ROBIN GOES TO MARY
The house telephone, standing on the long and gracefully designed desk
with its elaborately lacquered top, whirred. Mary started from her
reverie in her chair by the fire. By the clock on the mantelshelf she
saw that it was a quarter past eight. She remembered that once her
mother had knocked at her door and bidden her come down to dinner. She
had refused the invitation, declining to unlock the door.
She lifted the receiver.
“That you, Mary?”
Robin was speaking.
“May I come up and see you? Or would you rather be left alone?”
His firm, pleasant voice greatly comforted her. Only then she realized
how greatly she craved sympathy. But the recollection of Bude’s story
suddenly interposed itself like a barrier between them.
“Yes, come up,” she said, “I want to speak to you!”
Her voice was dispirited,
“I don’t want to see him,” she told herself as she replaced the
receiver, got up, and unlocked the door, “but I must _know_!”
A gentle tap came at the door. Robin came in quickly and crossed to
where she stood by the fire.
“My dear!” he said and put out his two hands.
Her hands were behind her back, the fingers nervously intertwining. She
kept them there and made no sign that she had observed his gesture.
He looked at her in surprise.
“This has been terrible for you, Mary,” he said. “I wish to God I could
make you realize how very, very much I feel for you in what you must be
going through....”
The phrase was formal and he brought it out irresolutely, chilled as he
was by her reception. She was looking at him dispassionately, her
forehead a little puckered, her eyes a trifle hard.
“Won’t you sit down,” she said. “There is something I wanted to say!”
He was looking at her now in a puzzled fashion. With rather feigned
deliberation he chose a chair and sat down facing the fire. A lamp on
the mantelpiece—the only light in the room—threw its rays on his face.
His chin was set rather more squarely than his wont and his eyes were
shining.
“Mary,”—he leant forward towards her,—“please forget what I said this
afternoon. It was beastly of me, but I hardly knew what I was
doing....”
She made a little gesture as if to wave his apology aside. Then, with
her hands clasped in front of her, scanning the nails, she asked,
almost casually:
“What did you say to Hartley Parrish in the library this afternoon?”
Robin stared at her in amazement.
“But I was not in the library!” he answered.
The girl dropped her hands sharply to her side.
“Don’t quibble with me, Robin,” she said. “What did you say to Hartley
Parrish after you left me this afternoon in the billiard-room?”
He was still staring at her, but now there was a deep furrow between
his brows. He was breathing rather hard.
“I did not speak to Parrish at all after I left you.”
His answer was curt and incisive.
“Do you mean to tell me,” Mary said, “that, after you left me and went
down the corridor towards the library, you neither went in to Hartley
nor spoke to him!”
“I do!”
“Then how do you account for the fact that, almost immediately after
you had crossed Bude in the hall, he heard the sound of voices in the
library?”
Robin Greve stood up abruptly.
“Bude, you say, makes this statement?”
“Certainly!”
“To whom, may I ask?”
He spoke sharply and there was a challenging ring in his voice. It
nettled the girl.
“Only to me,” she said quickly, and added: “You needn’t think he has
told the police!”
Very deliberately Robin plucked his handkerchief from his sleeve, wiped
his lips, and replaced it. The girl saw that his hands were trembling.
“Why do you say that to me?” he demanded rather fiercely.
Mary Trevert shrugged her shoulders.
“This afternoon,” she said, “when I told you of my engagement to
Hartley, you began by abusing him to me, you rushed from the room
making straight for the library where we all know that Hartley was
working, and a few minutes after Bude hears voices raised in anger
proceeding from there. The next thing we know is that Hartley has ...”
She broke off and looked away.
“Mary,”—Robin’s voice was grave, and he had mastered all signs of
irritation,—“you and I have known one another all our lives. You ought
to know me well enough by now to understand that I don’t tell you lies.
When I say I haven’t seen or spoken to Hartley Parrish since lunch this
afternoon, that is the truth!”
“How can it be the truth?” the girl insisted. “Horace and Dr. Romain
were both in the lounge-hall, Bude was in the hall, the other
menservants were in the servants’ hall. You are the only man in the
house not accounted for, and a minute before Bude heard these voices
you go down the corridor towards the library. I can understand you
wanting to keep it from the police, but why do you want to deceive
_me_?”
“Mary,” answered the young man sternly, “I know you’re upset, but
that’s no justification for persisting in this stupid charge against
me. I tell you I never saw Parrish or spoke to him, either, between
lunch and when I saw him lying dead in the library. I am not going to
repeat the denial. But you may as well understand now that I am not in
the habit of allowing my friends to doubt my word!”
Mary flamed up at his tone.
“If you are my friend,” she cried, “why can’t you trust me? Why should
I find this out from Bude? Why should I be humiliated by hearing from
the butler that he kept this evidence from the police in order to
please me because you and I are friends? I am only trying to help you,
to shield you ...”
“That will do, Mary,” he said. “No, you must hear what I have to say.
If you insist on disbelieving me, you must. But I don’t want you to
help me. I don’t want you to shield me. I shall make it my business to
see that Bude’s evidence is brought before the detective inspector from
Scotland Yard who is being brought down here to handle the case ...”
“A detective from Scotland Yard?” the girl repeated.
“Yes, a detective. Humphries is puzzled by several points about this
case and has asked for assistance from London. He is right. Neither the
circumstances of Parrish’s death nor the motive of his act are clear.
Bude’s evidence is sufficient proof that somebody did gain access to
the library this afternoon. In that case....”
“Yes....”
“In that case,” said Greve slowly, “it may not be suicide....”
Mary put one hand suddenly to her face as women do when they are
frightened. She shrank back.
“You mean....”
He nodded.
“Murder!”
The girl gave a little gasp. Then she stretched out her hand and
touched his arm.
“But, Robin,” she spoke in quick gasps,—“you can’t give the police this
evidence of Bude’s. Don’t you see it incriminates _you?_ Don’t you
realize that every scrap of evidence points to you as being the man
that visited Mr. Parrish in the library this afternoon? You’re a
lawyer, Robin. You understand these things. Don’t you see what I mean?”
He nodded curtly.
“Perfectly,” he replied coldly.
“Bude will do what I tell him,” the girl hurried on. “There is no need
for the police to know....”
“On the contrary,” said the other imperturbably, “it is essential they
should be told at once.”
The girl grasped the lapels of his coat in her two hands. Her breath
came quickly and she trembled all over.
“Are you mad, Robin?” she cried. “Who could have wanted to kill poor
Hartley? Why should you put these ideas into the heads of the police?
Bude may have imagined everything. Now, you’ll be sensible, promise
me....”
Very gently he detached the two slim hands that held his coat. His
mouth was set in a firm line.
“We are going to sift this thing to the bottom, Mary,” he said, “no
matter what are the consequences. You owe it to Parrish and you owe it
to me....”
The telephone trilled suddenly.
Robin picked up the receiver,
“Yes, Bude,” he said.
There was a moment’s silence in the room broken as the clock on the
mantelpiece chimed nine times. Then Robin said into the telephone:
“Right! Tell him I’ll be down immediately!”
He put down the receiver and turned to Mary.
“A detective inspector has arrived from London. He is asking to see me.
I must go downstairs.”
Mary, her elbows on the mantelpiece, was staring into the fire. At the
sound of his voice she swung round quickly.
“Robin!” she cried.
But she spoke too late.
Robin Greve had left the room.