“What about Margaret’s address?” said Charles quickly. If he had to wait whilst Freddy disentangled the Fennickers for a few generations or so, he would do so; but there seemed to be just a chance of escape; Archie was punching him in the ribs. “What about Margaret’s address?”

“I thought she might have stayed with me,” said Freddy. “But I don’t want you to think we quarrelled-I shouldn’t like anyone to think that.”

“Can you give me her address?”

It took Charles another ten minutes to get it, and Archie had reached groaning point before they finally got away.

They walked the short distance to the show Archie had insisted upon. The fog was still heavy. Charles found himself thinking curiously and angrily about Margaret. Where was she? What was she thinking? What was she doing? He had a furious desire to know, to break away from Archie and to walk to the address which Freddy Pelham had given him.

At intervals during the evening that desire to know what Margaret was doing swept over him again. If he could have looked into Margaret’s room, he would have seen nothing, because the room was dark. It was very dark and very cold, because there was no light and no fire.

Margaret Langton lay face downwards in front of the cold hearth; her forehead rested upon her crossed arms. The fire had gone out a long time ago. It was hours since she had moved at all, but the hot, slow tears went on soaking into the black stuff of her sleeve. Her right arm was crossed over her left arm; her forehead rested upon it. The stuff of her sleeve was quite wet through.

CHAPTER XI

Charles sat in Miss Maud Silver’s waiting-room. He was not one of those who wait patiently. Having arrived at ten o’clock, he was exasperated to find that he was not the first upon the scene; a murmur of female voices stimulated his annoyance. “Probably talking millinery,” was his embittered comment.

Then all of a sudden through the thin partition came a sharp little cry of “I can’t!” The cry had a quality which did not suggest millinery. There was a silence; and then the murmur of voices went on again.

It was almost half past ten before the inner door opened and a woman came out. She kept her head turned away and passed quickly out on to the landing.

Charles entered Miss Silver’s office with a good deal of curiosity, and found himself in a small, light room, very bare-furnished, to the first glance at any rate, by a chair, a writing-table and Miss Silver herself. The writing-table was immense, of the large old-fashioned flat kind with drawers all round it; the top was piled high with exercise-books of different colours very neatly stacked.

Miss Silver sat in front of a pad of pink blotting-paper. She was a little person with no features, no complexion, and a great deal of tidy mouse-coloured hair done in a large bun at the back of her head. She inclined her head slightly, but did not offer to shake hands.

Charles introduced himself, mentioned Archie’s name, mentioned Emmeline Foster’s name, and received no indication that Miss Silver had any recollection of either of them.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Moray?” The voice was rather a hesitating one; a quiet voice without tone.

Charles began to feel sorry he had come.

“Well-I wanted some information.”

Miss Silver picked up a brown copy-book, wrote Charles’ name at the head of a page, asked for and added his address, and then inquired what sort of information he wanted.

Charles did not mean to tell her very much-not at first anyhow. He said,

“I want information about a man who is lodging at 5 Gladys Villas, Chiswick. He’s a middle-aged man with a fresh colour. I don’t know his name. I want to know anything you can find out about him; and I most particularly want to know whether he is really deaf.”

Miss Silver wrote in the copy-book. Then she asked,

“Anything more?”

“Yes,” said Charles frowning. “I want to know something about Mr. Standing’s family affairs. You know the man I mean-he’s been in all the papers.”

“His affairs,” said Miss Silver, “are largely public property. I can tell you a good deal about them now. He was washed overboard whilst he was yachting off Majorca, and he didn’t leave any will. His immense fortune will therefore be inherited by his only child. Her name is Margot. She is just eighteen, and until a week ago was at school in Switzerland. Was that what you wanted to know?”

Charles shook his head.

“Everyone knows that. I want news from day to day of what is happening. I want to know who is in the house with the girl-what she does-who her friends are. I want to be told at once if she goes away, or if there is any sudden development in her affairs. I’m afraid it’s all rather indefinite; but I expect you can see the sort of thing I want.”

Miss Silver had been using the right-hand page of the brown copy-book; she now wrote something quickly on the left. Then she said;

“I see what you want. But you haven’t told me why you want it.”

“No.”

Miss Silver smiled suddenly. The smile had the most extraordinary effect upon her face; it was just as if an expressionless mask had been lifted and a friendly, pleasant face had looked out from behind it.

“It’s no good, Mr. Moray.”

Charles said, “I beg your pardon?”

The smile was still there.

“I can’t take your case unless you’re going to trust me. I can’t work for a client who only tells me snippets and odds and ends. ‘Trust me all in all, or not at all,’ is my motto. Tennyson is out of fashion, but I admire him very much, and that is my motto.”

Charles looked at her with the suspicion of a twinkle. What a Victorian little person! He became aware of a half-knitted stocking on her lap, still needles bristling. It seemed to him very appropriate. He twinkled, and replied to her quotation with another:

“The Taran-Tula Indians say that you may catch a snake by the tail, but you should never trust a woman.”

Miss Silver looked sorry for the Taran-Tula Indians.

“Poor ignorant heathens!” she said; and then, “Of course, if one has been very badly treated, it makes one cautious. But I can’t take your case unless you are frank with me. Frankness on your part-discretion on mine.”

She picked up the stocking and began to knit, holding the needles in the German way. After one round she looked at Charles and smiled again.

“Well, Mr. Moray?”

Charles told her everything that he had told Archie Millar, and came away wondering whether he had made a fool of himself.

CHAPTER XII

At a quarter to seven that same evening Charles Moray rang the bell of Miss Langton’s tiny flat. Margaret opened the door and stood facing him across the threshold.

“Charles!” Her voice betrayed no pleasure.

She had left the sitting-room door open behind her. At the first glance the effect was one of colour-dark red curtains; bright coloured cushions; Margaret a silhouette, in her black dress with the light behind her. She kept her hand on the door and did not move to let him in.

“Well?” said Charles. “Now that you’re quite sure it’s me, couldn’t we come in?”

Margaret dropped her hand, turned, and walked past the table to the hearth. A handful of sticks just lighted crackled there. She bent and put a lump of coal on them.

Charles came in behind her and shut the door. He was in a fever of impatience to look at her, to see her face. And then she rose suddenly from the fire and swung round; the light shone on her. She was pale-clear, and pale, and fine; the only colour was in her eyes-brown sombre colour with a dark fire behind the brown. She had changed; sorrow had gone over her and changed her. But under the change there was still Margaret, a Margaret who was so familiar that his heart jumped.