Tab was silent for a while.
“You mean that the jewels really belonged to Trasmere, that he loaned them to the girl and that she had to return them every night?” he asked quietly.
“There is no other explanation,” said Carver. “There is no other explanation, either, for her secretarial activities. Trasmere was in a score of enterprises and I have no doubt that he was the man who put up the money for Ursula Ardfern’s season. He was a shrewd old boy and probably had seen her acting. My own impression is that he made a fortune out of this girl—”
“But why should she, a successful actress, consent to act as his midnight secretary? Why should she go on as though she were a slave to this man, instead of being, if your theory is correct, an earner of big money?”
Carver looked at him steadily.
“Because he knew something about Miss Ardfern, something that she did not wish should be known,” he said gently. “I am not suggesting it is anything discreditable to her,” he went on discreetly, detecting the cloud gathering on Tab’s face. “Some day she’ll tell us all about it I daresay. At present, it is unimportant.”
He got up from his desk—they were talking in his office—and stretched himself.
“This concludes the day’s entertainment, gentlemen,” he said, “and if you are dissatisfied, your money will be returned to you at the doors.”
There were moments when Carver could be facetious.
“No, I’m not going home. I have a couple of hours’ work here. I shan’t be disturbed. Happily the station telephone is out of order. A tree fell across a line somewhere between here and the exchange. Remember, Tab, only the briefest notes of Walters’ arrest. Nothing about the charge, not a single item of his statement, beyond the fact that he has made one.”