She faltered forward to him, and would have fallen if Bertram had not sprung towards her and held her close.
“Mother! Courage!”
“My poor Susan!” she cried. “My dear little daughter!”
Mr. Pollard rose, pale now, like his wife, visibly distressed.
“I’ll see if there’s anything to be done,” he said. “I’ll make enquiry. Hush, Mother! Hush, now!”
She put her hand on his shoulder and wept miserably, and said, “For God’s sake, dear. I can’t bear it! This is the worst that’s happened yet.”
Bertram took her to the sitting-room, and left her there later, when she seemed more composed, though still trembling. He went to his father’s study, and entered without knocking, and saw his father standing with his hands behind his back, staring at the floor with a heavy frown.
“Father,” he said, “something’s got to be done about this. You must get to work quickly. It’s not long till Wednesday.”
Michael Pollard stared at his son with anger and suspicion.
“How much do you know about this?” he asked. “Did Susan tell you how many murders her precious husband has committed? How many of your fellow officers he has shot in cold blood?”