“Oh! I suppose it was a crime of jealousy. Don’t you think so? One
sees such scenes in the pictures.”
“I don’t know,” she replied very seriously. “I’d like to see the
murderer arrested. Poor girl! If I were in her place, I’d hunt the
devil down to the bitter end. Why should he shoot her lover in cold
blood--go up and kill him without warning? The poor man had no chance
of self-defence. It was done by some young bounder about town--some
lounge-lizard or good-looking dancing-partner, perhaps.”
“Possibly,” I agreed, thankful that the suspicions of the good-looking
young business girl had not been aroused by the description of myself
which was being everywhere circulated.
“See you this evening,” she said gaily when she rose. “I’ll be in at
about a quarter-past six, and we’ll feed together--if you’re
agreeable. It’ll break the monotony of eating alone.”
“I’ll be delighted,” I replied, rising and bowing.
A moment later she had gone.
She struck me as a frank, outspoken girl of the usual City type, who
carried her luncheon sandwiches in her little leather dispatch-case,
together with her purse, lip-stick, and puff, and who, no doubt, could
hop on or off a bus with that quick agility in which the London girl
excels. I was glad to have her as companion, and yet, as the hours
dragged on, I constantly feared that my description might yet cause
her suspicion. In her speech there was just a slight trace of a
foreign accent, and I wondered if she were English, for Lisely was
certainly not an English name. Not daring to venture forth by daylight
I got Mrs. Bowyer to bring me in a _Times_ when she went out to “do
her errands,” and, after my lonely chop, I made pretence of writing
all the afternoon. As a matter of fact, I copied out one of the
leading articles in the paper, and left it about to convince her, when
I went out, that I really was a journalist.
I had been in hiding for twenty-four hours, and already it seemed an
eternity.
Would my continued absence arouse the anxiety of friends? If so, they
must certainly identify me with the fugitive. What would Joan think in
such a case? What would my own family think? I now realized that,
because of my sudden fear of scandal, I had acted most foolishly in
escaping. Was not my action practically tantamount to an admission of
guilt?