“The deuce it does!” commented Mr. Priestley.
“Yes,” said Laura with more confidence. “He used to lend it to me in the old days. They know me quite well at that garage where he keeps it; so of course I had no difficulty in getting it last night. You see, it was only on the spur of the moment that I spoke to you at all.”
“Good gracious!” said Mr. Priestley, who appeared to be conversing chiefly in exclamations.
“Yes, I’m afraid I was dreadfully wicked,” Laura said with engaging candour, and looked dreadfully innocent. “But I was at my wits’ end. Without a roof to cover me, a penny in my purse, a—oh, I said that before. By the way, I was wrong about the penny. I had a half-crown. I used it to pay for our coffees at the Piccadilly Palace. Anyhow, I was desperate. And I knew that I must get my letters back, or—unutterable things would happen. Unutterable things,” she added, pleased with the phrase. “He had already offered them to me—at a price,” she added further in a low voice, modestly averting her head. It was a phrase which pleased her even more.
“The abominable scoundrel!” exclaimed Mr. Priestley, positively puce about the gills. “I’m—yes, I’m glad I shot him. Thoroughly glad. I was glad when you told me he was a blackmailer. But now!”
“He deserved it,” said Laura simply, “if ever a man did.”
Once again there was a little pause while Laura congratulated herself with some heartiness. It was a good story, and it had gone down well. Besides, she pointed out to herself with conscious altruism, it would all tend to relieve Mr. Priestley’s mind. It is much less of a burden to have a death on one’s conscience for which one is extremely glad than one which calls for remorse and self-surrender.
“This car,” said Mr. Priestley, not quite so happily. “You say they know you at that garage?”
“Oh, yes; perfectly well.”
“Know your name, and all about you?”