The voice was that of Edgar. It was so quiet as to be almost an undertone.
"Oh, do." Amy was the one to answer, for Patricia was dazed.
"Get your coat, then. Will you take her?" Edgar supplemented his instruction with the request to Amy; and the two girls moved quickly away. They saw no more of Dalrymple. By the time they were dressed Edgar was waiting in the hall; and they stood in the doorway together while he started the engine of his car. Two great lights illumined the gravel sweep in front of Monty's house. Then Patricia was in a warm, soft-lighted vehicle, and they were in motion. She pressed back in her place, her head throbbing and her mouth still nervously smiling. It was as though she were flying from all unpleasantness, very tired and happy, with one she trusted and would have trusted with her life.
"And now ..." said Edgar. "Where do we go?"
Patricia was looking back at the doorway. In it she could no longer see Amy and Jack Penton. There remained, silhouetted against the light of the hall, only the figure of Monty; and Monty, so still that he might have been without pulses, stood watching the departure of Patricia and her escort. For her thereafter there was nothing but the soft purring of the engine and the sense of security and safe harbourage against all the elements.
vi
In the studio, Monty stood alone. His last guest had gone. He was in the midst of that stale atmosphere and the wreck of a past entertainment. Smoke hung about in the air, the faint pungent smells of the drinks and of drying dampness combined with it. All was hot and vitiated. Monty stood with perspiration faintly upon his cheeks and under his heavy eyes. He had mixed himself a glass of whisky and soda, and rested it now upon the mantelpiece. The soft front of his dress shirt was crumpled, and his hair was less thickly smooth than it had been; but he was otherwise immaculate, from his beautifully-cut dinner jacket to his patent-leather shoes. He looked round the studio, and listened to the pattering of rain above his head.
Slowly Monty sank into one of his soft armchairs, and set his glass upon the floor. Around him was an indescribable mess of cigarette ash. The ghost of the party was risen. It was everywhere about him, in the now-silent chatter and the remembered scents and interests of the evening. Monty's thoughts were not mournful or stagnant, as those of one more sensitive might have been. He was entirely collected, and satisfied with his party. There had been no hitch at all; and even Dalrymple had at last been persuaded to go by the arrival of a taxi and the loan of his fare. Monty was alone, well content.
All the same, Dalrymple must never again come to one of his parties. Monty had no use for a man such as he had shown himself to be. This was for Monty the end of Dalrymple. Far otherwise was the case with Dalrymple's companion. Far otherwise.... The exclusion of Dalrymple must not affect the little Quin girl. She could be reached through Amy Roberts ... possibly through Harry Greenlees....
Monty almost smiled as he had this last thought. Then he became serious again. He had other matters to think of. There were many other things....