They looked quickly round. A stout gentleman in a navy blue suit and a satin tie had come out of the morning-room, and was advancing upon them. He had a somewhat Jewish cast of countenance, several gold sloppings in his teeth, which made his wide smile quite dazzling, a handsome ring on his finger, and a pearl pin in his tie. He held out his hand to Dinah, and clasped hers with reverent fervour. "Lady Billington-Smith, I presume. Allow a stranger to offer you his deepest sympathy, madam! And Mr. Billington-Smith! A sad loss, sir: believe me, I feel for you."
"Thank you so much," said Francis. "But I'm not the man you think me. Nor, to be strictly accurate, is this Lady Billington-Smith. We are, alas, quite insignificant persons."
"I'm happy to meet you, sir," said Mr. Lewis. "This is a terrible business. When I got Lola's letter I said to myself at once: This won't do. Definitely No. That is my view, and I don't fancy I shall change it. So you need have no fear of me at all. You'll set your minds at rest right now. Your interests are mine." He turned, and laid a hand on the outraged Finch's shoulder. "Now, you'll trot straight up to Miss de Silva's room, my man, and you'll say to her that Sam Lewis is right here."
"I think perhaps you'd better, Finch," said Dinah chokingly.
Mr. Lewis regarded her with sympathy. "On your nerves a little? I understand. A loving husband and a fond father done to death under his own roof while at hand the light-hearted guests, all unthinking of the great tragedy being enacted, pursue their innocent amusments. What a story! Double columns, I give you my word, and pictures on the front page. But it must not be. That is my verdict. Now I'll tell you something, and believe me what Sam Lewis doesn't know about the publicity racket you can-put into a match-box and throw into the incinerator." He drew closer to Francis, and tapped him on the chest with one stubby forefinger. "Get a hold on this," he said impressively. "What will make you a top-liner in France, with your name in electric signs six foot high, may land you into the first turn in a third-rate music-hall show in England, with people getting into their seats, and fumbling for sixpence for the programme while you're doing your stuff. Take it from me, sir, that's the solid truth. I know what you're going to say. And I tell you, me, Sam Lewis, that you're wrong. Definitely wrong. Glamour's O.K. I'm not saying it isn't. But the public's a ticklish thing. You want to get your fingers on its pulse. That's where mine is, and that's where I'm keeping it. Right on the Public Pulse. And this is what I'm telling you: what the English Public wants is, Sentiment. It sees La Lola in her Apache Dance with Greg Lamley. It's a riot. But God bless you, do you suppose the Public wants to think of Lola as the Girl in the last Murder Case? No, sir! Wash that right out. You've got the Public wrong. It wants to think of Lola being a Wife and Mother off the stage, just the same ar you or I might be."
"Hardly, I feel," murmured Francis.
"And that," said Mr. Lewis, paying no heed to this interruption, "is why I say we've got to hush this up. If it had happened in any other country I could have used it. But it's gone and happened in England, and it's no use crying over spilt milk: we can't use it."
At this moment Finch came downstairs, and said rigidly: "Miss de Silva desires you to go up to her room, sir. This way, if you please."
"I'll be right with you," said Mr. Lewis. He beamed upon Dinah, besought her to rely on him, and followed Finch up the stairs.
Inspector Harding, entering the house three minutes later, found Miss Fawcett clinging to the banisters in a hopeless fit of giggles, while a slim and handsome young man, who was propping his shoulders against the wall, regarded her with a world-weary but tolerant eye.