“Come on then!”
“All right—half a minute. I must just telephone from the station.”
“Who to?”
“A girl I was going to meet.”
She slipped across the road, and rejoined him three minutes later, looking rather flushed.
“Now then, Tom.”
She slipped her arm in his.
“Tell me more about Scotland Yard. You didn’t see the other one there?”
“What other one?”
“The Belgian gentleman. The one that A B C writes to always.”
“No. He wasn’t there.”
“Well, tell me all about it. What happened when you got inside? Who did you speak to and what did you say?”
II
Mr. Cust put the receiver back very gently on the hook.
He turned to where Mrs. Marbury was standing in the doorway of the room, clearly devoured with curiosity.
“Not often you have a telephone call, Mr. Cust?”
“No—er—no, Mrs. Marbury. It isn’t.”
“Not bad news, I trust?”
“No—no.” How persistent the woman was. His eyes caught the legend on the newspaper he was carrying.
Births—Marriages—Deaths….
“My sister’s just had a little boy,” he blurted out.
He—who had never had a sister!
“Oh, dear! Now—well, that is nice, I am sure. (‘And never once mentioned a sister all these years,’ was her inward thought. ‘If that isn’t just like a man!’) I was surprised, I’ll tell you, when the lady asked to speak to Mr. Cust. Just at first I fancied it was my Lily’s voice—something like hers, it was—but haughtier if you know what I mean—sort of high up in the air. Well, Mr. Cust, my congratulations, I’m sure. Is it the first one, or have you other little nephews and nieces?”
“It’s the only one,” said Mr. Cust. “The only one I’ve ever had or likely to have, and—er—I think I must go off at once. They—they want me to come. I—I think I can just catch a train if I hurry.”
“Will you be away long, Mr. Cust?” called Mrs. Marbury as he ran up the stairs.
“Oh, no—two or three days—that’s all.”
He disappeared into his bedroom. Mrs. Marbury retired into the kitchen, thinking sentimentally of “the dear little mite.”
Her conscience gave her a sudden twinge.
Last night Tom and Lily and all the hunting back over dates! Trying to make out that Mr. Cust was that dreadful monster, A B C. Just because of his initials and because of a few coincidences.
“I don’t suppose they meant it seriously,” she thought comfortably. “And now I hope they’ll be ashamed of themselves.”