CHAPTER III

CHAPTER III

For a few seconds Marigold was so paralysed by the sound of that well-known voice that she was literally unable to reply. Her first impulse was to clap the receiver back into place and thus shut off the terrible connection.

Then—moved perhaps by instinctive self-reassurance—she tried to tell herself that she was mistaken, that it was impossible to identify any voice positively by one short sentence. Which indeed was true. While she hesitated the same voice came again, a trifle impatiently:

'Hello, hello. Are you there? Is that Mrs. Marne?'

'No-no,' Marigold heard herself say stiffly, 'this isn't Mrs. Marne. I—I'll call her. Who is it speaking?'

To her own ears, her voice had not sounded much like itself, but it must have still held its characteristic tone, because the reply came back immediately, sharpened by surprise and something not unlike alarm:

'Wait a minute! Who is that?'

She tried very hard to say casually, 'A friend of Mrs. Marne,' but the words refused to come, and then, to her horror, he exclaimed sharply incredulously: 'Marigold! That isn't you, is it?'

Unreasoning panic overtook her at that moment, and without any attempt at a reply, she put back the receiver. And at the same moment Stephanie came in from the kitchen, followed almost immediately by Paul, in his overcoat and carrying his hat.

'Ready?' he enquired. And Stephanie said:

'Oh, who was it?'

'I don't know,' lied Marigold with a calmness which astonished herself. 'Whoever it was—was cut off almost at once.'

'They'll ring again,' Stephanie said indifferently.

And then good-byes were said and she followed Paul out to the car.

Her heart was thumping, and she had a ridiculous desire to run. Somehow it seemed to her that, before she could get safely away, that telephone must ring again and something be said which would involve her in disaster. It was hard to breathe naturally or to converse calmly until she was safely installed in the car and Paul had negotiated the bend in the short drive and they were out on the road Now if the telephone bell rang, Stephanie would have to reply herself—and Lindley would hardly ask her any questions about 'Marigold.

The drive proved shorter than she had expected, and Paul was content to leave pleasant silences between the casual, friendly remarks they made to each other. She was glad of that, and though she dared not allow herself to pursue the train of her thoughts very far, it was a relief not to have to keep one's attention on continual conversation.

When they finally reached her flat, he got out of the car and stood on the pavement beside her, holding her hand in a warm grasp as he said good-bye. He had already refused to come in, saying that he must get back to his own place, where he was expecting a colleague some time during the evening.

'When do I see you again?' he wanted to know.

'Oh, as soon as Stephanie—' she began.

'No,' he said, and she could see that he was smiling. 'No—before Stephanie comes. May I take you out to dinner one evening?'

'I'd love it.' Her voice trembled slightly, perhaps because that telephone call had sharpened all her apprehensions once more—perhaps for some other reason.

He, at any rate, evidently sensed no hint of alarm, because he said, 'Wednesday, then?' in his most even and friendly tone. 'I'll fetch you from your- office, shall I?'

No, I—don't think that would do.' She vetoed the idea hastily, with a confused notion that some horrid coincidence might send Lindley to the office at the same time.

Is your employer such a dragon, then?' He was amused, she saw. 'No followers allowed, eh? Where shall I meet you then? The entrance to the Gloria Grill at half-past six?'

'Yes,' Marigold agreed with relief, for she could not remember ever associating Lindley with the Gloria. 'Yes, that will do splendidly. I'll be there at half-past six.'

And so it was arranged, and Marigold went into her flat with hope and fear, happiness and dismay mingling in the most exciting and agitating state of mind she had ever known.

Until now she had had some vague idea that, as soon as she was alone, she would be able to consider the events of the past two days in a calm and judicial manner and then somehow discover some course of action which would lead her safely through the complications which—she- realised quite clearly—her own conduct had brought upon her.

But nothing of the sort happened, of course. When it came to the point, she was quite as unable to decide on the wisdom or otherwise of her decisions in the privacy of her own flat as she had been with Paul and Stephanie in the same room. It was no good. She must just go on, and trust to luck somehow cutting her loose from the Lindley entanglement and leaving her free to be happy in the friendship of Stephanie and Paul. Or rather, was it not perhaps 'of Paul and Stephanie'?

