The letter was post-marked Guildford, and dated the previous day. It ran:
“DEAR MISS ACKLAND,—If Adrian Somervell still means anything to you, doubtless you will welcome any slight assistance towards clearing him. Mind, I promise nothing; but if you will play fair and not give me away I will do what I can. I am running great risk to see you at all, even in trusting you not to let this letter pass into other hands. If you care to take advantage of my offer, I shall be at the bookstall at Holborn Station to-morrow evening at eight sharp, wearing a brown coat and hat, and carrying a copy of Home and Beauty. Don’t speak to me; buy a ticket to Finsbury Park, and follow till I stop. Pin a white gardenia to your coat so I shall know you.
“Yours faithfully,
“ELSIE K. DILWORTH.”
Diana’s heart beat suffocatingly. At first, no glimmer of understanding reached her, and then, in a blinding flash, she comprehended, as Blanche Ackland herself must have done. Elsie had been labouring under the delusion that Blanche was the girl Adrian was engaged to marry! If Adrian had mentioned no name—and he was hardly likely to, in his anxiety to cut short that repulsive scene at the hospital—then the error was natural enough. Diana knew that all autumn Bobbie Ackland had been constantly ringing Adrian up. How she had learned about her rival was a mystery. She had behaved most decently—not that one could pause now to think of gratitude, or even to weigh the precise meaning of this letter. To-morrow evening! It meant this evening. Eight sharp? Seven-thirty was striking—and there were miles to be covered.
Frantically Diana jammed on her hat, found an artificial gardenia, and tearing it from its spray stabbed it with a pin to her grey lambskin coat. She thought of Bream. He ought to be told, though she must make him promise not to interfere and spoil things. She dialled his number, found him out, and left word for him to ring her when he returned. Then, her brain whirling, she ran from the house and fell into a taxi.
In spite of maddening traffic-jams it lacked two minutes to eight when she alighted at the Kingsway entrance to the Holborn Station. No one stood near the bookstall. She took her ticket from a slot machine, and wandered back to pore over the magazines, keeping a weather eye out for women in brown clothing. Men and women bustled by, two girls bought evening papers, but still no sign of Elsie. The clock-hands jerked forward to five past. Maybe in place of a heaven-sent lifeline, that letter was a joke. Some mischief-maker . . . but who knowing Elsie Dilworth’s handwriting was likely to do so wanton and pointless a thing? No, if Elsie failed to turn up, it must mean that on sober reflection she had seen the impossibility of helping Adrian without ruining herself. . . .
“Home and Beauty, please.”
The words made her jump. Minutes ago, she had glanced at a stooped, gaunt, bespectacled female of uncertain age, and dismissed her as out of the question. Her coat and battered headgear were certainly brown, but her hair, black, streaked with grey, and cut short as a man’s! Still, she had asked for a copy of Home and Beauty, and she had it now, tucked under her lean arm as, without a flicker in Diana’s direction, she hurried determinedly for the moving stairs. Diana darted after her, was held up by the punching of her ticket, and set foot on the down-gliding flight to see her quarry near the bottom with numerous fellow-travellers between.
Was it Elsie? In a train full of strap-hangers she tried hard to get a better view of the woman’s face, but out-spread newspapers screened her vision. So far she had detected scarcely a hint of resemblance, and only the gay magazine deterred her from getting out at the first stop and going back.
Finsbury Park. A wholesale exodus, and again a near thing to keep in sight of the bent, brown form before it melted into the jostling crowd. At street-level it boarded a tram, Diana scrambling into a seat six rows behind.
Southward—or eastward—they jolted, and now, when the black hair became visible, it was possible to see it was dyed. Maybe the grey streaks were powder. With this idea Diana hoped again, but the woman, even when she got out, kept her face turned away, never looking round to see if she was followed. Down one dark turning and up another the two wayfarers moved rapidly, till the neighbourhood grew familiar. They were approaching the bottleneck of Floyd’s Square, marked by the bright bake-shop on the corner. It was Elsie—and an Elsie unaware that her former refuge was now unsafe.
Across the mangy laurels Diana saw her go straight to No. 17, and disappear. No, there she was again, coming up the area-way. Now she was opening the door. Would it be left open after she had gone inside? Open it was when Diana reached it—just a mere crack; and at this sure confirmation came a qualm of fear. So easily might this be a trap; yet she walked into the stuffy darkness, and hesitating saw a light flare up at the head of the cramped stairs. Up she went, on the left saw the plain bed-sitting-room Bream had described, and in the centre of it, under an electric bulb, a figure no longer stooping, but upright, tense, expectant.
Elsie—but how changed! Small wonder she had escaped identification. But what had happened now? The face behind the disfiguring spectacles had grown ominously rigid. With a swift gesture Elsie tore off spectacles and hat, stared, gaped and goggled at her visitor with every sign of stupefaction.
“You?” she mouthed huskily. “You—?”
Diana grasped it. Elsie had expected Blanche Ackland. Those dark lenses must have blinded her.
