She stared at him, blankly. "Can these things be done--quickly, Hector?"
"They shall be," promised Hector Brunton, K.C.
2
Somehow, she was in Julia's work-room. Somehow, she had reached home before Ronnie. To get home before Ronnie! That had been her one panic ever since leaving Hector.
Of her parting with Hector, with the admiral; of her scurry through the Temple; of her taxi chugging, chugging, chugging down the Embankment, chugging up Northumberland Avenue, chugging through Trafalgar Square, of her taxi blocked in the Haymarket, of herself calling frantically through the window, "Don't go up the Haymarket," of their sweep along Pall Mall, up St. James's Street and along Piccadilly, Aliette remembered nothing. She knew only that there was hope--a gleam of hope for them all, for Ronnie's child, for Ronnie, for herself, for Hector; knew only that she must act--act at once--before Ronnie came home.
Perhaps Ronnie was home already. Perhaps he had gone upstairs to dress. Perhaps he had heard her let herself in with her latch-key.
A key! If only there were a key, so that she might lock herself in Julia's work-room.
A key! If only there were a key, so that she might open Julia's desk. How the fire glowed on the red mahogany, on the yellow brass of the desk! How the fire crackled, crackled!
She must break open the desk. Break it open before Ronnie could stop her. She must save Ronnie--save Hector. They were only men. Men of the law--of man's law. Men only talked. She, the mother, must act--act!
Now, in the fraction of a second, Aliette was at the fireplace. Now she had seized the bright steel poker in both hands. Now she was at the desk. Now she had inserted the poker through the ormolu handle of the drawer in the pedestal of the desk. Now--gingerly--she levered her poker against the mahogany rim of the desk.