Lois Reddle was in no mood to return to Chester Square; but she was
less willing to break faith with the woman whom she was beginning to
dislike, and debated the question, she and Lizzy, on the Charlotte
Street doorstep.
“Let’s stay,” urged Lizzy. “At any rate, don’t let’s go back yet. We
shan’t see anything of Selwyn. Besides, remember what Mike said.”
“What Mike said means nothing to me--if by ‘Mike’ you mean Michael
Dorn,” said Lois quietly. “We must go back, Lizzy--I’ve promised.”
Lizzy groaned.
“Oh, these honourable people--you make my head ache! Well, don’t let’s
go back yet,” she urged. “The old lady said you could stay out to do
a theatre. What’s the hurry?”
Again Lois hesitated.
“No, we’ll go back now,” she said firmly.
She looked across the road. An idler was standing with his back to the
railings and she knew at once that it was not Dorn. No sooner had they
moved towards Oxford Street than the lounger was galvanised to life
and followed at a slow pace on their trail. Once Lois looked back; the
man was following them.
“Let us turn round to the right,” she said. “I’m almost sure we are
being followed.”
“We will keep to the main street,” said the intelligent Lizzy. “I
prefer being followed that way.”
They reached Oxford Street, and crossed the road, the shadow coming
after them at a respectful distance.
“Try Regent Street,” said Lizzy, “and when we get a little way down
we’ll cross the road and come back on the other side. Then we’ll be
sure.”
The movements of the man, when this manœuvre was completed, left no
doubt. He, too, crossed the road and came back with them, and, when
they boarded a westward bound ’bus, Lois saw him call a cab, which
kept behind them all the way.
“If I thought it was Mike, I’d go back and give him a bit of my mind,”
said Lizzy.
“It’s not he,” Lois assured her. “Mr. Dorn is not so tall and he’s
smarter looking.”
They got out of the ’bus near Victoria, and, as they hurried across
the road, Lois saw that the cab had stopped and the man was getting
out. Surely enough, by the time they had plunged into silent
Belgravia, he was on their heels. He never attempted to overtake them,
showed not the slightest inclination to be any nearer to them than he
was. If they dawdled, he slackened his pace; when they hurried, his
stride lengthened. Then suddenly, ahead of them, Lois saw Michael
Dorn. He stood squarely in the middle of the pavement and it was
impossible to avoid him.
“I want a word with you, Miss Reddle,” he said. “You’re not going back
to Lady Moron’s?”
“That is just what I am doing,” said Lois quietly.
“That is just what you’re not doing,” he said firmly. “Miss Reddle,
I’ve rendered you many services. I would like you to do something for
me in exchange.” He seemed momentarily at a loss for words. “And I
have a personal interest. I don’t suppose you like me very much, and,
anyway, that doesn’t count in the argument. But I like you.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“You can afford to be sarcastic--I do not complain of that; but I am
telling you the plain, naked truth. I like you as any decent man would
like a girl of your character and----”
“Sweetness,” suggested Lizzy, an interested audience.
“That is a very good word,” said Dorn with a faint smile. “But because
of this personal interest and--liking--I realise I’m being very lame
and unconvincing, but I’m rather a fool in my dealings with women--I
want you to go back to Charlotte Street.”
Lois shook her head.
“I quite understand that you are disinterested,” she said.
“I’m not,” he interrupted. “I’m too interested in you to be
disinterested.”
“Well, in spite of that, or because of that, I am staying with Lady
Moron to-night. To-morrow we are leaving, Miss Smith and I, and are
returning to Charlotte Street.”
“You are returning to Charlotte Street to-night,” he said, almost
harshly, and she stiffened.
“What do you mean?” she demanded coldly.
“I mean just what I say. I will not have you stay in this devil house
another night. Won’t you be persuaded, Miss Reddle?” he pleaded. “You
don’t imagine for one moment that this is a caprice on my part? Or
that I have any unreasoning prejudice against Lady Moron and her son?
I beg of you not to go to that house to-night.”
“Can you give me any reason?”
He shook his head.
“You must trust me, and believe that I have a very excellent reason,
even though I can’t for the moment disclose it. That is, unless you
see some reason yourself?”
“I don’t,” she said. “There have been a number of accidents; do you
suggest Lady Moron is responsible?”
“I suggest nothing.”
“Then I’ll say good-night,” she said, and was passing on; but he
barred her way, and at that moment he must have signalled to the dark
figure in the background, for the tall man came forward.
“This is Sergeant Lighton, of the Criminal Investigation Department,”
he said, and then indicated the girl: “This is Lois Reddle. I charge
her with being concerned in the attempted murder of John Braime!”
The girl listened, thunderstruck, rooted to the spot.
“You charge me?” she said in horror. “But, Mr. Dorn----”
Michael Dorn made a signal, and the tall man caught Lois gently by the
arm. Within half an hour of the prison gate opening for her mother, a
cell door in a mundane police station closed upon her daughter.