“You were wrong.” Diana spoke collectedly. “I’m engaged to Dr. Somervell—not Miss Ackland. She brought your letter to me. What have you got to tell me?”
Speechless, Elsie backed away from her. She moistened her lips and a furtive gleam crept into her red-rimmed eyes. Clearly she was staggered; and it darted into Diana’s mind that this had been no attempt to help, but something quite opposite. Elsie had meant to lure her rival here to commit violence on her person. It would not take her long to transfer her hatred to another object; but thinking this, Diana remained cool. If she was at Elsie’s mercy, so, in a way, was Elsie at hers.
“Miss Lake!” The ex-secretary rubbed lean fingers over her throat, still staring as though hypnotised. “Your mother,” she muttered, and then, brusquely: “Where are you living now?” she demanded.
“Why pretend?” retorted Diana. “You know where I’m living. You went there the night I arrived—and you took three letters out of my bag. I was watching you from Mr. Blundell’s door. But you sent for me. Why?”
The effect of her words was curious. Elsie gulped, made a farther retreat, and after more glances partly frightened, partly inattentive, went to the hearth and touched a match to the gas fire. She crouched low, warming her hands. Then, as if some deferred message had reached her brain, she jerked irritably over her shoulder: “Letters? Nonsense! I’ve touched nothing of yours—and it wasn’t you I sent for, so you can go away. I’ve nothing to say—not really. I must have been dotty.”
Diana stood her ground.
“You did have something to say. You’re only upset because I’m not the girl you expected. Please go on. I’m waiting.”
Elsie rocked her body, moaning strangely. With the baffled feeling of talking to deaf ears, Diana persisted, in veiled language trying to convey her meaning.
“You’ve made a hideous muddle, haven’t you? You’re suffering torments now—and you know there’ll be no peace for you till you’ve told the truth. Do let’s make a beginning. Was it the will you witnessed that made you bring this charge against Adrian?”
To her horror, Elsie began to laugh. Spasmodic, hysterical laughter it was, chilling her blood. Suddenly, the raucous cackles ceased. Elsie got up and came to the other side of the gate-legged table, on which stood a typewriter. From her menacing expression Diana realised fully, as she had not done before, how she was alone in this house with a creature who had killed and might kill again; and still, somehow, she felt no fear.
“Who knows you’ve met me? Don’t lie! Whom have you told?”
“No one. I swear it. If that’s your reason—”
“No one?” The eyes narrowed with cunning distrust. “If you expect anything from me, I’ve got to make sure.”
“I’m not lying. Do believe me.”
Elsie wavered, searching her face. Then she shook her head.
“No! I’ve made one bloomer. That’s enough. I tell you, I don’t know why I wrote that letter. How can I prove Adrian Somervell’s not guilty? Maybe he is.”
“You know he’s innocent,” said Diana, iron-hard. “I shan’t leave this room till you’ve given me your statement.”
“My statement!” The laughter started anew and changed to a sob. “And who’ll believe me? The very best I can do is to keep out of sight. Put the police on to me, or . . . oh, God, the awfulness, either way! Why am I such a despicable coward?”
The woollen scarf muffling her throat had slipped. With a shudder, Diana saw a gash, freshly-healed, straight across the windpipe—a horrible sight.
“Coward or not,” said Diana more gently, “can you stand by and see a man hanged for a crime he didn’t commit? Oh, please listen!”—for Elsie had begun a distracted ramble about the room. “Will your life be worth living if that happens?”
Elsie turned on her fiercely.
“Get this into your mind!” she lashed out. “It’s one thing to dread what may happen, quite another when you know it will happen and nothing you can do will stop it. If I speak, I’m done for. Now, will you go?”
“And Adrian? Is his life less valuable than yours?”
“Be quiet! Let me think. . . .”
Diana held her breath. Elsie went to the window, lifted the cheap cretonne curtain, and peered furtively out. When she turned, her face was an enigma.
“I’ll risk it,” she said quietly. “But not here. The woman I’m staying with may be home any minute. We’ll walk, and I’ll tell you my part in this—for what it’s worth. That’s my proposal. You can take it or leave it. Understand?”
Brisk, business-like, she adjusted her hat and spectacles, tightened her scarf. The alteration of mood was so astonishing that Diana’s suspicions flared again.
“Hurry! I may change my mind, you know.” A rough hand pushed Diana towards the door. “The passage light’s broken. I’ll turn this one off when you’re down. Oh, so you don’t trust me! That’s funny, that is. . . . Oh, well, then, I’ll go first.”
Out went the light, and in inky darkness Diana heard a grim laugh as her companion passed her on the narrow stairs. The door below opened, letting in cold air. Diana moved with Elsie outside; but Elsie was muttering about the gas fire.
“Not be a second,” she said, “I’d better put it off.” She turned back—and Diana received a violent shove which sent her slithering into the street. Behind her the door banged.
So it had been a trick, after all!