It was half-past two.
‘They don’t expect me back for hours yet,’ she thought. ‘I wonder where they are?’ She opened the door of the library and went in, stopping suddenly on the threshold.
Dr Nicholson was sitting on the sofa, holding both Sylvia Bassington-ffrench’s hands in his.
Sylvia jumped to her feet and came across the room towards Frankie.
‘He’s been telling me,’ she said.
Her voice was stifled. She put both hands to her face as though to hide it from view.
‘It’s too terrible,’ she sobbed, and, brushing past Frankie, she ran out of the room.
Dr Nicholson had risen. Frankie advanced a step or two towards him. His eyes, watchful as ever, met hers.
‘Poor lady,’ he said suavely. ‘It has been a great shock to her.’ The muscles at the corner of his mouth twitched. For a moment or two Frankie fancied that he was amused. And then, quite suddenly, she realized that it was quite a different emotion.
The man was angry. He was holding himself in, hiding his anger behind a suave bland mask, but the emotion was there. It was all he could do to hold that emotion in.
There was a moment’s pause.
‘It was best that Mrs Bassington-ffrench should know the truth,’ said the doctor. ‘I want her to induce her husband to place himself in my hands.’ ‘I’m afraid,’ said Frankie gently, ‘that I interrupted you.’ She paused. ‘I came back sooner than I meant.’
CHAPTER 18 The Girl of the Photograph
On Bobby’s return to the inn he was greeted with the information that someone was waiting to see him.
‘It’s a lady. You’ll find her in Mr Askew’s little sittingroom.’ Bobby made his way there slightly puzzled. Unless she had flown there on wings he could not see how Frankie could possibly have got to the Anglers’ Arms ahead of him, and that his visitor could be anyone else but Frankie never occurred to him.
He opened the door of the small room which Mr Askew kept as his private sitting-room. Sitting bolt upright in a chair was a slender figure dressed in black – the girl of the photograph.
Bobby was so astonished that for a moment or two he could not speak. Then he noticed that the girl was terribly nervous.
Her small hands were trembling and closed and unclosed themselves on the arm of the chair. She seemed too nervous even to speak, but her large eyes held a kind of terrified appeal.
‘So it’s you?’ said Bobby at last. He shut the door behind him and came forward to the table.
Still the girl did not speak – still those large, terrified eyes looked into his. At last words came – a mere hoarse whisper.
‘You said – you said – you’d help me. Perhaps I shouldn’t have come ‘ Here Bobby broke in, finding words and assurance at the same time.
‘Shouldn’t have come? Nonsense. You did quite right to come. Of course, you should have come. And I’ll do anything – anything in the world – to help you. Don’t be frightened.
You’re quite safe now.’ The colour rose a little in the girl’s face. She said abruptly: ‘Who are you? You’re – you’re – not a chauffeur. I mean, you may be a chauffeur, but you’re not one really.’ Bobby understood her meaning in spite of the confused form of words in which she had cloaked them.
‘One does all sorts of jobs nowadays,’ he said. ‘I used to be in the Navy. As a matter of fact, I’m not exactly a chauffeur but that doesn’t matter now. But, anyway, I assure you you can trust me and – and tell me all about it.’ Her flush had deepened.
‘You must think me mad,’ she murmured. ‘You must think me quite mad.’ ‘No, no.’ ‘Yes – coming here like this. But I was so frightened – so terribly frightened -‘ Her voice died away. Her eyes widened as though they saw some vision of terror.
Bobby seized her hand firmly.
‘Look here,’ he said, ‘it’s quite all right. Everything’s going to be all right. You’re safe now – with – with a friend. Nothing shall happen to you.’ He felt the answering pressure of her fingers.