Going to the office next morning seemed flat and uninspiring in the extreme. There was something positively ridiculous about invoices and letters and accounts when one had been living high drama in person. But, because there is a ruthless inevitability about day-to-day routine, Marigold presently found that she was giving her attention to her work, and apart from the not very pleasant task of giving in her notice the day was uneventful.

That didn't preclude Marigold's suffering the most sickening thumps of the heart every time the door into the outer office opened, nor did it prevent her from spoiling any moments of leisure she had by imagining sensational and dreadful scenes in which Lindley came in and demanded explanations of her extraordinary behaviour at the hotel.

She wondered now how she had ever supposed she could go on working in this office, even without the inducement to change which had come from Stephanie's offer. Every hour of the day was fraught with anxiety lest Lindley should come, and she found herself literally praying that, for one week at least, it should seem to him that the only dignified thing to do was to take his conge and keep out of the way of his latest 'weekend girl.'

After that week, he might do as he pleased. Marigold would be gone, and, if he sought her out at all, it would be at her own flat, where she felt she could handle the situation much more easily.

Monday and Tuesday passed in safety and what might be called comparative peace. And, by the time Wednesday came, Marigold's thoughts were sufficiently occupied with the delightful evening prospect for her to have other things to concern her besides the question of whether or not Lindley might choose to appear at the office.

It was already getting late in the afternoon when the office boy—whose cheekiness to the office staff was equalled only by the unnatural fervour of his respect when face to face with the head of the firm—bounced into Marigold's office and enquired:

'Boss in?'

'Yes, he's in.' Marigold glanced up from her work. 'Who wants him?'

'Mr. Marne.'

'Mr.——Oh!'

'No. Not Mr. Oh,' retorted the office boy who, in the manner of his kind, fancied himself as a wit. 'Mr. Marne. Elderly film-star-looking gent who writes the books.'

Even at that moment, Marigold found herself wondering how Lindley would have relished the description of himself as 'elderly.' But she simply said coldly:

'I know who you mean. I'll see if Mr. Foster's free.'

Walking a trifle unsteadily because her legs felt queer, she crossed the room and opened her employer's door.

'Mr. Marne's here, Mr. Foster. Can you see him?'

Back came the very reply she most dreaded:

'Of course, of course. Ask him to wait five minutes. I've a couple of phone calls to make, hut I shan't be long.'

She turned back to face the office boy, who was now looking very smart and alert, just in case he should be in the direct line of vision from Mr. Foster's desk. She longed to suggest that the unwelcome caller should wait in the outside office. But that would be an unheard-of idea. There was only one thing to say.

'Show him in here, Tony. Mr. Foster will be free in five minutes.'

Tony departed—to return almost immediately, ushering in the one person in the world whom Marigold least wanted to see.

As the door closed once more on Tony's leisurely departure, Lindley came forward two or three quick steps into the room and stood towering over Marigold as she sat at her desk regarding him a little blankly.

'Mari, where on earth have you been?' He spoke rapidly—as nearly agitated as she had ever seen him—but he kept his voice low. 'What happened to you, child? Why did you play me such a trick? I've been waiting every day to hear from you.'

'It wasn't—a trick.' Unsuccessfully she struggled against the conviction that it was she who was to blame. 'I just—changed my mind. I'm terribly sorry, Lindley. I—I couldn't do it, that's all.'

'But why didn't you tell me? What was the idea—slipping away like that without a word?'

'I—I can't really explain.' That was true enough! 'Please, you must understand. I'm not —not made for that sort of thing, Lindley. I'm not a—weekend girl. It just came over me —what I was doing, I mean. I came to my senses, if you like to put it that way. And I—I had to get away.'

She was aware that this breathless, half-apologetic rush of words was not at all the cool and dignified speech which she had intended to make him. But it was all that she could manage —and, rather surprisingly, it certainly did not have the effect of making him angry.

