ARY LENLEY got home later than she expected, to find Johnny dozing in an armchair before the fire, for the night was unaccountably cold. A strong northerly wind had brought the chill air from the Pole and, though it was early summer, London was walking about in its overcoats.
As she gently put her hand on his shoulder, he woke with a start and stared up.
"Hallo, dear!" he said, yawned and rose.
In a sense she was thankful that he was not his old alert, watchful self when she had come in. She had time to go to her room and hide the traces of her tears. The last half-hour before she had left Meister had been an agony to the girl—thirty searing minutes. She had been in her little room when Cora Milton had called; the worst part of the interview was after The Ringer's girl had left the house.
She came back to find her brother in the kitchen, brewing the coffee. It was his one contribution to the domestic day. Johnny made coffee well—made it in large quantities, so that it only needed heating when it was required at any hour of the day or night.
She was on the point of telling him that she had to go out again that night, though for the life of her she could not think of one plausible excuse, when he said:
"I've got to go round and see some people, old girl. You won't mind being left alone?"
"Will you be late?" she asked, a fluttering at her heart.
"About eleven; maybe a little later. Why?"
"Because I want to see—go—to a sick girl friend."
She hated herself for the lame lie, and thought he would detect it instantly, but he was so out of touch with her life and her acquaintances that he did not seem to think it strange, was indeed relieved a little.
"Sick, is she? That was the one dread I had when I was away," he said; "that you'd be left with nobody here to look after you. You're leaving Meister—have you told him?"
She nodded.
"We shan't be able to give up this place for a month or so. I want to get fixed up in the country.
"He was busy pouring out the coffee.
"Cottages are hard to come by, but I know a man in Hertfordshire who'll find me a corner somewhere. I've had it in my mind for a long time to start a poultry farm. There's a big demand for English birds of the right kind. I met a man in prison who would have made a fortune out of breeding silver foxes, but they got some sort of disease and died."
He, too, was ill at ease, restless, nervous and could not keep one position for longer than a minute. He was hardly seated at the table before he rose again, went from the room and came back, only to remember that he had left his pipe in the kitchen. When he went out finally, his departure was a little abrupt, and she was not sorry to be alone.
Here and now she had to make her final decision. Was Meister bluffing? Was it possible that he could hold proof, and, if he did, that Johnny could be punished for an ancient crime, however heinous it might be? If she only had somebody to advise her—somebody in whom she could confide! Her mind went instantly to Alan Wembury and to his invitation.
"If you are ever in any kind of difficulty, will you come to me?"
But could she tell him—a police officer? If it was anything else but an old crime of Johnny's, it would have been easy. She was not greatly perturbed by Meister's view of the police and their treachery; she knew he cordially hated them. But Alan Wembury was different.
The clock moved inexorably forward. Time was indeed flying; and as every minute passed, the tension grew, till at last she rose, took down her hat and coat and went out.
Back in the station house, Alan was still engrossed in his book when the telephone bell rang. The sergeant pulled the instrument over to him.
"Hallo!" He looked up at the clock mechanically to time the call in his book. "What's that?" He covered the receiver with his hand. "The night watchman at Cleavers reports there's a man on the roof in Camden Crescent."
Alan thought for a moment.
"Yes, of course. Tell him not to worry, it is a police officer."
"On the roof of Camden Crescent?" asked the sergeant incredulously.
Alan nodded, and the officer addressed himself to his unknown vis-à-vis.
"That's all right, son. He's only one of our men—eh? He's sweeping the chimney—yes, we always have policemen sweep chimneys and we usually pick on the night." He hung up the receiver. "What's he doing up there?"
"Looking round," said Alan indifferently.