The taxi drew up at the gate of Manor Court and we got out.
The driver looked at us with interest.
"Just in time, I was," he observed; "they'd 'ave 'ad you in another
minit."
Bruce handed him half a sovereign.
"Thank ye, sir," he said, "thank ye." Then he paused. "I knows wot
them suffrinjettes wants," he added, "and if I 'ad my way I'd give it
'em."
With this dark saying he slipped in his clutch and left us.
Side by side we walked up the gravelled drive and stepped in through
the main entrance.
Cynthia's flat is on the ground floor on the right-hand side, the one
with the green door and the copper knocker. Bruce laid his hand on
the latter, and then hesitated.
"Go on," I said bitterly. "Think what we've been through."
His face hardened and he gave two sharp rattats.
A minute's pause, a sound of footsteps, and then the door swung open.
A pretty, dark girl in the dress of a parlourmaid was standing before
us.
Bruce cleared his throat.
"Is Miss West at home?" he asked huskily.
She looked at him curiously for a moment without replying, then
suddenly she said: "Yes, sir," and stepped back from the door.
We followed her into the hall, laying our hats and sticks on the
table inside. Bruce's hands were shaking like leaves.
Without looking at us the girl led the way down the passage and
opened a door on the left-hand side.
"Will you please come in here, sir?" she said gently.
Bruce, who was about two paces ahead of me, stepped in first. In a
flash the girl had followed him, slamming the door in my face with a
bang that echoed through the flat.
I pulled up short, and as I did so there came a stifled cry from
Bruce:
"Help, help, Bridges, help!"
Flinging open the door again, I rushed in. As far as I could see,
Bruce and the housemaid were engaged in a rather strenuous waltz.
They were swaying down the room wreathed in each other's arms,
splendidly regardless of the furniture. Even as I entered, they
fetched up against the end of the sofa, and collapsed into a tangled
heap.
At that instant something heavy struck me violently in the back and
sent me reeling against the wall. A big woman in a print dress, her
arms covered with flour, and a rolling-pin in her hand, brushed
violently past me. In two strides she reached the sofa, and, seizing
hold of the dark girl, began to drag her away from Bruce. If the
latter's collar had not given way he would certainly have been
choked. As it was, the stud broke just in the nick of time.
The two women reached the floor together with a loud thud, the
rolling-pin clattering away across the room. Next moment, collarless
and dishevelled, Bruce was leaping for the door.
I followed him, grabbing the handle, and slamming it behind me. As
luck would have it, there was a lock outside; and while Bruce
snatched up his hat and fumbled with the front door, I turned the key
with a savage force that broke it off short in my hand. Then, like
two drunken men, we fell rather than staggered out into the main hall.
Fortunately, there was no one about. Panting and exhausted, we
leaned against the foot of the lift, while Bruce, by turning up his
collar and brushing his coat with one hand, made a feeble attempt to
regain some semblance of respectability.
We were interrupted by the crunch of footsteps on the drive outside.
"Look out," I whispered hastily; "here's someone coming."
Bruce straightened himself just as a burly porter in uniform swung in
through the doorway. He evidently recognized us as friends of
Cynthia, for he saluted with a friendly but respectful smile.
"Good-day, gen'lemen," he remarked. "I'm afraid Miss West ain't in
town. Gone to Reigate, so I understand. P'rhaps you've seen the
parlourmaid?"