He looked at her in that half-amused, half-tender way which imparted such a charmingly quizzical expression to his worldly, good-looking face.

'My dear, I hardly know what to say to you. If you changed your mind—well, you changed your mind. You had only to tell me so, you know.'

Every instinct she possessed told her that was not so—that, on the contrary, there would have been a passionate, agitating argument in which she would almost certainly have been worsted. Hut when he stated the fact so simply and ruefully—made his protest with that charming, affectionate air—she felt her defences crumbling. Her certainty that he was an unprincipled philanderer was no longer a certainty—only an uneasy suspicion which, in that moment, she would gladly have had proved wrong.

It was with an actual physical effort that she managed to look away from those bright, smiling eyes which regarded her so affectionately. Surely she had had her lesson! Surely he was no longer able to charm her.

'I'm sorry.' She wished she could stop saying that. 'There isn't really anything more to say. I didn't want to stay and—and I came away.'

She hoped that didn't sound quite so lame to him as it did to her.

'Well, Mari, how did you manage it?' Those smiling, puzzled eyes were a trifle more watchful now. Or was that her imagination?

'I just—slipped out of the hotel and—and went to the station.'

'But there was no train.'

He would know that, of course! She was silly to have said that.

'Well then, if you must know, I—I got a lift.'

'What, all the way to London?'

'Yes.' She said that more defiantly, because that lie at least she intended to stick to.

'To your flat?'

'Of—of course.'

'You little liar,' he said amusedly. 'I telephoned your flat twice the next morning, but there was no answer.'

Marigold bit her lip, and wished her breath wouldn't come quite so fast. For a second she toyed with the idea of insisting that she had left her flat early on Sunday morning and been out all day. But it was improbable, after what had happened.

And then, before she could decide what to say, he spoke again.

'You didn't go home, Mari, did you? And I'm wondering just where you did go. Not'—he paused slightly—'not by any chance to my wife's house, I suppose?'

For a nightmare second, her throat really seemed to close. And then suddenly, Mr. Foster, in the unusual role of guardian angel, opened his door and came forward into the room, exclaiming cordially:

'Glad to see you, Marne. Glad to see you. Come along in and have a chat.'

So Lindley—forced to conceal whatever his feelings might be—went in to have his chat, and Marigold, almost faint with relief, tapped out a few shaky lines on her typewriter and then suddenly decided that she must go home. It was at least a quarter of an hour before she was due to do so, but her letters were already sealed and stamped ready for the post, and unless Mr. Foster should unfortunately need her for anything urgent, her absence would not be noticed by anyone other than Tony.

Any risk in connection with her employer, she decided, was preferable to the risk of being there when Lindley came out from that room, with the possibility of being able to press his questions further.

Hastily pulling on her hat and coat, she gave her nose a perfunctory dab with her powder-puff and went as quietly and unobtrusively as she could from the office.

Tony looked up interestedly as she passed, and enquired hopefully:

'Is the clock slow?'

'No,' Marigold said. 'I'm leaving early.'

And without further explanation, she left the building.

It was early yet for her appointment with Paul but, with nowhere else to go, Marigold made her way to the Gloria and, in the rose-and-silver magnificence of one of its palatial dressing- rooms, she made herself as attractive as possible for her meeting.

As she surveyed the final result in one of the shining mirrors, it struck her that less than a week ago it would have been unthinkable that she should be doing this for anyone but Lindley. The very hat she was wearing had been bought with the object of bringing admiration to his eyes.

Now she felt she never wanted him to look at her again—admiringly or otherwise.

But if Paul should find her charming —Ah, well, that was rather a different matter.

When she was ready she went and sat in the lounge.

In spite of the terrible fright of an hour ago, Marigold felt her spirits rising. The first difficult encounter with Lindley was over, and the short time which would elapse before he left the country was unlikely to furnish an opportunity for anything really disastrous. By the time he returned

Oh, well, by the time he returned almost anything might have happened. And meanwhile, there was the great revolving door of the Gloria lurking for the fiftieth time—to admit Paul, who stood there for a moment, his eyes narrowed against the light in that characteristic way of his.

