CHAPTER XXVIII
"Well" Nora Verney asked in a choked voice, when she saw that Miss Ricardo had read to the end of the two columns. "Will this help or harm him?"
The train had started, though the two women had been almost unconscious of slamming doors and the confusion of departure.
"Let me think," said Terry, still forgetful of the letter to Sir Ian, which by this time should have been begun.
"It was wicked of Liane to say that about the revolver," Nora exclaimed, unable to obey. "After all he had done for her, to say that it was his, when she might so easily have kept that to herself. No one would have supposed she knew anything about it, if she hadn't volunteered the information. And—yet"
She checked herself suddenly, biting her lip. It had been on the tip of her tongue to say: "Since Liane saw the revolver lying on the ground, after Ian and I had gone away from the Tower, that ought to prove he wasn't the murderer."
She had forgotten, for an instant, that Terry did not know what Sir Ian had known, since his last night at St. Pierre de Chartreuse. But in the shock of remembering, Nora remembered something else as well—something which she, in common with all the world, had known since the first day of the inquest. No revolver had been found lying beside Lady Hereward's body, by the police. The murderer, who had thrown it down where Liane had seen it, must have returned later, taken the weapon, and hidden it.
There was only one name in her mind which coupled itself with murderer. She pictured Sir Ian going back to the Tower, where his dead wife lay staring into eternity, bending down over her to pick up the revolver—blood-stained, maybe—and hiding it where (Nora had read only yesterday in a French quotation from a London daily) Gaylor the detective had lately discovered it: thrust deep down in a rabbit-hole.
"Perhaps he had just decency enough in him not to want Ian suspected of his crime," she thought, "since it seems it really was Ian's revolver. And yet, if he didn't deliberately throw suspicion upon Ian to spare himself, why choose Ian's revolver?"
Her brain worked quickly, following the line of this question. How came Sir Ian to have the weapon? Had he actually taken it from Ian's house, long ago, meditating the murder, when opportunity should arise? Yet that could hardly be, she thought, remembering words which she had heard, trembling icily in the first-floor room of the Tower, that hot afternoon in June.
No. Here was a mystery she could not solve. Perhaps Ian Barr could solve it. But she would not be allowed to ask him. If Sir Ian Hereward continued to screen himself behind his incredible cowardice, she would have to speak. Yet speaking might create some new danger for Ian which she could not foresee, while such mysteries as this of the revolver existed even for her. She remembered the inquest, and shuddered at the thought of cross-examination. If she should ruin Ian, while sacrificing his love to save him?
"I think Liane's arrest must do Mr. Barr's case good," said Terry at last. "Of course, they may think she made up this tale about Ernest Bayne to help the man she really loves—don't look like that, dear! The truth can surely be proved. But if he's got blood in his veins, Bayne will come forward now, to exonerate his friend, who so nobly kept silence to spare an innocent girl from dreadful sorrow. There ought to be a great revulsion of feeling in Mr. Barr's favour. He is a loyal friend!"
"He is indeed!" answered Nora. "More loyal than you know," she added in a whisper drowned in the roaring of the train.
So they talked on, and Terry found no chance during the journey to write her letter to Sir Ian. Excited by the news of Liane s arrest, and by the discussion of probabilities with Nora, she lost sight of the importance which, till the moment of entering the train, she had attached to finishing the promised letter between Dover and London. The moment, however, that she stepped out at Victoria Station, it came back to her again, more pressingly than before. She had a sharp sense of guilt and treachery in having let the opportunity pass by.
To be sure, she could stop at a District Messenger Office, scribble a few lines and send them off to Sir Ian's obscure hotel; but that would not be at all the same thing to him. He would know that she wrote in a hurry, that she had put him off because she had been thinking of some one or something else, until too late to carry out her promise fully. She could put no such "thoughts" as he had begged for into a hastily scribbled note.
Never in her life had Terry Ricardo failed a friend. This man whom she now called "friend" had failed her, as few men have failed women once loved; but all the more for that reason, perhaps, would she not fail him in return. What a base, even common, thing was revenge! Women like poor Liane Rodache took revenge upon men who had injured them. The Teresina Ricardos of this world acted otherwise.
Yet, what could she do? Terry asked herself.
She had kept her word to Sir Ian, about remaining in London, and had telegraphed to Maud, begging an invitation for Nora Verney. The invitation had promptly come back by wire. Then, from Paris, Terry had been obliged to send off news of Nora's illness and consequent delay. This morning, in the haste of getting off, after the doctor's grudging permission, Terry had neglected to telegraph again, and Maud would not be looking for them to-night. She would expect to hear once more.
This, if they liked to take it so, would give Terry and Nora an excuse to remain in London after all; and Nora did wish it ardently. She had a dozen wild plans, one of which was to enlist some famous barrister on Ian Barr's side. She wanted to see one, the first thing in the morning. Would not Miss Ricardo be very good to her, and consent to stay the night in town?
This request gave Terry a new idea, at which she grasped eagerly. It seemed to her that she might go herself to Sir Ian's hotel, and speak to him. He was almost sure to be in, waiting for her letter, since he had appeared so anxious to receive it at the earliest moment, and she had half promised to send it to him by messenger. If she saw Sir Ian she could explain how she had failed to write, and surely he would rather see her, than have "thoughts" warm from her hand, set down on paper? Besides, she could tell him of Nora's wish, and ask him for the girl's sake to absolve her of her promise.
"At any rate, we will go to Brown's hotel and dine," she said to Nora. "I used always to be taken there as a very young girl, if we came up to town, and it's quiet, I know. You must rest, and have something to eat before another journey, even a very short one, for you've scarcely touched anything to-day, and you begin to look white as a ghost. I will take you to Brown's, and then consult a friend about staying the night, or going on. Afterward I can telephone Maud, one way or the other, to White Fields, and if necessary, we can go down by the nine-fifty train."
"Why should it be necessary, dear Miss Ricardo?" Nora complained. But Terry did not answer.
They went straight to Brown's, and as Nora refused to dine without Terry, they had a hasty dinner immediately on arriving in a private sitting-room which Miss Ricardo engaged. There she left the girl surrounded with all the "extras" and "extra specials" obtainable, while she flashed off to Charles Street in a taxicab.