That Heldon Foyle had come so closely on the heels of Grell's message
was something of a shock to Eileen. She had not supposed that the
detectives would be so quickly again on the trail. Her heart beat a
little quicker, but her face gave no sign as she drew off her gloves
while the footman told her of the superintendent's call at six.
When she was alone she sat with her long, slender hands gripping the
arms of her chair, her grey eyes reflecting the light of the fire as she
stared abstractedly into its depths. That she had done her utmost to
help Grell escape she did not regret; she rather triumphed in the fact.
Foyle could know nothing of that--at the worst he could only suspect.
Her precautions had been too complete. She was confident that she and
Grell were the only two people who knew of the day's happenings. In any
case, she argued to herself, it was better to see Foyle. She had come to
respect his acumen, and fear he might draw an inference not too far from
the truth if she denied him an interview. Besides, she asked herself,
what had she to fear? Grell was safely away, and she could trust not to
betray herself.
At six o'clock to the minute a footman--whose wooden face gave no
indication of the fact that a moment before he had confidently informed
Foyle in a stage whisper, "She seemed pretty cheerful when she came in,
sir--been sitting all alone since"--brought her a card. Then Foyle was
ushered in--calm and unruffled as though he were merely making a social
call. She returned his bow frigidly.
"I hope you will not consider my call inconvenient, Lady Eileen," he
said suavely. "I considered it of importance that I should see you as
soon as possible."
She crossed her knees and regarded him composedly. "I am sorry I was out
when you called this morning. Had I known, I should have waited for
you."
The detective admired the manner in which the girl carried off a
difficult situation. She spoke quite indifferently, and yet he knew that
she was entirely on her guard. He smoothed the top of his hat with his
hand.
"Sometimes an appointment with one's bankers is a thing one can't put
off," he said blandly.
A tiny spot of colour burned in each of her cheeks and she flashed one
quick look at the detective. This was an attack in flank which she had
not expected. "My bankers?" she lied instantly, "I have not been to my
bankers'."
"I beg your pardon," he said, his voice keyed to a curious inflection.
"I was under the impression that you had--that, in fact, you changed a
cheque for £200 made payable to bearer."
She tried to hide a new feeling of alarm under a smile. "Well, and if I
did?" she challenged. "That is, of course, my private business, Mr.
Foyle. You surely haven't come to cross-examine me on my habits of
personal extravagance?"
"Partly," he countered. "Shall we be plain with one another?"
She rose and stood with one arm resting on the mantelpiece, looking down
on him. "By all means let us be plain. I am only a girl and I cannot
altogether follow the subtleties of your work."
"We are not such dreadful people really," he smiled. "We try to do
unpleasant work as little unpleasantly as possible. As you say, you are
only a girl, and although perhaps uncommonly clever, you are--if you
will pardon me--a little apt to let your impulses outreach your reason.
More than once I have tried to advise you as I would my own daughter.
Well, now, here is some more advice--for what it is worth. Tell me
exactly what you did between the time you went out this morning and the
time you came in--whom you saw and where you went. Will you do that?"
The tick of a small clock on the mantelpiece was loud. Eileen
contemplated the tips of her boots with interest. Then a little ripple
of laughter shook her. "You are a dreadfully suspicious man. If it
interests you, then, you can have it. I went to the bank, and from there
took a cab to my dressmaker's, where I paid a bill and was fitted for a
new gown. I went on and did some shopping at various places. Shall I
write out an exact account for you?"
If it had been the detective's design to entrap her into a series of
falsehoods he might easily have done so. But there was no object in
pursuing that course. He met her ingenuous gaze with a little lift of
his shoulders. "This is mere foolishness, Lady Eileen. I want to give
you the opportunity of stating frankly what occurred from the moment you
got Robert Grell's letter this morning. You know this story of the
dressmaker would fall to pieces the instant we started making inquiries
to verify it."
