Charles Moray was still living at The Luxe, but he had fallen into the way of paying unheralded visits at odd times to the house in Thornhill Square. He did not always let the Latterys know that he had been and gone. He did not always enter the house; sometimes he merely walked along the square, up Thorney Lane, and into the garden by way of the alley that ran behind it. In all his visits he neither saw nor heard anything unusual.
On this particular evening he walked round the garden, heard ten o’clock strike from the church of St. Justin, and went out through the door in the wall, locking it after him. As he stood with his back to the alley-way and withdrew the key, someone passed him in the darkness.
Charles turned and began to walk towards Thorney Lane. The lamp at the end of the alley showed him that it was a woman who had passed behind him whilst he was locking the door. She turned to the left and walked quickly down Thorney Lane past the opening into Thornhill Square to the big thoroughfare that lay beyond. Charles followed her.
The woman was Margaret Langton. If she had been up to her old home, the alley-way and Thorney Lane would be a short cut for her. He thought he would wait a little before catching her up.
The night was cold, but there was no fog. Heavy rain had cleared the air, and the falling temperature seemed to promise frost before morning.
As Margaret turned into the lighted thoroughfare, he saw that she was carrying a parcel. He came up with her with an easy, “Hullo, Margaret! Where are you off to?”
“I’ve been up to see Freddy. I’m going home.”
“So you really haven’t quarrelled with him?”
“No,” said Margaret in a tired voice, “I haven’t quarrelled with Freddy. Why should I?”
Charles took her parcel and tucked it under his arm. It felt like a box, quite light, but awkward to hold.
“Loot?” he inquired.
“Only an old desk of my mother’s. It’s empty. Freddy said I could have it. He’s going abroad, you know.”
“Freddy is!”
“Yes-he can’t bear England without her. He wants to travel.”
“I’m awfully sorry for him,” said Charles.
He was awfully sorry for Margaret too, but he knew better than to say so. She kept her passionate feeling in a shrine which no one else must enter. He held his peace.
They walked on in silence until Margaret stopped and held out her hand.
“I go up here. Give me my parcel, please.”
“I thought I was seeing you home.”
“I don’t know why you thought so.”
“I still think so,” said Charles cheerfully.
Margaret shook her head.
“No. Please give me my box.”
Perhaps she expected him to contest the point. Instead, he said quite meekly,
“Very well, if you like carrying things that run into you, carry them.”
“Thanks,” said Margaret.
Her way lay along one of the darker streets. She felt an odd, rough disappointment as she walked along it alone. She had certainly expected that Charles would thrust his company upon her. She had told him to go; but she had not expected him to go. He was not at all a biddable person. If he let her go home alone, it was because he didn’t to want to come with her. Margaret held her head a little higher. The old desk was a most uncomfortable thing to carry; some-times the edge of it ran into her side, and sometimes into her arm.
In the darkest patch of the road she bumped into someone. Her “Oh, I’m so sorry!” received no answer except a sort of half sob.
“Did I hurt you?”
The distressing little sound was repeated. Margaret began to wonder what was the matter. She could just see someone standing against the brick wall that bordered the tiny front gardens of the houses on this side of the road. The dark figure seemed to be leaning against the wall in a helpless half crouching attitude.
“What is it? Are you ill?”
The figure moved. A girl’s voice said shakily, “I- don’t-know.”
“What’s the matter?”
It was abominably stupid to ask the question-the girl would certainly beg from her.
“I haven’t anywhere to go.”
Margaret moved, and at once two despairing hands caught at her.
“Don’t go away! Don’t leave me!”
Margaret told herself she had been a fool, but she was in for it now. She took the girl by the arm, and felt that her sleeve was soaked.
“Good gracious! You’re wet through.!”
“It rained.” The voice was one of utter misery.
“Come along as far as the lamp-post-we can’t talk in the dark.”
The lamplight showed Margaret a girl with drenched fair hair hanging in wispy curls. The girl was very pretty indeed; even with a tear-stained face and limp hair she was very pretty. Her dark blue coat was beautifully cut, and drenched though it was, Margaret could both feel and see that the stuff had been expensive. It had a grey fox collar, draggled and discouraged-looking, but a fine skin for all that.
The girl looked at her out of blue, tear-washed eyes set round with astonishingly black lashes.
“Have you lost your way?” said Margaret gravely.
“Yes-I have-but-”
“Where do you live?”
The girl gulped down a sob.
“I can’t go back-I can’t.”
She couldn’t be more than seventeen or eighteen. Margaret’s eyes travelled down to her feet. Expensive shoes-real Milanese stockings. “The little idiot has had a row with her people and run away.” She spoke firmly:
“Where do you live? You must go home at once.”
“I can’t. I haven’t got a home.”
“Where have you come from?”
“I can’t go back. They’ll do something dreadful to me if I go back.”
“Do you mean they’ll be angry with you?”
The girl shook her head.
“There isn’t anyone to be angry. I haven’t got anyone- really I haven’t. They’ll do something dreadful to me. I heard them making a plan-I did really. I hid behind the sofa and I heard them. They said it would be safer to remove me.” She shuddered violently. “Oh, what do you think they meant?”
Margaret was puzzled. This might be delusion; but the girl didn’t look unhinged. She looked frightened, and she was certainly soaked to the skin.
“Haven’t you any friends you could go to for tonight?”
“Papa wouldn’t let me have any friends, except at school.”
“Where was your school?”
“In Switzerland.”
“What on earth am I to do with you?” said Margaret. “What’s your name.”
“Esther Brandon,” said the girl.
The desk that Margaret was carrying fell on the pavement with a crash. The name was like a blow. She looked at the girl’s brimming eyes and quivering mouth, and saw them as if they were a long way off, a very long way off. She had to put her hand on the standard of the lamp and lean hard on it for a moment before she could find voice enough to speak.
“What did you say?”
“Esther Brandon,” said the girl.
Margaret felt quite numb and stupid. She bent down and picked up the desk. It had been Esther Brandon’s desk when she was a girl, no older than this girl. And Esther Brandon had become Esther Langton, and afterwards Esther Pelham. Margaret straightened herself, holding the desk as if it weighed heavily. Then she spoke suddenly and sharply:
“Where did you get that name?”
The girl didn’t answer. She had looked frightened when Margaret caught at the lamp-post. Now all of a sudden a vague look came over her face; her eyes clouded. She put out her hand and said “Oh!” then she took a wavering step forward and went down all in a heap on the pavement.
Mr. Charles Moray loomed up out of the darkness.
“Charles-thank goodness!”
“What’s up?” said Charles. “Who is she?”
“I don’t know. Be an angel and get me a taxi.”
“What are you going to do with her?”
“Take her back with me.”
Charles whistled.
“My dear girl, you can’t go about London collecting strange young females.”
Margaret was on her knees. The girl moved a little and drew a choking breath.
Charles bent nearer.
“Take her to a hospital, Margaret.”
“I can’t.”
She turned her face up to him, and it was as white as paper.
“My dear girl-”
“Charles-I can’t.” Her voice fell to a whisper. “She says her name-Charles, she says her name is Esther Brandon.”
Charles whistled again.