He saw her immediately and came over to her.

'Hallo. Let's go and find something to eat.' He put his hand round her arm in a way entirely different from Lindley's manner of touching her. And they went into the Grill Room, where a corner table had been reserved for them.

He teased her almost affectionately over the ordering of the meal and then, when that was settled, he leant his arms on the table and smiled straight at her, as though she were very good to look at and he were very lucky to be doing the looking. She thought she had seldom enjoyed any scrutiny more.

'You're even prettier than I remembered,' he told her.

'Oh—am I?' She was faintly but agreeably put out, and not quite able to meet his laughing, admiring gaze. 'Are you always as frank when you take a girl out to dinner? Or is this your standard opening?'

'Of course not. Haven't other men told you how pretty you are?'

'N—not often.' She thought of some of Lindley's more practised compliments and felt uncomfortable.

'Well, never mind. They will,' he declared. And then, evidently under the impression that it was he—and not her own recollections—which embarrassed her, he changed the subject. 'Stephanie wants to know how you stand about the job. She sent her love and asked me to tell you that she's fixed things all right at her end. You can start any time next week if you're free to do so.'

'Oh, how sweet of her!' At once Marigold was smiling and excited. 'Yes, it's all right with me. I gave notice on Monday.'

'Are you very glad to be leaving?'

'Not specially.' She was slightly surprised. 'Not terribly relieved or anything like that, you know. I quite like the job, as jobs go. But I'm very glad to be going to work with Stephanie instead.'

'Yes, of course. I just thought——'

'What did you think?' She glanced up quickly.

'Oh, perhaps it was imagination. I somehow had the impression that you were desperately thankful to be getting away, that there was something—or someone—there who frightened you or worried you.'

'Oh, n-no. No, not at all.' Marigold's mouth suddenly felt strangely dry.

'Sure?' He smiled at her. 'If there's anyone there who needs some straight speaking on your behalf, I'm quite prepared to do it for you.'

'Oh, Paul!' Impulsively she put her hand over his as it lay on the table. 'You are so good and kind. I don't deserve it.'

'Not deserve it! Don't be absurd.' He turned his hand and clasped hers warmly. 'Of course you do. You've had a rotten break the last year or two, and I'—for a moment his gaze wavered and he looked down at their clasped hands—'I don't want you to feel alone any more, or that there's anything you have to put up with just because you haven't got a family.'

'Paul, it is nice of you.' She laughed, not quite steadily. 'But I am old enough to look after myself, you know. You needn't worry.'

'No, you're not old enough to look after yourself. Some girls can quite often do with someone around to do the looking after for them. Don't forget about your uncle, for one occasion,' he added with a grin.

'My uncle?'

'Yes, of course. The weekending one who went drinking in the bar.'

'Oh—oh, yes. Of course.' She tried to look as though she had not completely forgotten the uncle's existence for one moment.

'Now I come to think of it, I'm sorry I didn't go down and give him a piece of my mind.'

'I'm glad you didn't,' Marigold said with the most genuine fervour.

'Well, I was thinking rather hard about something else at the time,' he admitted.

'About the tiresomeness of having some strange girl plant herself upon you, to wit.'

'Not at all!' He repudiated that with some indignation.

'Oh, Paul!' She laughed at him. 'You were pretty fed up about it. I could see you were—and I don't blame you.'

'I wasn't. I was thinking hard about something else. Something that was worrying me.'

'Oh, I'm sorry.' She was only half convinced, but she looked at him with sympathy as well as amusement. 'What were you worrying about? Whether your newest experiment would go wrong?'

'No.' He grinned, but became serious again almost immediately. 'I was worried about Stephanie, as a matter of fact.'

'Were you? Why?' She was as serious as he now.

'Well—' Paul hesitated. Then he went on rather slowly: 'I don't know how much she told you, but I think you know she has a packet of trouble in that husband of hers.'

'Y—yes.'

