Part 18 (2/2)
Derek roused himself with an effort. His face was drawn and gloomy. He sat down at the writing-table, and took out his cheque-book. There was silence for a moment, broken only by the scratching of the pen. Barker took the cheque and left the room.
”Now, perhaps,” said Lady Underhill, ”you will admit that I was right!” She spoke in almost an awed voice, for this occurrence at just this moment seemed to her very like a direct answer to prayer. ”You can't hesitate now! You _must_ free yourself from this detestable entanglement!”
Derek rose without speaking. He took his coat and hat from where they lay on a chair.
”Derek! You will! Say you will!”
Derek put on his coat.
”Derek!”
”For heaven's sake, leave me alone, mother. I want to think.”
”Very well. I will leave you to think it over, then.” Lady Underhill moved to the door. At the door she paused for a moment, and seemed about to speak again, but her mouth closed resolutely. She was a shrewd woman, and knew that the art of life is to know when to stop talking. What words have accomplished, too many words can undo.
”Good-bye.”
”Good-bye, mother.”
”I'll see you when you get back?”
”Yes. No. I don't know. I'm not certain when I shall return. I may go away for a bit.”
The door closed behind Lady Underhill. Derek sat down again at the writing-table. He wrote a few words on a sheet of paper, then tore it up. His eye travelled to the mantelpiece. Jill's photograph smiled happily down at him. He turned back to the writing-table, took out a fresh piece of paper, thought for a few moments, and began to write again.
The door opened softly.
”The cab is at the door, Sir Derek,” said Barker.
Derek addressed an envelope, and got up.
”All right. Thanks. Oh, Barker, stop at a district-messenger office on your way to the police-station, and have this sent off at once.”
”Very good, Sir Derek,” said Barker.
Derek's eyes turned once more to the mantelpiece. He stood looking for an instant, then walked quickly out of the room.
CHAPTER VI
UNCLE CHRIS BANGS THE TABLE
I
A taxi-cab stopped at the door of Number Twenty-two, Ovingdon Square.
Freddie Rooke emerged, followed by Jill. While Freddie paid the driver, Jill sniffed the afternoon air happily. It had turned into a delightful day. A westerly breeze, springing up in the morning, had sent the thermometer up with a run and broken the cold spell which had been gripping London. It was one of those afternoons which intrude on the bleakness of winter with a false but none the less agreeable intimation that Spring is on its way. The sidewalks were wet underfoot, and the gutters ran with thawed snow. The sun shone exhilaratingly from a sky the colour of a hedge-sparrow's egg.
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