"I'll tell you everything," she said, "only I must know all about you first. Why were you following George? You don't mean to let him know who you are? Oh, Neil, Neil, promise me that you won't do that."

"Joyce," I said slowly, "I want to find out who killed Seton Marks. I don't suppose there is the least chance of my doing so, and if I can't I most certainly mean to wring George's neck. That was chiefly what I broke out of prison for."

"Yes, yes," she said feverishly, "but there _is_ a chance. You'll understand when I've explained." She put her hands to her forehead.

"Oh, I hardly know where to begin."

"Begin anywhere," I said. "Tell me why you're pretending to be a palmist."

She got up from my knee and, walking slowly to the table, seated herself on the end.

"I wanted money," she said; "and I wanted to meet one or two people who might be useful about you."

"But I left eight hundred pounds for you with Tommy," I exclaimed.

"You got that?"

She nodded. "It's in the bank now. I have been keeping it in case anything happened. You don't suppose I was going to spend it? How could I have helped you then even when I got the chance?"

"But, my dear Joyce," I protested, "the money was for you. And you couldn't have helped me with it in any case. I had plenty more waiting for me when my sentence was out."

"When your sentence was out," repeated Joyce fiercely. "Do you think I was going to let you stop in prison till then!" She checked herself with an effort. "I had better tell you everything from the beginning,"

she said. "I couldn't write any more to you, because I was only allowed to send the two letters, and I knew both of them would be read by somebody."

She paused a moment.

"I went away after the trial. I was very ill, and Tommy took me to a little place called Looe, down in Cornwall. We stayed there nearly six months. When I came back I took the flat next to him and called myself Miss Vivien. I had made up my mind then what I was going to do. You see there were only two possible ways in which I could help you. One was to find out who killed Marks, and the other was to get you out of prison--anyhow. Of course, after the trial, it seemed madness to think about the first, but then I just had three things to go on. I knew that you were innocent, I knew that for some reason of his own George had lied about you, and I knew that there had been some one else in the flat the day of the murder."

"The man who was with Marks when you arrived," I said. "But you saw him go away, and there was nothing to connect him with the murder, except the fact that he didn't turn up at the trial. s.e.xton himself had to admit that in his speech."

"There was his face," said Joyce quietly. "It was a dreadful face. It looked as if all the goodness had been burned out of it."

"There are about five hundred gentlemen like that in Princetown,"

I said, "including several of the warders. Did they ever find out anything about him?"

Joyce shook her head. "Mr. s.e.xton did everything he could, but it was quite useless. Whoever he was, the man never came forward, and you see there was no one except me who even knew what he was like. It was partly that which first gave me the idea of becoming a palmist. I thought that up here in the West End I was more likely to come across him than anywhere else. And then there were other people I meant to meet--men in the Government who might be able to get your sentence shortened. I knew I was beautiful, and with some men you can do anything if you're beautiful, and--and you don't care."

"Joyce!" I cried, "for G.o.d's sake don't tell me--"

"No," she broke in pa.s.sionately: "there's nothing to tell you. But if the chance had come I'd have sold myself a thousand times over to get you out of prison. The only man I've met who could do anything has been Lord Lammersfield, and he...." She paused, then with a little break in her voice she added: "Well, I think Lord Lammersfield is rather like Tommy in some ways."

"I suppose there are still one or two white men about," I said.

"Lord Lammersfield used to be at the Home Office once, so of course his influence would count for a great deal. Well, he did all that was possible for me, but about six months ago he told me that there was no chance of your being let out for another three years. It was then that I made up my mind to get to know George."

I thrust my hand in my pocket and pulled out my cigarette case.

"You--you've got rather thorough ideas about friendship, Joyce," I said, a little unsteadily. "Can I smoke?"

She picked up a box of matches from the table, and coming across seated herself on the arm of my chair.

"Have I?" she said simply. "Well, you taught me them."

She struck a match and held it to my cigarette.

"How did you manage it?" I asked.

"Oh, it was easy enough. I asked Lord Lammersfield to bring him here one day. You know what George is like; he would never refuse to do anything a Cabinet Minister suggested. Of course he had no idea who I was until he arrived."

"It must have been quite a pleasant surprise for him," I said grimly.

"Did he recognize you at once?"

Joyce shook her head. "He had only seen me at the trial, and I had my hair down then. Besides, two years make a lot of difference."

"They've made a lot of difference in you," I said. "They've turned you from a pretty child into a beautiful woman."

With a little low, contented laugh Joyce again laid her head on my shoulder. "I think," she said, "that that's the only one of George's opinions I'd like you to share."

There was a moment's silence. Then I gently twisted one of her loose curls round my finger.

"My poor Joyce," I said, "you seem to have been wading in some remarkably unpleasant waters for my sake."

She shivered slightly. "Oh, it was hateful in a way, but I didn't care. I knew George was hiding something that might help to get you out of prison, and what did my feelings matter compared with that!

Besides--" she smiled mockingly--"for all his cleverness and his wickedness George is a fool--just the usual vain fool that most men are about women. It's been easy enough to manage him."

"He knows who you are now, of course?" I said.

She nodded. "I told him. He would have been almost certain to find out, and then he would probably have been suspicious. As it is he thinks our meeting was just pure chance."

"But surely," I objected, "he must have guessed you were on my side?"

She gave a short, bitter laugh. "Yes," she said, "he guessed that all right. It's what he calls 'a sacred bond between us.' There are times, you know, when George is almost funny."

"There are times," I said, "when he must make Judas Iscariot feel sick."

"I sometimes wonder why I haven't killed him," she went on slowly. "I think I should have if he had ever tried to kiss me. As it is--"

she laughed again in the same way--"as it is we are becoming great friends. He is taking me out to dinner at the Savoy tonight."

"But if he doesn't try to make love to you--" I began.

"Oh!" she said, with a little shrug of her shoulders, "that's coming.

At present he imagines that he is being clever and diplomatic. Also there's a business side to the matter."

"Yes," I said; "there would be with George."

"He's horribly frightened of you. Of course he tries to hide it from me, but I can see that ever since you escaped from prison he has been living in a state of absolute terror. His one idea at present is a frantic hope that you will be recaptured. That's partly where I come in."

"You?" I repeated.

"Yes. He thinks that sooner or later, when you want help, you will probably write and tell me where you are."

"And then you are to pa.s.s the good news on to him?"