Beating on the door and getting no response Diana felt her last uncertainty vanish, along with the hope she had been foolish enough to entertain. Never for one moment had Elsie meant to part with any information. Tormented she might be, but her one concern was shielding herself. She had very cleverly hit on a ruse to get rid of her troublesome guest, that was all.
“And I’ve let myself be taken in!” raged the girl on the doorstep. “I, who ought to have known better. Whatever plan she had in mind, she had to alter it when she set eyes on me. Why, I don’t know. Maybe because I’m no bird of passage like Bobbie Ackland. If my body were found in this house. . . . What on earth is she up to now?”
The click-click of a typewriter had reached her ears. Inside these walls the hunted woman was hard at work. Concocting some new devilry? The sounds followed Diana as she walked away, reluctant to quit the square, yet at a total loss what move to make. The tale of the landlady’s return was probably fiction. To telephone Scotland Yard meant deserting this spot, and during even a brief absence Elsie might make off. The only plan she could think of was to obtain help from one of these houses.
She tried the house next door. No one came. She hammered on the iron knocker, and after five minutes found her summons answered by an old man, deaf, or befuddled with drink, she could not tell which. The house beyond bore a “To Let” sign. The corner one produced a sleepy slavey, who eyed her with dark suspicion. There was no telephone, she said, her people were at the pictures, and after the two burglaries the square had had during the last fortnight she was taking no chances with strangers. For the third time a door was shut in Diana’s face.
The houses opposite looked slightly more prosperous. Diana was crossing towards them when a faint noise behind her brought her heart into her mouth. Turning, she was just in time to see Elsie emerge from Number Seventeen and stride rapidly in the direction of the passage at the other end of the row. She was carrying some bulky object. It was too dark to see what it was.
After her disappearing figure Diana raced at full speed. By the time she reached the passage Elsie had passed the transverse alley and taken one of the two forks which led at the lower end into separate streets. By bad luck Diana chose the wrong fork first, and when she had doubled back to try the other Elsie was gone. For five minutes she continued her search, but it was no use, she was forced to give up. The night’s adventure finished in mid-air.
From the nearest telephone booth she rang up the Yard. Inspector Headcorn was not in, so she left a message putting him in possession of the latest facts. This done she went home, consoled by one thing only, the knowledge that Elsie was alive.
She arrived to find her own telephone ringing like mad. As she expected, the voice over the wire was Bream’s. A startled exclamation greeted her first words, and following it came a volley of questions.
“So you think it was a booby-trap set for the other girl and you walked into it?”
“I’m bound to think it,” answered Diana bitterly. “I think, too, that seeing me instead of Miss Ackland took the wind out of her sails.”
“Tell me exactly what happened. Don’t miss out anything.”
Diana did so.
“And I can tell you this,” she finished, “that woman’s more frightened than she was before. Her whole manner showed it. Doesn’t that look as though I’ve been right about her all along? She’s guilty, Mr. Bream! Now I’ve seen her I haven’t a doubt of it.”
There was a non-committal grunt and a short silence.
“And so she’s done another bunk?”
“She has. I couldn’t see very well, because it was dark, and the railings were between, but she had something with her that looked like a bag.”
Another silence. Then:
“I’ll hike along up there now, just in case your Yard friend steals a march on me. I must get at that landlady. Bit of double-crossing there, I fancy.” The speaker paused, and took a subtly altered tone as he asked: “See here, whom else have you told about this?”
“No one. I’ve not had a chance.”
“Then take a tip from me and keep quiet about it. Don’t mention it till I give you leave. Understand?” She gave her promise and rang off. As she undressed she went over the puzzling events in her mind, trying to grasp their whole meaning, and wondering if she would have been wiser to take different tactics with Elsie. Vaguely she felt she had been given a valuable opportunity and muffed it, but looking back she did not see how she could have behaved otherwise. At the time, she had been banking on the remorse which, even now, she found it hard to believe was not a real, actuating force in Elsie’s conduct. The impression of having witnessed a terrible conflict was still strong upon her. She could swear that in Elsie she had seen her own wretchedness mirrored, with the addition of self-torture and personal fear. Why else had Elsie called herself a coward?
