it again. It did not look the kind of thing that is sold by the dozen, and the name on the box was not that of a firm usually patronized by impecunious young bookmakers. It was that of a Bond Street firm of good reputation, with wares corresponding in price. He thought that, on the whole, his best step would be to go and see Messrs. Gallio & Stein. He locked up the trunks, put the brooch in his pocket with the snapshots, and departed from Waterloo. As he mounted the stairs of a bus he remembered that Lamont had said that the notes he had been given by Sorrell had been wrapped in white paper such as jewellers use. One more good mark for Lamont. But if Sorrell were going abroad in the company of, or because of, Margaret Ratcliffe, why should he hand over such a sum to Lamont? Mrs. Ratcliffe had money of her own, Simpson had reported, but no man started out to live on the woman he was eloping with, even if he was sorry to leave his friend in comparative poverty.
The business of Messrs. Gallio & Stein is conducted in a small and rather dark shop in Old Bond Street, and Grant found but one assistant visible. As soon as Grant opened the blue box the man recognized the brooch. It was he that had dealt with the customer about it. No; they did not have them in stock. It had been made to order for a Mr. Sorrell, a young fair man. It had cost thirty guineas, and had been finished—he consulted a book—on the 6th, a Tuesday, and Mr. Sorrell had called and paid for it and taken it away with him on that date. No; the assistant had never see the man before. He had described what he wanted, and had made no fuss about the price.
Grant went away thinking deeply, but no nearer a solution. That a man in Sorrell’s position had been willing to pay thirty guineas for an ornament argued infatuation of an extreme type. He had not presented it to the object of his devotion up to the time of his departure. That meant that it could be presented only after he had left Britain. It was packed deep in his trunk. He had no friends in America that any one knew of. But—Margaret Ratcliffe was going out by the same boat. That woman! How she came into things! And her entry, instead of making things clearer, merely made the muddle worse than before. For muddle Grant was now convinced there was.
It was nearly lunchtime, but he went back to the Yard because he was expecting a message from the post office. It was there waiting for him. On the morning of the 14th (Wednesday) a telegram had been handed in at Brixton High Street post office addressed to Albert Sorrell on board the Queen of Arabia, and reading “Sorry.—Jerry.” It had presumably been delivered, since there had been no word to the contrary, but it was not unlikely that, in the shoal of telegrams attending the departure of a big liner, if it had not been claimed, it might have been mislaid.
“So that’s that!” said Grant aloud; and Williams, who was in attendance, said, “Yes, sir,” accommodatingly.
And now what? He wanted to see Mrs. Ratcliffe, but he did not know whether she had returned home. If he rang to inquire, she would be forewarned of his renewed interest in her. He would have to send Simpson again. Mrs. Ratcliffe would have to wait for the moment. He would go and see Mrs. Everett instead. He gave Simpson his instructions, and after lunch went down to Fulham.
Mrs. Everett opened the door to him, with no sign of fear or embarrassment. From the expression of her eyes, her hostility was too great to permit of her harbouring any other emotion. What line should he take with her? The stern official one would be useless both from the point of impressing her and from the point of extracting information; the dead man had done well to call her Lady Macbeth. And a magnanimous overlooking of the part she had played in Lamont’s escape would also have no effect. Flattery would earn nothing but her scorn. It occurred to him that the only method of dealing with her to any advantage was to tell her the truth.
“Mrs. Everett,” he said, when she had led him in, “we have a case that will hang Gerald Lamont, but I’m not satisfied myself with the evidence. So far, I haven’t caught Lamont out in a misstatement, and there is just the faintest possibility that his story is true. But no jury will believe it. It is a very thin tale, and, told baldly in a court of law, would be beyond belief. But I feel that a little more information will tip the scales one way or another—either prove Lamont’s guilt beyond a doubt or acquit him. So I’ve come to you. If he’s innocent, then the chances are that the extra information will go to prove that, and not his guilt. And so I’ve come to you for the information.”
She examined him in silence, trying to read his motive through the camouflage of his words.
“I’ve told you the truth,” he said, “and you can take it or leave it. It isn’t any softness for Gerald Lamont that has brought me here, I assure you. It’s a matter of my own professional pride. If there’s any possibility of a mistake, then I’ve got to worry at the case until I’m sure I’ve got the right man.”
“What do you want to know?” she said, and it sounded like a capitulation. At least it was a compromise.
“In the first place, what letters habitually came for Sorrell, and where did they come from?”
“He got very few letters altogether. He had not many friends on these terms.”
“Did you ever know letters addressed in a woman’s hand come for him?”
“Yes; occasionally.”
“Where were they posted?”
“In London, I think.”
“What was the writing like?”
“Very round and regular and rather large.”
“Do you know who the woman was?”
“No.”
“How long had the letters been coming for him?”
“Oh, for years! I don’t remember how long.”
“And in all these years you never found out who his correspondent was?”
“No.”
“Did no woman ever come to see him here?”
“No.”
“How often did the letters come?”
“Oh, not often! About once in six weeks, perhaps, or a little oftener.”
“Lamont has said that Sorrell was secretive. Is that so?”
“No, not secretive. But he was jealous. I mean jealous of the things he liked. When he cared very much about a thing he would—hug it to himself, if you know what I mean.”
“Did the arrival of the letters make any difference to him—make him pleased or otherwise?”
“No; he didn’t show any feeling that way. He was very quiet, you know.”
“Tell me,” said Grant, and produced the velvet case, “have you ever seen that before?” He snapped it open to her gaze.
“M. R.,” she said slowly, just as Grant had done. “No; I never saw it before. What has that got to do with Bertie?”
“That was found in the pocket of a coat in Sorrell’s trunk.”
She put her worn hand out for it, looked at it with curiosity, and gave it back to him.
“Can you suggest any reason why Sorrell should commit suicide?”
“No, I can’t. But I can tell you that about a week before he left to go—left here—a small parcel came by post
