“Giles-you’ll be careful, won’t you? You won’t do anything silly? You won’t-”

He turned on the threshold.

“If she gets what she deserves, I shall probably wring her neck!” he said, and banged the door.

CHAPTER 16

Carola Roland opened the door of No. 8. When she saw Giles her eyes lighted up and her lips smiled. Pleasure and amusement coursed through her. She had been bored, bored, bored. Here was entertainment. She had an old score to pay, and here was Giles delivered into her hands for payment. She said in her best Mayfair manner,

“How very nice of you! Do come in.”

Giles’ response lacked polish. He was plainly an angry man. He stalked into the sitting-room, and then turned to confront her.

“Miss Roland?”

The enormous blue eyes widened.

“Oh, no.”

“I understand that you are making some preposterous claim.”

The scarlet lips smiled widely.

“There’s nothing preposterous about it. You know as well as I do that I am Mrs. Armitage.”

Giles stood and stared at her. She wore a long white dress, with a string of pearls about an admirably white neck. The bright hair rose above her forehead in a high wave and then fell curling about her neck. She had a perfect figure, a fine skin, and eyes which reminded him of the nursery and his cousin Barbara’s favourite baby doll-that wide cool gaze, the size, the darkened lashes. As far as he could remember he had never seen her before. She was to his every sense strange and unknown. He could not believe in any contact, any relationship between them.

And then his eyes went past her and he saw his photograph upon the mantelpiece with the signature black across the corner.

It was a plain-clothes photograph, head and shoulders, done just before the war. He remembered having it done-a cold day with a wind, and he had met Barbara afterwards and taken her out to lunch. She was going out to join her husband in Palestine and frightfully pleased about it. He could remember all this, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember a single thing about Carola Roland who said she was Carola Armitage.

He went over to the hearth, picked the photograph up, and turned it over. Bare, blank cardboard. He set it down again.

Carola’s laugh met him as he turned.

“Giles, darling-how unbelieving! And what a rotten memory you’ve got! Not very flattering, are you?”

The anger in his eyes delighted her.

“Are you claiming to be my wife?”

“Giles-darling!”

“Because if you are, you must prove it. When were we married-and where-and who were the witnesses?”

She arched her brows. The blue eyes opened a little wider. The likeness to Barbara’s doll was intensified.

“Let me see-it was in March-March 17th 1940-just eighteen months ago. And we were married in a register office, and it’s no use your asking me which one, because you took me there in a taxi and I wasn’t noticing about addresses-neither of us was. And the witnesses were the clerk and a man he brought in from the street. I’m sure I haven’t any idea what their names were.”

“Where’s the marriage certificate?”

“Darling, I don’t carry it about with me. You see, it wasn’t a great success, so we agreed to wash it out-only of course you were going to make me an allowance.”

Giles laughed angrily.

“Oh, I was, was I? Now we’re getting somewhere! I think you told Miss Underwood that you had a letter of mine. Perhaps you’ll let me see it.”

Her lids dropped a little, the darkened lashes came down, the blue eyes narrowed.

“Well, I don’t know, darling-you’re pretty strong, and you’re in a horrible temper. If I show it to you, will you promise not to snatch?”

“I’m not trying to suppress evidence-I’m trying to get at the truth. I say you’re bluffing, and I’m calling your bluff.”

Carola burst out laughing.

“All right, darling, here we go! I’ll hold the letter up like I did for your Meade Underwood, and you shall see for yourself. Only no touching, no snatching-word of honour and all that sort of thing.”

“I don’t want to touch anything-I want to see for myself. You say you’ve got a letter of mine-well, show it to me!”

“Swear you won’t touch-you haven’t sworn.”

Giles drove his hands deep into his pockets.

“And I’m not going to. I’ve told you I don’t want to touch the thing. If that isn’t enough for you, I’m walking out. If you’ve got anything to show me, get on with it!”

“Always the gentleman-aren’t you, darling? Really, you know, it’s almost as good as a certificate. People aren’t as rude as that except in the family circle.”

Something opened and shut in Giles’ mind. It opened, and then it shut again-like a door. There wasn’t time to see what lay behind the door.

Carola was coming towards him with the letter in her hand.

“Well, here it is, and you can see for yourself. And then perhaps you’ll apologise, darling. Keep your hands in your pockets, and then you won’t be tempted to do anything you shouldn’t with them. There’s nothing like keeping out of temptation’s way, is there? Here you are!”

She held up the sheet of paper just as she had held it up in front of Meade. He saw his own writing running across it on an upward slant. The pen had driven furiously. Here and there it had grazed the paper. He had been angry when he had driven his pen like that. His eyes went down the sheet and read what Meade had read. They came upon his own name. “I will allow you four hundred a year provided you will undertake to stop using the name of Armitage. If I find that you are breaking this condition I shall have no hesitation in cutting off supplies. You have, as you say, a perfect legal right to the name. It’s a good name, but I hardly think it is worth four hundred a year to you. And that, my dear Carola, is my last word.” That he had written these words, he could not have the slightest doubt. They confronted him, black and authentic, in what was certainly his own handwriting. He had written them. And it was quite incredible that he should have written them. He had offered Carola Roland four hundred a year to stop using his name.

He turned his eyes from the evidence of his own words and saw, as Meade had seen, Carola’s hand holding the letter up for him to read, the long fingers with their scarlet nails, and the diamond ring with its one bright shining stone. His face changed so suddenly that she stepped back, folding the letter and pushing it down the front of her dress.

Giles’ hands came out of his pockets. He made a step forward.

“Where did you get that ring?”

So that was it. How very amusing. The whole thing was going with a bang. First-class entertainment from start to finish. And had she been bored! She smiled a wide, decorative smile and held out the hand with the diamond on it.

“This ring?”

“Yes. Where did you get it?”

“Why, darling, you gave it to me of course. Fancy forgetting that!”

His mother’s ring-on Carola Roland’s hand. The shock struck hard against every sense which declared her a stranger. It was the ring which he had intended to give to Meade. But it had been given already-to Carola Roland-to a stranger. You do not give your mother’s ring to a stranger. You give it only when you give your name as well. He said in a stiff, strained voice,

“May I look at it? I’ll give it back again. I want to be sure.”

Without any hesitation at all she slipped it off and put it into his hand.

Half turning from her, he held it up for the light to strike upon the inner circle. If it was his mother’s ring her initials would be there, and a date-the date of her engagement to his father. It was her engagement ring. The light struck on a faint M. B. and a date too worn to read. M. B. for Mary Ballantyne. And the date should be June 1910. It was the hardest thing in the world to give back Mary Armitage’s ring to the hand with the scarlet nails. When he had done it he knew that he could do no more. The thing was beyond him. His words, the ring, declared this woman his wife. Heart and flesh denied her. Every instinct slammed the door against the evidence. If there was a marriage, she must prove it. He said so.