I shall blush when I wear any of these things in your presence. In half an hour I shall ring her ladyship’s bell, and you can bring the person up to the Empire sitting room.”
Mr. Parkins rose to his feet.
“Your orders shall be obeyed, Mademoiselle,” he said. “In the meanwhile—”
But Annette was already at the door. She turned and threw him a kiss.
“The bath fill, so quickly,” she called out, as he tried to detain her. . . .
In less than half an hour the bell sounded, and Mrs. Drayton, having partaken of bacon and eggs, rolls and butter, and three glasses of port, was ushered upstairs. Notwithstanding the fact that she was a very different woman from the one who had arrived, there was something in her expression which remained unchanged. She was a woman who had looked into the face of terror and carried its spell still with her.
“So you have found me out down here,” Félice said kindly, as she waved her visitor to a seat. “Well, what news is there now, Mrs. Drayton?”
“You know, my lady,” the woman answered. “You know what they are saying. They declare that they have found the revolver here with which the French gentleman was shot, that they have found it close to where Max parked his car, and that there are initials scratched upon it. It’s a lie—a lie, my lady. Max never owned a gun. There has never been one in the house.”
Félice nodded in troubled fashion.
“I remember all that you told me before, Mrs. Drayton,” she said. “I was astonished, but there the revolver was in the bottom of a laurel shrub, just the distance a man could throw it from the car. I have seen it myself.”
“Listen, my lady,” the woman went on. “They telephoned me last night. The warder let Max have a local evening paper. It was against the rules, and I expect now he’ll get the sack, but he did it. Max read in it that the revolver had been found that afternoon, and the paper seemed to take it for granted that it was his. He was took ill, collapsed, as they call it, on the spot. My Max isn’t a killing man, my lady. The very sight of blood makes him ill. He can’t stay on and see a fight. Then when he saw this he knew for certain that some one was laying for him. There’s some one trying to drag him to the gallows. That’s a sure thing. And Max—he’s afraid!”
“I am very, very sorry,” Félice assured her. “You know what I did promise you, and you may be very, very certain that I shall keep my word. But, alas, just now what more can I do?”
“You