It was a disconcerting realisation to have to face—that Lapping had read through her studied innocence and seen her for nothing more or less than the emissary of the Saint, and that he was simply playing with her. Would any law-abiding man, however tolerant, have been quite so broadminded? She began to doubt it, while she had to admit that her grounds for doing so were very flimsy. If Lapping were high up in the Tiger Cubs, he would be a clever man, and a clever man would know that to try to turn her against the Saint would immediately arouse suspicion of his motives; whereas by taking the Saint’s part he might hope to inveigle her into regarding him as a potential ally. But how could an ex-judge, most of whose life had been led in the glaring light of publicity, have managed to enter such a gang as the Tiger’s? Her brain reeled in a dizzy maze of impossible theories, of profound subtleties and super-crafty counter-subtleties. If Lapping were in league with the Tiger, and had seen through her, how high would he be likely to rate her intelligence? For according to that rating he would be skilfully gauging her psychological reactions to his insidious attack, so that on the very points where she thought he had betrayed himself he would have fooled her into making exactly the deductions he wanted her to make. And to beat him at that game she would have to be just a shade cleverer than he gave her credit for being—and how clever was that? For the first time she got an insight into the true deadly technique of the “sport” she had taken up so light-heartedly.
Now Lapping emerged from the house, carrying a folding table. Behind him followed his housekeeper with the tray of tea things. For an instant Patricia was seized with panic. Suppose Lapping were one of the Tiger Cubs—even the Tiger himself—and had discovered her object and decided to remove her? The tea could be drugged, cakes could be poisoned. She choked back an impulse to rush away, forcing herself to think of Simon. What would the Saint have done in the circumstances? Well, for a start, he’d never have allowed them to arise. But how would he face them if they had arisen? She compelled herself to deal logically with her fear, and the answer came. Whatever Lapping might be, and however much he suspected, he wouldn’t dare to do anything to her just then, because of the possibility that the Saint might be keeping an eye on the proceedings, watching and waiting to see if Lapping would fall for the temptation and so incriminate himself. The answer was sound. Patricia relaxed, and greeted Lapping with a friendly smile when he arrived.
“I feel I’m giving you a lot of trouble,” she apologised.
He waived her excuses.
“Not at all, my dear Miss Holm. It’s a pleasure. And the trouble is negligible—for a bachelor, I’m very domesticated, and dispensing tea is one of my social assets.”
He was genial and unreserved. The secret amusement which she had noticed was no longer evident. Either he had ceased to see the funny side of the situation, or his pleasure in it had become too great to show. She found herself again falling under the spell of his avuncular bonhomie, but the memory of that half-hidden mockery in his eyes continued to bother her. Wouldn’t a man with nothing to conceal have showed his amusement openly, if he found anything comic in being appealed to for advice on such a matter? What other explanation could there be except the one that Lapping was playing a shrewd game?
Perhaps the Saint would know. The bare facts must be placed in his possession at once, for Patricia felt that she was hopelessly out of her depth. She ate and drank sparingly, praying for the earliest moment at which she could take her leave without seeming in too great a hurry. Lapping, either ignoring her perturbation or failing to see any signs of it, chatted pleasantly; Patricia did her best to keep up the part she was playing. She must have done it successfully, for he appeared pained and surprised when she made a tentative move to gather up her belongings.
“Must you leave me so soon?”
“I’ve promised to see my aunt before dinner,” she said. “There’s some business to talk over—something about my investments. It’s an awful bore, but the letter’s got to be written to-night so that it can go off first thing in the morning.”
It was amazing what a fluent and convincing liar she had become of a sudden.