September 25th-I went home and went to bed. I didn’t think I should sleep, but I was dog-tired and I pitched into sleep without knowing anything about it. One minute I was thinking I was going to lie awake for the rest of the night, and the next I was waking up into what I thought was a thunderstorm, but it was only Mrs. Bell banging on the door.
It wasn’t till I was up and in the middle of shaving that I remembered I’d been having a dream about Isobel. It worried me, because I couldn’t remember what I had dreamt. I kept on trying, and it wasn’t any good.
As soon as I’d had breakfast, I did up all Z.10’s money and went off the nearest post-office to buy a registered envelope and push it off. I kept three pounds as salary for the last week-I didn’t think it was reasonable to leave myself without a penny at a moment’s notice.
When I’d got rid of the stuff, I felt a good deal better. I think I’d really been afraid that something might argue me into keeping it. Of course I should have to do something about a job at once. Last night the prospects of my getting one had seemed particularly murky, but now I didn’t think they looked so bad.
One of the people I had met a few days ago was Baron, whose young brother was at school with me. I’d never known the elder Baron particularly well, but he was very affable, and after I’d lunched with him and he’d told me all about Puggy and the job he’d got in Brazil, he said,
“You’re fixed up, I suppose, or you might join him. You’re just the sort of chap he’s looking for.”
Well, that was a big vague, but I thought I’d go and see Baron and ask what about it. Whatever happened, Z.10 had done me one good turn-he’d pushed me into going about and meeting people again. I’d got to the point where I’d run a mile if I thought I saw a pal.
I rang Baron up, and found he’d gone to Scotland, so I got his address and wrote to him. I also wrote to a man called Hartness, who had been very friendly, and who, I knew, had a lot of irons in the fire.
I went out and posted the letters.
When I came in, I met Fay on the stairs between her landing and mine. I hadn’t time to wonder what had taken her upstairs, because she began to explain the minute she saw me:
“I’ve been up to your room. You needn’t be frightened- there weren’t any love-letters lying about. Car, you really oughtn’t to glare like that-I haven’t stolen anything.”
She got as far as that, speaking in a sort of nervous rush, and then, to my surprise, she blushed, a real honest, unbecoming blush, and dashed past me into her own room.
Any other time, I suppose, I should have gone after her and asked her what she was playing at; but I was still angry. She had told me a lot of perfectly pointless lies and then tried to make out that it was something to do with me. I thought I’d cool down a bit before I had it out with her and told her what a little rotter she’d been.
I had hardly got to the top of the stairs when I heard Mrs. Bell calling me. She was halfway up the bottom flight, puffing and panting and waving an orange envelope.
I ran down, of course.
“Another of those there telegrafts! They’ll be keeping a messenger special for you if it goes on like this,” she said.
I wondered what on earth Z.10 could be wiring to me about. But the telegram wasn’t from Z.10.
It was from Isobel.
It said, “Must see you. Very urgent indeed. Meet me Olding Crescent Putney eight-thirty to-night without fail. Isobel.”
I stared and stared at the words. First they didn’t seem to mean anything, and then they seemed to mean a great deal too much, and then they went blank and didn’t mean anything at all.
I knew Mrs. Bell was talking, but I didn’t hear a word she said.
Presently I said, “No, there isn’t any answer,” and I went upstairs to my room.
Fay’s door was a little open as I passed, and I had a sort of feeling that she was watching me. I went up two steps at a time. I didn’t feel in the least like talking to Fay.
I shut the door of my room and sat down at my table with the telegram spread out in front of me. The thing just took my breath away.
What did Isobel know about Olding Crescent?
Why did she want to see me urgently-very urgently?
And why eighty-thirty?
It would be quite dark-black dark under those overhanging trees.
Why did Isobel want me to meet her in the dark?
I sat there and tried to think of answers to these questions. What made it difficult was that when I thought about meeting Isobel, Isobel herself just swamped everything else. Trying to think about the other things was like trying to hear street noises outside when an organ is playing-you know the noises are there, but the music just floods over and through them and blots them out.