The journey back to London was one the details of which were registered with photographic realism in Tarling's mind for the rest of his life. The girl spoke little, and he himself was content to meditate and turn over in his mind the puzzling circumstances which had surrounded Odette Rider's flight.
In the very silences which occurred between the interchanges of conversation was a comradeship and a sympathetic understanding which both the man and the girl would have found it difficult to define. Was he in love with her? He was shocked at the possibility of such a catastrophe overtaking him. Love had never come into his life. It was a hypothetical condition which he had never even considered. He had known men to fall in love, just as he had known men to suffer from malaria or yellow fever, without considering that the same experience might overtake him. A shy, reticent man, behind that hard mask was a diffidence unsuspected by his closest friends.
So that the possibility of being in love with Odette Rider disturbed his mind, because he lacked sufficient conceit to believe that such a passion could be anything but hopeless. That any woman could love him he could not conceive. And now her very presence, the fragrant nearness of her, at once soothed and alarmed him. Here was a detective virtually in charge of a woman suspected of murder--and he was frightened of her! He knew the warrant in his pocket would never be executed, and that Scotland Yard would not proceed with the prosecution, because, though Scotland Yard makes some big errors, it does not like to have its errors made public.
The journey was all too short, and it was not until the train was running slowly through a thin fog which had descended on London that he returned to the subject of the murder, and only then with an effort.
"I am going to take you to an hotel for the night," he said, "and in the morning I will ask you to come with me to Scotland Yard to talk to the Chief."
"Then I am not arrested?" she smiled.
"No, I don't think you're arrested." He smiled responsively. "But I'm afraid that you are going to be asked a number of questions which may be distressing to you. You see, Miss Rider, your actions have been very suspicious. You leave for the Continent under an assumed name, and undoubtedly the murder was committed in your flat."
She shivered.
"Please, please don't talk about that," she said in a low voice.
He felt a brute, but he knew that she must undergo an examination at the hands of men who had less regard for her feelings.
"I do wish you would be frank with me," he pleaded. "I am sure I could get you out of all your troubles without any difficulty."
"Mr. Lyne hated me," she said. "I think I touched him on his tenderest spot--poor man--his vanity. You yourself know how he sent that criminal to my flat in order to create evidence against me."
He nodded.
"Did you ever meet Stay before?" he asked.
She shook her head.
"I think I have heard of him," she said. "I know that Mr. Lyne was interested in a criminal, and that this criminal worshipped him. Once Mr. Lyne brought him to the Stores and wanted to give him a job but the man would not accept it. Mr. Lyne once told me that Sam Stay would do anything in the world for him."
"Stay thinks you committed the murder," said Tarling bluntly. "Lyne has evidently told stories about you and your hatred for him, and I really think that Stay would have been more dangerous to you than the police, only fortunately the little crook has gone off his head."
She looked at him in astonishment.
"Mad?" she asked. "Poor fellow! Has this awful thing driven him ..."
Tarling nodded.
"He was taken to the County Asylum this morning. He had a fit in my office, and when he recovered he seemed to have lost his mind completely. Now, Miss Rider, you're going to be frank with me, aren't you?"
She looked at him again and smiled sadly.
"I'm afraid I shan't be any more frank than I have been, Mr. Tarling," she said. "If you want me to tell you why I assumed the name of Stevens, or why I ran away from London, I cannot tell you. I had a good reason----" she paused, "and I may yet have a better reason for running away...."
She nearly said "again" but checked the word.
He laid his hand on hers.
"When I told you of this murder," he said earnestly, "I knew by your surprise and agitation that you were innocent. Later the doctor was able to prove an alibi which cannot be shaken. But, Miss Rider, when I surprised you, you spoke as though you knew who committed the crime. You spoke of a man and it is that man's name I want."
She shook her head.
"That I shall never tell you," she said simply.
"But don't you realise that you may be charged with being an accessory before or after the act?" he urged. "Don't you see what it means to you and to your mother?"
Her eyes closed at the mention of her mother's name, as though to shut out the vision of some unpleasant possibility.
"Don't talk about it, don't talk about it!" she murmured, "please, Mr. Tarling! Do as you wish. Let the police arrest me or try me or hang me--but do not ask me to say any more, because I will not, I will not!"
Tarling sank back amongst the cushions, baffled and bewildered, and no more was said.
Whiteside was waiting for the train, and with him were two men who were unmistakably branded "Scotland Yard." Tarling drew him aside and explained the situation in a few words.
