I thanked him, and gave him Jim Cayley’s name and address and telephone number.
“All right; I’ll let Mr. Cayley know as soon as possible,” he said, jotting the details in his note-book. “What about Lord Southbourne?”
“I’ll send word to him later.”
I felt distinctly guilty with respect to Southbourne. I ought, of course, to have communicated with him—or rather have got Freeman to do so—as soon as I began to pull round; but somehow I’d put off the unpleasant duty. I had disobeyed his express instructions, as poor Carson had done; and the disobedience had brought its own punishment to me, as to Carson, though in a different way; but Southbourne would account that as nothing. He would probably ignore me; or if he did not do that, his interest would be strictly impersonal,—limited to the amount of effective copy I could turn out as a result of my experiences.
Therefore I was considerably surprised when, some hours afterwards, instead of Jim Cayley, whom I was expecting every moment, Lord Southbourne himself was brought up to the cell,—one of those kept for prisoners on remand, a small bare room, but comfortable enough, and representing the acme of luxury in comparison with the crowded den in which I had been thrown in Petersburg.
Lord Southbourne’s heavy, clean-shaven face was impassive as ever, and he greeted me with a casual nod.
“Hello, Wynn, you’ve been in the wars, eh? I’ve seen Freeman. He says you were just about at the last gasp when he got hold of you, and is pluming himself no end on having brought you through so well.”
“So he ought!” I conceded cordially. “He’s a jolly good sort, and it would have been all up with me in another few hours. Though how on earth he could fix on me as Cassavetti’s murderer, I can’t imagine. It’s a fool business, anyhow.”
“H’m—yes, I suppose so,” drawled Southbourne, in that exasperatingly deliberate way of his. “But I think you must blame—or thank—me for that!”