Part 5 (2/2)

There wasn't no other woman, I s'pose?

Molly Cutler was silent, but her mother broke in. She spoke with a voice in which you could hear suppressed anger against an old grievance. There most certainly was another woman, she said, and one with whom that reprobate was involved more deeply than he was with my daughter.

Owing to the time it took him to write, Beef's cross-examinations seemed always very protracted. It was thirty seconds before he spoke.

What was 'er name? he asked.

Stella Smythe, said the mother. He called her an actress, but she was nothing less than a bad woman.

When did he see her last?

In answer to that Mrs. Cutler only spoke one word, but it was hissed out with audible venom. And the information it gave was sensational.

Yesterday! she said.

Yesterday? 'Ow d'you know that? asked Beef, forgetting his solemnity in the excitement of that revelation.

You tell him, Molly, said the old lady.

The girl began to speak in a toneless voice, as though she knew only too well that she had to tell the story, but had no interest in it any more. Alan had never deceived me about this girl, she said. He had known her some years ago in London. And he had once taken her to Chopley for a week-end. That was two years ago. After that he had given her a sum of money, and left her in London. He knew he was wrong, but she was ... an immoral girl, too. He hoped he would never see her again. He left his s.h.i.+p about that time, and went to work on a different Line. She lost touch with him, I suppose. But it seems that this time she had got to know his s.h.i.+p, and where he lived, and when he got home there was a letter waiting for him, saying that she was coming down to Chopley again, and that if he didn't come and see her, she would come over to his aunt and uncle's house and make a scene. He told me all this quite frankly, and showed me the letter.

While she spoke I watched Molly Cutler, and admired her. Hers was beauty of the rather conventional English type; she had none of the buxom grace so admired by Latins. But her complexion was delicate and lovely, her eyes honest and wide, her whole being almost flower-like. I was sure, too, that she was speaking the truth.

It was the night before last, she continued, when he showed me the letter. He said he would go over the next day, that was yesterday, to see her, and settle it once and for all. He said that it was money she wanted. He would give it to her, but he had to be sure that she would not worry us again.

And did he go? asked Sergeant Beef.

The girl looked up. I don't know, she said.

You never saw him again?

Not until last night.

'Ow was that?

We had arranged to meet at seven o'clock.

Arranged to meet? Why shouldn't 'e come 'ere?

Mrs. Cutler chimed in again. The whole thing was being carried on surrept.i.tiously. My daughter knew that it was against my wishes.

Oh, I see. And where 'ad you arranged to meet at seven o'clock?

Outside the Cinema.

A sound like a snort came from Mrs. Cutler, but the girl ignored it. She seemed too proud and too profoundly unhappy to make any retaliation to her mother.

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