Just as it was growing dusk on the following evening, a handsome middle-aged woman, exquisitely dressed in the latest mode, and carrying a big gold chain-purse, attached to which was a quantity of jangling paraphernalia in the shape of cigarette-case, puff-box, and other articles, was lolling in, a big armchair in Lewin Rodwell’s little study in Bruton Street.
From her easy attitude, and the fact that she had taken off her fur coat and was in the full enjoyment of a cigarette with her well-shod feet upon the fender, it was quite apparent that she was no stranger there.
“It certainly was the only thing to be done in the circumstances, I quite agree,” she was saying to Rodwell, who was seated opposite her, on the other side of the fire.
“How did he look at Bow Street this, morning? Tell me!” Rodwell asked her eagerly.
“Pale and worried,” was the woman’s reply. “The case was heard in the extradition court, and there were very few people there. The girl was there, of course. A young barrister named Charles Pelham appeared for him, and reserved his defence. The whole proceedings did not occupy five minutes—just the evidence of arrest, and then the magistrate remanded him for a week.”
“So I heard over the ’phone.”
“I thought perhaps you would be called,” the woman remarked.
“My dear Molly,” laughed the man grimly, “I’m not going to be called as witness. I’ve taken very good care of that! I haven’t any desire to go into the box, I can assure you.”
“I suppose not,” laughed the woman. “The prisoner must never know that you’ve had a hand in the affair.”
She was a well-built, striking-looking woman, with a pair of fine dark eyes sparkling from beneath a black hat, the daring shape of which was most becoming to her. Upon her white hand jewels gleamed in the fitful firelight, for the lights were not switched on, and in her low-cut blouse of cream crêpe-de-chine she wore a small circle of diamonds as a brooch.