It was perhaps an hour after her return that she heard a car stop below and the house doors open and close. Blundell was back from the public dinner he had been attending. At once she felt impelled to go down and tell him of her experiences, but with one foot out of bed she remembered Bream’s injunction. Uncle Nick would have a more urgent reason than most to want Elsie cornered and cross-examined in the witness-stand. It might mean saving him a cool thousand at least in counsel’s fees if her part in this came out; but Uncle Nick by blundering in now might wreak havoc. No doubt that was Bream’s idea in cautioning her to keep quiet. Best wait till morning and see if any further development had occurred.
Very early she was wakened by sounds outside. Springing to the window she saw the big car, with Gaylord driving, and Blundell getting into it with a look of agitated purpose. Even as she speculated on the meaning of this the telephone rang, and snatching off the receiver she heard a strange male voice.
“Is that Miss Diana Lake?” it asked gruffly. “Living at Number Six, Queen’s Close, Kensington? Right! I’m speaking from King’s Cross Station. There’s a parcel waiting for you at the luggage office. It will be delivered to you in person if you come along with proper means of identification. The claim ticket’s left with the station-master. If you’ve got such a thing as a passport, better bring it with you.”
What could it mean? With trembling haste Diana got into her clothes, and not stopping for breakfast took a taxi to King’s Cross. She found the station-master, who, satisfied that she was indeed Miss Lake, handed over a slip of paper. Three minutes later she was holding a heavy, flat paper parcel tied with string and sealed with big blobs of red wax. On it was her name and address, typed, and, also typed, at the lower corner, were the underscored words: “PRIVATE. OPEN WHEN ALONE.”
Instantly, with a wild fluttering of her pulse, she knew that only Elsie could have sent her this parcel. She began to see reason in the busy click of keys which had followed her into the night and afterwards filled her restless dreams. The Ladies’ Cloak-room offered seclusion. Into it she hurried, turned her back on the attendant who was putting out clean towels, and laying her burden on the window-sill broke open the seals. Inside the wrappings was a cardboard box, on top of which lay a letter, again typed, and without signature. She tore it open and read:
“I had to get rid of you. To the other girl I might have spoken, but not to you. In the first place, you would not have believed me; in the second . . .”
Here several words were heavily inked out.
“Be that as it may, see what you can make of the enclosed, which is all I have to go on, so help me God, and whether I’m right or wrong it’s worthless in my hands. I’m out of it. I’m going now where neither you nor the police can find me to drag me back. One thing more. If you’ll be guided by me—which you won’t—you’ll show this only to the lawyers and any others who are dealing with the case.”
Without the least notion of what to expect, Diana ripped off the lid of the box, stared down, and grew limp with disappointment. Old newspapers! Nothing more. One after another she turned them over. Copies of the Evening Banner and other, mostly popular sheets, with dates running back for perhaps eight weeks, comprised the whole contents. A cursory glance showed her not one marked passage. Once again she saw herself cheated.
Yet why had the sender taken such elaborate precautions? Surely Elsie must be in earnest if she stayed her second flight long enough to perform this task? In earnest—or else mad. Insanity would account for everything. Anyhow, by now the woman was far away, lost as she knew so well how to lose herself. But for that red scar on her throat, one would say—
“But no! That’s not her intention. I simply can’t believe she’d have the courage to take her life, not after last night. She must be found. This time she shan’t escape.”
Bundling up the parcel, Diana went straight to the Temple. Michael Hull had not arrived, and when after twenty minutes he did appear she was too engrossed in her own thoughts to notice he was disturbed in his manner. In his private office she poured out her story.
“And these newspapers are all she’s given me. While I’ve waited for you I’ve studied them line by line, and if there’s anything in them I’ve not found it. What do you make of it?”
Now the odd expression in Hull’s eyes struck her. Was this pity again?
“I’m sorry you had to wait,” was the slow response. “I was detained by another item of news. Apparently you don’t know yet that during the night Number Seventeen Floyd’s Square was broken into by the police. Elsie Dilworth was found in her bedroom, which was sealed up and filled with gas. She was stone dead—by her own hand.”