me a bob, an' 'e arsks me wot's the matter. I'd been on the ranks four bloomin' hours--"
"Oh, there you are!" and Bruce threw him half-a-crown before he disappeared up the steps.
Mr. White was watching for Bruce's arrival. He wondered why the barrister was so perturbed, and resolved to strike while the iron was hot. So he, too, vanished into the interior. CHAPTER XIII A QUESTION OF PRINCIPLE
"If any one calls, I am out," cried Claude to his factotum, as he crossed the entrance-hall of his well-appointed flat, and flung open the door of his library.
"The guv'nor's in a tantrum," observed Smith to his wife, and he settled himself to renew the perusal of Grand National training reports. He had just noticed the interesting fact that last year's winner had "jumped in for the last mile" in a gallop given to a rank outsider, when the electric bell upset his calculations.
"My master is out," he said, as he opened the door to find Mr. White standing on the mat.
He was about to close the door again, but the detective planted his foot against the jamb.
"Your master is not out," he answered. "I saw him come in a minute since. Tell him Mr. White wants to see him."
Smith's dignity was superb. "My master may be hin," he cried, "but 'e told me to say 'e was hout to callers." The aspirates supplied emphasis.
"Tell him what I say at once," and Mr. White gave him his best "accessory-after-the-crime" glance.
"I don't see why I should," snarled Smith, but the squabble ended when Bruce's voice was heard--"Show him in, Smith, but admit nobody else."
With an air of armed neutrality Smith ushered the representative of Scotland Yard into the library.
"You're not looking very well, sir," said White, his round eyes fixed on Bruce with all their power.
"Was it to ask about my health that you came?"
"No, sir, not exactly. But I haven't seen you for quite a while, and as we are both interested in the same matter I thought I would look you up and compare notes."
Bruce was annoyed by the interruption. He wanted to think, not to be bothered by official theories. He looked hard at Mr. White, wondering whether he should tell him all he knew and wash his own hands clear of the investigation in future. But there was a second picture before his eyes. He saw Phyllis Browne's face, not as it was that day at the Tir aux Pigeons, but with the light of happiness in it, with the joyousness of requited and undisturbed love, with the glow reflected from dancing waves, and the tremulous smile of innocent pleasure.
It was hard to believe that such a woman could place her heartfelt trust in a man who was possibly a cold-blooded murderer. Such a combination was unnatural and horrible. Already Bruce was beginning to doubt the evidence of his analytical senses.
Mr. White 

 Prev. P 59/232 next