That conveyed nothing to Verschoyle.
'I had the pleasure of meeting Miss Day at the bookshop. I thought she might have mentioned it.'
'No.... I have been to see a Miss Messenger on the third floor. Do you know her?'
'Slightly.'
'You know nothing about her?'
'Nothing, except that she had a child that died.... I'm afraid I didn't even know her name. I don't bother myself much about my neighbours.'
'Thank you,' said Verschoyle. 'Good-night.'
Rodd let himself in, his curiosity working furiously at this strange combination of persons. What on earth could be the link between Verschoyle and the shabby, disreputable ménage on the third floor?... His heart answered ominously: 'Clara.'
He walked slowly up the dark, uncarpeted stairs, and, as he was at the bend below the third floor, he heard a shrill scream—a horrid scream, full of terror, loathing, contempt. He rushed up to the door of the third floor flat and found it open, stood for a moment, and heard a man's voice saying,—
'You shall, you sly cat. Give it me and you shall do as I tell you.'