CHAPTER XXXV

At about half past seven Miles managed to get on to Ian Gilmore. Ian, as usual, was dining out. He listened to what Miles had to say, and was extremely discouraging.

“My dear man, if you go to the police, they’ll think you’re batty. You’ll probably hear from her in the morning. You say yourself that you’ve been urging her to leave. Now she’s done it, and you’ve got the wind up. It sounds a bit unreasonable to me.”

It sounded unreasonable to Miles himself, but that didn’t make any difference. The hot, stuffy telephone-box in the hotel was full of his unreasoning, unreasonable fear. He said in a hard, strained voice,

“She knew I was coming to fetch her away.”

Ian at the other end of the line sounded rather impatient. “You’ve just told me you went at half past two, and you were sent away because she was with the old lady. Well, after that she wouldn’t know whether you were coming back or not. She probably flared up, had words with them, and walked out of the house.”

This, of course, was a perfectly reasonable explanation; Miles’ brain told him so. But it wasn’t his brain which was in charge just now. He was afraid for Kay, and fear had nothing in common with reason.

“Sleep on it,” said Ian Gilmore and rang off.

Miles came out of the telephone-box. He would wait a little longer, and then he would go round to Varley Street again. He might be able to find out where the taxi had come from. Mrs Green would probably know. He was a fool not to have asked her. The prospect of having something to do made him feel better. Waiting for news is of all things in the world the most damnable. Well, he would wait till half past eight, but not a minute longer. Meanwhile he was probably all the sorts of fool that Ian Gilmore was thinking him.

Flossie Palmer slipped out to the post that evening about nine o’clock. It was Gladys’ afternoon and evening out, but you could always go round to the post. Ernie might be hanging around on the chance of her slipping out. It wasn’t very likely because of the row they’d had, but if they hadn’t had a row, he’d have been there sure enough, walking up and down and waiting for her to slip out for half an hour. Flossie hoped passionately that he was going to be there, because now that it was all over and she wasn’t an heiress, she was going to enjoy herself letting Ernie Bowden know exactly what she thought about him and his trampling ways. She’d got it all mapped out. First she was going to tell him that she wasn’t Miss Macintyre, and then when he tried to make it up with her, she’d just show him. Ernie Bowden was going to learn a thing or two about the way a young lady that was a young lady expected him to treat her. She looked forward to this a good deal. And then, when Ernie was properly humble and crushed, perhaps she’d think about making it up with him.

She got down to the pillar-box and walked past it round the corner. When she had gone a little way, she heard a footstep following her. Her heart beat a little faster, but she wasn’t going to look round. Ernie needn’t think she was looking out for him. Oh no—she was going to be ever so surprised when he came up with her.

The footstep came nearer. Insensibly her pace slackened a little. And then, in the darkest place between the lamp at the corner and the lamp at Western Terrace, the step came up beside her and a perfectly strange man’s voice spoke her name.

“Miss Palmer—”

Flossie was so startled that she hadn’t anything to say. She had made sure that it was Ernie who was following her. She could have cried with disappointment. And then all of a sudden she was afraid. There wasn’t a soul about, and it was very dark. She turned round to go back to the corner, and a hand took her by the arm.

Flossie caught her breath.

“Look here, let go, or I shall scream!” And as she said it, she wondered whether anyone would hear her because there were two empty houses just here and then the long blank side of the corner house.

The man said, “I shouldn’t do that. I only want a word with you.”

He stopped, and she had to stop too. She couldn’t see his face. She couldn’t see anything except a dark figure. She thought he had a muffler about his neck, and a hat with a turned-down brim. His voice had no ring in it. It was just a whisper.

She said, “What do you want?” and had so little breath to say it with that she felt quite sure she could never scream loud enough for anyone to hear.

“Listen to me,” said the whispering voice. “You’ve just missed getting into serious trouble.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t you—Miss Flossie Palmer Ivy Hodge?”

Flossie felt a stab of terror.

“Ooh! It’s Them!”

She must have made some uncontrollable movement, because he laughed a little. There is something horrid about a whispering laugh.

“So now you know what we’re talking about,” said the man. “And what I want to know is, why did you do it?”

Flossie was frightened, but she had her wits about her. She thought there was no harm in pretending to be even more frightened than she was.

“Ooh! What do you mean?”

“Why did you call yourself Ivy Hodge?”

“To oblige Ivy.”

“But why did you run away?”

“Oh, I dunno—I come over queer. Must have been a bad dream or something. P’raps it was a ghost.”

Her arm was shaken a little.

“A bad dream, was it? And how many people have you told this dream to?”

Flossie burst into tears.

“Ooh—I never! Do you think I want people to think I’m batty. Why, if I was to say I see someone staring at me out of a looking-glass, they’d be bound to think I was batty—wouldn’t they?”

“I should think so,” said the man. “Was that what you thought you saw?”

“I come over queer,” said Flossie. “I’m not batty—honest I’m not. I come over queer and I run away.”

There was a pause. Was he going to believe her or wasn’t he? And if he didn’t believe her, what was going to happen next? A cold shudder ran all over Flossie from her head to her feet. Then the hand on her arm relaxed its grasp. It didn’t let go altogether, but it held her less tightly. The man said,

“I certainly shouldn’t talk about it if I were you. You wouldn’t like to be put away in a lunatic asylum, would you? It might happen if you talked—or you might find yourself in the river or under a car some dark night. No, you’d better not talk.”

“Ooh—I won’t!” said Flossie with heartfelt terror. And with that a car turned out of Western Terrace and she pulled her arm away and ran for it into the light of the corner lamp, and round the corner and up Merriton Street to No. 12.