Francis Ledsam, alert, well-satisfied with himself and the world, the
echo of a little buzz of congratulations still in his ears, paused on
the steps of the modern Temple of Justice to light a cigarette before
calling for a taxi to take him to his club. Visions of a whisky and
soda--his throat was a little parched--and a rubber of easy-going bridge
at his favourite table, were already before his eyes. A woman who had
followed him from the Court touched him on the shoulder.
“Can I speak to you for a moment, Mr. Ledsam?”
The barrister frowned slightly as he swung around to confront his
questioner. It was such a familiar form of address.
“What do you want?” he asked, a little curtly.
“A few minutes' conversation with you,” was the calm reply. “The matter
is important.”
The woman's tone and manner, notwithstanding her plain, inconspicuous
clothes, commanded attention. Francis Ledsam was a little puzzled. Small
things meant much to him in life, and he had been looking forward almost
with the zest of a schoolboy to that hour of relaxation at his club.
He was impatient of even a brief delay, a sentiment which he tried to
express in his response.
“What do you want to speak to me about?” he repeated bluntly. “I shall
be in my rooms in the Temple to-morrow morning, any time after eleven.”
“It is necessary for me to speak to you now,” she insisted. “There is a
tea-shop across the way. Please accompany me there.”
Ledsam, a little surprised at the coolness of her request, subjected his
accoster to a closer scrutiny. As he did so, his irritation diminished.
He shrugged his shoulders slightly.
“If you really have business with me,” he said, “I will give you a few
minutes.”
They crossed the street together, the woman self-possessed, negative,
wholly without the embarrassment of one performing an unusual action.
Her companion felt the awakening of curiosity. Zealously though she had,
to all appearance, endeavoured to conceal the fact, she was without a
doubt personable. Her voice and manner lacked nothing of refinement. Yet
her attraction to Francis Ledsam, who, although a perfectly normal human
being, was no seeker after promiscuous adventures, did not lie in these
externals. As a barrister whose success at the criminal bar had been
phenomenal, he had attained to a certain knowledge of human nature. He
was able, at any rate, to realise that this woman was no imposter. He
knew that she had vital things to say.
They passed into the tea-shop and found an empty corner. Ledsam hung up
his hat and gave an order. The woman slowly began to remove her gloves.
When she pushed back her veil, her vis-a-vis received almost a shock.
She was quite as good-looking as he had imagined, but she was far
younger--she was indeed little more than a girl. Her eyes were of a deep
shade of hazel brown, her eyebrows were delicately marked, her features
and poise admirable. Yet her skin was entirely colourless. She was as
pale as one whose eyes have been closed in death. Her lips, although
in no way highly coloured, were like streaks of scarlet blossom upon
a marble image. The contrast between her appearance and that of her
companion was curiously marked. Francis Ledsam conformed in no way to
the accepted physical type of his profession. He was over six feet in
height, broad-shouldered and powerfully made. His features were cast in
a large mould, he was of fair, almost sandy complexion, even his mouth
was more humourous than incisive. His eyes alone, grey and exceedingly
magnetic, suggested the gifts which without a doubt lay behind his
massive forehead.
“I am anxious to avoid any possible mistake,” she began. “Your name is
Francis Ledsam?”
“It is,” he admitted.
“You are the very successful criminal barrister,” she continued, “who
has just been paid an extravagant fee to defend Oliver Hilditch.”
“I might take exception to the term 'extravagant',” Ledsam observed
drily. “Otherwise, your information appears to be singularly correct.
I do not know whether you have heard the verdict. If not, you may be
interested to know that I succeeded in obtaining the man's acquittal.”
“I know that you did,” the woman replied. “I was in the Court when the
verdict was brought in. It has since occurred to me that I should like
you to understand exactly what you have done, the responsibility you
have incurred.”
Ledsam raised his eyebrows.
“Responsibility?” he repeated. “What I have done is simple enough. I
have earned a very large fee and won my case.”
“You have secured the acquittal of Oliver Hilditch,” she persisted.
“He is by this time a free man. Now I am going to speak to you of that
responsibility. I am going to tell you a little about the man who owes
his freedom to your eloquence.”
It was exactly twenty minutes after their entrance into the teashop when
the woman finished her monologue. She began to draw on her gloves again.
Before them were two untasted cups of tea and an untouched plate of
bread and butter. From a corner of the room the waitress was watching
them curiously.
“Good God!” Francis Ledsam exclaimed at last, suddenly realising his
whereabouts. “Do you mean to affirm solemnly that what you have been
telling me is the truth?”
The woman continued to button her gloves. “It is the truth,” she said.
Ledsam sat up and looked around him. He was a little dazed. He had
almost the feeling of a man recovering from the influence of some
anaesthetic. Before his eyes were still passing visions of terrible
deeds, of naked, ugly passion, of man's unscrupulous savagery. During
those few minutes he had been transported to New York and Paris, London
and Rome. Crimes had been spoken of which made the murder for which
Oliver Hilditch had just been tried seem like a trifling indiscretion.
Hard though his mentality, sternly matter-of-fact as was his outlook,
he was still unable to fully believe in himself, his surroundings, or
in this woman who had just dropped a veil over her ashen cheeks. Reason
persisted in asserting itself.
“But if you knew all this,” he demanded, “why on earth didn't you come
forward and give evidence?”
“Because,” she answered calmly, as she rose to her feet, “my evidence
would not have been admissible. I am Oliver Hilditch's wife.”