CHAPTER XVIII.

While the interrogation of the gardener’s boy was proceeding at the police station, with results of such doubtful utility to the patient bloodhounds of the law, a conversation was going on at Bywater Grange which those persistent gentlemen would have been glad to hear.

It took place in Lady Denton’s room, with Gerard walking distractedly from door to window, and his sister-in-law, who may have seen less reason to disturb her mind, more comfortably stretched on a couch which had been upholstered with the primary purpose of supplying an effective background for her own fair and intelligent head.

“You’ve brought it all on yourself,” she said, without over much sympathy in her tone, “and it’s no use fussing now. I told you at the time it was an absolutely crazy thing to have done, but it was half an hour too late then for sense to do any good.”

“How could I tell…?”

“You couldn’t. That was just it. When you’re not sure what to do, it’s mostly best to do nothing, and let other people make the mistakes.”

“And suppose I do nothing now?”

“Well, you might do worse. They can’t force you to go there, and when they bother you next, you can say that you thought it over, and decided to say nothing more.”

“But I’ve signed a statement that they know now isn’t right.”

“No, they don’t. It’s just Tommy’s word against yours. And he’s told one lie already.”

“Yes. And they know why.”

“That’s your own silliness, as it’s no use saying again. But I don’t see that you’ve got so much reason to fuss. You heard what Tommy said in the drive, and you’ll tell them the same tale, and what good will that be to them?”

“Yes, if they don’t get him to say something else.”

“Why should he? Don’t be a fool! And, if he did, he could change again, and what use would he be then?”

Gerard made no reply to this. He walked restlessly up and down, with an occasional “Damn the boy!” or other ejaculation of an unhelpful character. He glanced restlessly at the clock about once a minute, and it moved in the unemotional mechanical way that clocks will at the crises of life, until Lady Denton, who had been watching him in a very serious and considering manner, asked: “I suppose you’ve made up your mind to go?”

“Yes,” he said. “You ought to see that I’ve got to go.”

He knew in his heart that he would have to go, be it foolish or wise. He lacked the courage to stay away. But he had a better reason than that. He knew that Adelaide had been wrong when she had said that it was only Tommy’s word against his. Had he not admitted to the police, in those first agitated moments, that he had given Tommy the money to lie? And wasn’t that an admission that his own statement, having agreed with Tommy’s, must have been false? He couldn’t remember what he had said as clearly as he would have liked to do, but he knew he had admitted that, and he didn’t see now how he could have done any differently. He must have admitted some reason for giving Tommy the money. But it was no use telling Adelaide about that. She would only sneer at him again.

In any case, he knew that he would be bound to go. The same nervous anxiety to be aware of the worst would be a substitute for courage to take him there, as it had led him to follow the officers when they had questioned Tommy that afternoon.

“Well,” Lady Denton was saying, “if you’ve made up your mind to go, I’ll give you one piece of advice. If you want the trouble to end here, you’ll tell them the truth now.”

“Tell the truth?” he exclaimed, as though in utter surprise or bewilderment at this advice. He stared at her with astonished eyes.

“I mean, tell them about the row.”

“I don’t see the need for that. I don’t suppose Tommy heard.”

“Neither do I. Gerard, haven’t you got any sense at all? Isn’t it the reason why you got frightened, and gave him the pound? They don’t know that you don’t think that Tommy heard everything that was said.”

After this, he walked up and down in more agitation than before. The advice seemed mad. And yet he wasn’t quite sure it was wrong. He had a great respect for Lady Denton’s ability, and he saw that she moved through the present trouble more serenely than he, though it had brought suspicion to both their doors. Was it because, if she did not exactly tell all the truth, she had practised a strict economy in the lies she used?

In any case, it would be the simplest way. Gerard Denton was well aware that there is less mental exertion required in supplying a truthful narrative than in sustaining a weak-founded lie. And even if you are telling something less than the whole—even something very much less—a leaven of fact gratuitously supplied, and especially fact which might seem adverse to himself, and could have been learnt from no other source…yes, Adelaide might be right, as she often was.

He glanced irresolutely at the clock again, and went to the cloakroom to prepare for the ordeal which his own folly had brought down on his most inadequate head.