"Or else?"
‘It was a supernatural murder." He spoke without smiling. Martin Drake brushed aside this reference to Fleet House. "Do you honestly think you can get the keys to the prison?"; "Oh, I think so. At least I can try. Where can I reach you tomorrow?"
"I'm afraid I've got to be at Willaby's Auction Rooms all morning. With a friend of mine named Merrivale." Unexpectedly, a reminiscent grin lit up Drake's dulled eyes. Then he became sober again. "But I can make a point of being at my rooms in the afternoon, if that's convenient? I'm in the 'phonebook."
"You'll hear from me," Stannard assured him.
Loud in night-stillness, the clock at St Jude's rang the quarter-hour after three. Stannard got up, brushing a trace of cigar-ash from his waist-coat He drew a deep breath.
"And now, my dear," he said to Ruth, "you must excuse me. Middle-aged barristers can't keep late hours like you young people, I’ll ring you tomorrow, if I may."
Throughout this conversation Ruth had kept her eyes fixed on Martin Drake. Doubt, uncertainly, showed in them and troubled her breathing under the oyster-coloured gown. Stannard noticed that Drake, though he got up politely, made no move to leave. It was a dead hour, dull on the wits and opium to the emotions. Yet something wrenched in Stannard's heart as his hostess followed him to the door.
In the little hall of the flat, every inch of wall-space was occupied by shelves of bright-jacketed books. Ruth Callice was the owner of a fashionable bookshop in Piccadilly, which she managed herself; that was how she and Stannard had met A dim little ceiling-lantern burned in the hall. Stannard picked up hat and rolled umbrella from an oak chest
"It was awfully nice of you to come," Ruth said.
"Not at all. The pleasure was mine. May I see you again?"