'She wouldn't complain about it much herself, but he really needs a darned hard kick in that part of his anatomy made for the purpose.'

'D—does he?' Marigold hated the turn the conversation had taken, and found it impossible to do anything but murmur short replies and leave long silences.

In the middle of this one he looked up suddenly, as though breaking off in his train of thought, and said:

'Oddly enough, your firm publish his books.'

'I know. I—told Stephanie so.'

'So you did. I remember—she mentioned it. I dare say you've even seen him come into the office some time. Good-looking chap in a not so-young-as-he-was way.'

'I think—I've seen—him.'

'They've been married a good many years now, but it was always the same. I don't think I'd ever have thought anyone quite good enough for Stephanie, but certainly that cad wasn't.'

'You're—very fond of Stephanie, aren't you?' Marigold said, because one had to say something.

'Yes, of course. I've known her since we were young enough to yell over the same packet of acid drops, and I've never known a straighter or more decent girl. I was abroad when she married Marne, and by the time I came home I don't think she was in much doubt about what she'd taken on.'

Marigold found herself wondering, with painful interest, if there had been something very personal in Paul's disappointment at finding Stephanie married at all—quite apart from any question of the type of man she had married. But that, of course, was the kind of question one had to leave unasked.

'Is it—is it the kind of situation that isn't very likely to mend?' she asked at last, because one had to say something.

'Oh, yes. Quite hopeless. Personally, I always thought so, but naturally Stephanie took much longer to come to the same conclusion. I just kept out of things as much as possible in those days. I shouldn't have been able to keep my temper, and there's no point in being had up for assault and battery if it isn't going to benefit anyone. I managed to avoid him almost entirely and didn't even see much of Stephanie, because it's only fair, I suppose, to give even a hopeless case all the chance there is. I shouldn't have been able to hide what I really thought and that might have influenced her a bit.'

'That was very fair-minded of you, Paul.'

'We-ell—' He smiled doubtfully. 'The fact is that the understanding friend and understanding relation is usually nothing but a curse. Sympathetic chit-chat is about as safe as a bottle of prussic acid with the cork out. My view is that if you really care about a person you should keep out of the way until you're invited to be of practical help—and then weigh in with all you've got.'

Marigold laughed, but she looked at him with approving eyes.

'And then I suppose the time came when you could be of practical help?'

'Yes. She told me all about it in the end, of course. When she'd decided there was nothing to save from the wreck, I mean. He'd been on some so-called publicity work. Scouting round the country and enjoying himself in his own particular way in between whiles. He was quite willing to turn up at Stephanie's place when he had nothing more agreeable on hand. But naturally no one with any pride and decency could stand for that arrangement.'

Marigold cleared her throat and said, 'Naturally not,' in a rather stiff little voice.

Then, as Paul seemed absorbed in his own thoughts for the moment, she enquired almost timidly: 'What happened then? Where did you come into it?'

'Well, Marigold, we talked the whole thing over, and she finally agreed that the only thing was to divorce him. There was evidence enough, if one cared to collect it.'

'Y-yes?' An inexplicable chill began to crawl down Marigold's spine.

'That was where I came in. Stephanie isn't the kind of girl who'd be any good hunting up hotel evidence and that sort of thing, you know.'

Marigold passed the tip of her tongue over completely dry lips.

'N-no, I shouldn't imagine she would be.'

'So I took that on,' he explained rather earnestly. 'I know this sounds a bit melodramatic, but he was at that hotel where I met you, Marigold. I'd had wind that he was going down there with some girl he'd picked up. So I took myself off there too.'

'That was why you were there?'

Marigold suddenly found that she knew exactly what was meant by one's hair rising on one's head.

'Um-hm. He came down there as bold as brass. Actually registered his poisonous little girl-friend as his wife, too. I had a look at the hotel register. It's perfectly plain for anyone to see. Oh yes'—he gave an angry little laugh—'I think we've got him this time. I don't know who the girl was, but that doesn't matter, of course. She's just the useful co-respondent, as far as we're concerned.'

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