If only she had used better judgment when the telegram came—if only she had hired an automobile and driven straight to Beachy Head—if only she had done a dozen other things which no one would possibly have dreamed of doing—she might have safeguarded her darling mother!
Theydon, meanwhile, was nearly frantic with the indecision of ignorance. Never had he felt so helpless, so utterly childish and unhinged in the face of disaster. He had heard that it was good for a woman to be allowed to cry when overwhelmed with misery. Again, he remembered reading somewhere that the feminine temperament should not be allowed to yield to a too-tempestuous grief, or the delicate and finely-balanced female organism might suffer irreparable injury. Should she be given water or a stimulant? Should one leave her alone or endeavor to soothe her?
Heaven only knew—he didn't—so he did exactly what any devout and despairing lover might be expected to do—put an arm around her shoulders, and murmured a frenzied assurance of his willingness to die several times, and vanquish a horde of Young Manchus in the process, ere she could be allowed to endure one needless hour of distress on her mother's account.
Somehow, this sort of nonsense was helpful. The girl raised her swimming eyes to his. She placed two appealing hands on his shoulders, and said brokenly:
"Mr. Theydon—I am ready to trust you—next to—my own father.... Where shall we go? What can we do? I'll come with you—anywhere—only—my dear one must be rescued."
He believed afterwards that he answered her by a kiss! He was not certain. The delirium of the moment was such that he could never recall its words or acts with that precision which a well-regulated mind should display even under the stress of intense emotion. In any event, the crisis was interrupted by the clamor of the telephone bell.
Withdrawing from what was perilously near an embrace—so colorable an imitation of the real thing that Winter, entering at that instant, could make no distinction, and was secretly amazed at these strenuous methods of consoling the lady—Theydon lifted the receiver, and heard as one in a trance the telephone operator's conventional announcement:
"Trunk call from Croydon; you're through."
"Who is it?" demanded the chief inspector gruffly.
Even he, veteran fighter in the unceasing battle between the law and the malefactor, was feeling the strain of the Homeric struggle ushered in by the death of Edith Lester.