“I told her we’d much better consider it off, at any rate till I was clear of all this business,” he said miserably. “But she won’t listen to me.”
Cynthia turned in desperation to Fayre.
“Uncle Fayre! You’re the only one of the lot with a gleam of sense. Do stop him! If he starts this argument again, I shall go mad! We’ve had enough rows already about it, and I should have thought the result of the last one might have taught him a lesson! Tell him what a fool he is, Uncle Fayre! You said you agreed with me. If I argue any more about it I shall lose my temper.”
She swung round on Leslie.
“Understand this! I’m not going to let this make any difference. I’m going to hang on like a leech, whatever happens! So you can’t get rid of me!”
Kean’s eyes met Fayre’s meaningly.
“I think she’s right,” he said quietly, and left it at that; but the other knew what he was thinking. If Leslie were to find himself in the dock the fact that his engagement to Cynthia still held would tell in his favour.
He nodded absently. His mind was on the coming inquest. While they were talking they had drifted into the sitting-room, and he saw Kean’s face harden into grim lines as he took in the scene that had staged so dramatic a drama. It struck him that the lawyer, in spite of his air of calm efficiency, was taking anything but a light view of Leslie’s predicament.
The table had been cleared of all its paraphernalia. No doubt the blotter was in the hands of the police. Fayre and Cynthia sat down near the table and Kean took up his position on the hearth-rug in his favourite attitude, his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched almost to his ears. Leslie stood behind Cynthia, his eyes on Kean’s face.
“What’s this about a police search?” asked Kean abruptly.