"So I'm on my defence, then?" she said abruptly. He nodded and watched
closely the changing expression of her features. "I have done nothing
that gives you any right to question me," she went on defiantly. "And I
am not going to submit to any more questions. Good morning. Can you find
your own way out?"
She caught at her skirt with one hand and with her chin tilted high in
the air would have withdrawn haughtily from the room. She was afraid
that his shrewd, persistent questioning and persuasion might end in
eliciting from her more unguarded admissions. He had reached the door
before her, however, and stood leaning with his back against it and his
legs crossed and his arms folded. She stopped sharply and he divined her
intention.
"I shouldn't touch the bell if I were you," he said peremptorily. "It
will be better for both of us if I say what I have got to say alone."
The decision in his tone stopped her as her hand was half-way to the
bell-push. She paused irresolute, and at last her hand dropped at her
side. Foyle moved to her, laid a gentle hand on her shoulder and half
forced her to a seat. After all, with all her beauty and her wits she
was but a wayward child. Her eyes questioned him and her lips quivered a
little.
"Now," he said sternly. "Tell me if your father signed the cheque you
cashed, or whether you put his signature to it yourself?"
Her lips moved dumbly and the room seemed to quiver around her. Finely
as she had held herself in control hitherto, she was now thoroughly
unnerved. She covered her face with her hands, and her frail figure
shook with dry sobs. Foyle waited patiently for the outburst to pass.
Suddenly she sprang to her feet and faced him with clenched hands.
"Yes, I did sign it," she blazed. "My father was out, and I wanted the
money at once. He will not mind--he would have given it to me had he
been here."
He checked her with a deprecating movement of his hand. "Don't excite
yourself, please," he said soothingly. "I felt bound to let you see
there was a serious reason why I should press you to give an account of
your movements to-day. Sit down quietly for a moment."
He waited patiently while she resumed her seat. He had foreseen that
while she was on her guard he was unlikely either by threats or coaxing
to induce her to speak. The hint of forgery had been deliberately
intended to throw her off her balance. She could not know that her
blotting-pad had betrayed that and more. Nor could she know that without
the evidence of her father and the bank officials--neither of which was
likely to be willingly given in the circumstances--she was not amenable
to a criminal charge. "Will you tell me now why you were so anxious to
obtain that money--why you could not wait for an hour or two until your
father returned? Don't hurry yourself. Think. Remember that I shall be
able to check what you say."
"I--I----" She choked and gulped as if swallowing something.
"Will it help you if I tell you that two of the notes which were given
in exchange for the cheque were changed at a tailor's shop at Kingston,
where a rough-looking man bought an overcoat and a suit of clothes?"
"You--know--that?" she gasped, the words coming slowly one by one from
her lips. The accuracy of his knowledge, and the swiftness with which it
must have been gained both astonished and astounded her.
"I know that," he repeated. "And I know more. I know, for instance, that
Mr. Grell went to Sir Ralph Fairfield before applying to you. Did he
tell you that?" He waited, but she made no answer. "I know too that he
has left London. You know where he is making for. Where is it?"
Slowly she shook her head. "I can't tell you," she cried vehemently.
"You cannot force me to. He is an innocent man. You know he is. You can
expose me--tell all the world that I have been guilty of forgery if you
like--you will not get me to lift a finger to hound him to his death."
Foyle had failed. He knew it was of little use pushing the matter
further. He picked up his hat and gloves and mechanically passed a hand
over his forehead. But there was one thing that had to be done before he
left. "I will not trouble you any further now," he said in a level
voice. "I may take it you will tell your father of the--the banking
episode. That will relieve me of a rather painful task."
"I will tell him," she said dully.
"Then good evening, Lady Eileen."
"Good evening."
The superintendent drew on his gloves as he passed out of the street
door. "She knows her own mind, that girl," he said to himself. "She
won't give away a thing. Either she's very much in love with him,
or----"
He rounded the corner into Berkeley Street.