To Poole’s surprise, Inez Fratten was already waiting for him. Dressed in a dark mackintosh—there had been intermittent drizzle all day—and a small black hat, the detective did not at first recognize her as she stood, meekly waiting, in a corner just out of the rush of passengers. Her smile of welcome sent a thrill of pleasure through him and seemed to brighten up the drab surroundings of the east-end station.
“You’re very punctual, Miss Fratten,” said Poole. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”
“You’re before time,” replied Inez. “I came early because I suddenly got a qualm that she might get off at five. She hasn’t been this way, anyhow.”
Together they made their way upstream towards Fenchurch Street. A squad of newsboys hurrying out with the last editions alone seemed to be going in the same direction as themselves—everyone else was making for home and supper. Poole thought gloomily of the amount of work he had in front of him before his own supper was likely to be eaten; a further sigh escaped him as he thought of the loneliness of the “home” that awaited him at the end of the day; he did not often think of that aspect of his work—its endlessness, its loneliness; perhaps the presence of the girl at his side had started a train of thought that had better be promptly quenched.
A glance at Inez showed him that she had no such thoughts; her eyes were alive with interest as she scanned each approaching female face; so far as she was concerned, the hunt was up and the thrill of it had thrust into the background the sadness of her loss and the anxiety of her “brother’s” position.
Arrived at Ald House, the two hunters took up a position outside, and to one side of, the entrance. To avoid an appearance of watching they had arranged to stand as if in conversation, Poole with his back to the entrance and Inez Fratten, half-hidden by him, facing it; in this way she would be able to see everyone who came out and her own presence would be unlikely to attract the attention of their quarry. For a time they actually did converse, Poole doing most of the talking—about plays, books, politics, football—any subject that came into his head—while Inez answered in monosyllables and kept her gaze steadily fixed upon the entrance. After half an hour of it, however, even Poole’s eloquence—inspired as it was by the happy necessity of gazing into those enchanting eyes—began to dry up. Fortunately the six o’clock rush made their presence less conspicuous than it had been, and for another quarter of an hour Poole did little more than look at Inez while she kept her unwavering eyes focussed on the doorway through which “Daphne” must come.
By 6.15 the stream had begun to thin; only an occasional junior clerk or typist hurried eagerly from office or counting-house towards bus or train, buttoning up coat collars or huddling under umbrellas as the gusts of rain swept down upon them. It was none too pleasant standing in the open street; besides, now that it was emptying, their continued conversation had an air that lacked conviction.
They discussed their course of action. They might move into the entrance and watch from some dark corner, or—now that there was no crowd to obscure the line of vision—they might take up a position further from the spot they had to watch. On the other hand their quarry’s continued failure to appear suggested that she might after all have left earlier in the day and they be wasting their time by further waiting. They had reached the point of discussing the possibilities of enquiry when footsteps coming out of the entrance hall of Ald House caught their ear. Instantly they resumed their former attitudes; Poole with his eyes fixed upon Inez’ so that he could read hope or disappointment in their expression. He had not long to wait; he heard the two quicker steps of someone taking the two stone steps from Ald House on to the pavement and on the instant a look of astonishment flashed into the girl’s eyes. He heard her quick gasp of surprise and then the steps passed behind him and he turned his head to look; a man, of medium height and slightly built, was walking away from them, his coat collar turned up and his soft hat pulled low over his eyes. He had not gone ten steps when he checked, as if hesitating whether to go on or turn back. As he turned his head back towards the house he had left the light from a passing lorry fell upon his face; it was Ryland Fratten.
CHAPTER XVIII.
The Method
Whether Fratten recognized him or not, the detective could not be certain; he did not appear to look at him, but turned away and walked off at the same pace as before. Poole gave a quick glance at his companion’s face and saw that its expression had changed slightly, from astonishment to puzzlement—there was a slight frown of thought on Inez’s brow as her eyes followed Ryland’s retreating form.