“What’s Mr. Forsyth want?”
“I don’t know at all, my lord. He simply told me to find you, wherever you were, and bring you back in a cab to Lincoln’s Inn Fields.”
Pembury, who was at his tailor’s, adjusted his tie.
“All right,” he said slowly. “If you’ll get a cab, I’ll be ready in two minutes’ time.”
The clerk bowed and withdrew.
Pembury wondered, frowning, what was afoot.
Had Forsyth got hold of something? Had he been making inquiries and come on the truth? Had the Richelieu been talking? Had . . . Forsyth had found out something. Not a doubt of it. Something about Sunday night. And Forsyth was going to try to force his hand. He was going to threaten to put Elizabeth wise. . . .
Pembury smiled a grim smile.
As he entered the lawyer’s room—