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Updated: May 27, 2025
The commissary thought Brett's suggestion a good one. His assistant summoned the concierge and attended to the wants of "The Worm," whilst Brett and the commissary conducted a careful scrutiny of the premises. They found little, however, beyond a considerable accumulation of dirt; for the ways of Turks are primitive and their habits unpleasant in European households.
He could not even darkly discern the truth, but he connected Brett's words in some remote way with Capella. How he loathed the despicable Italian who left his wife to bear alone the trouble that oppressed her who only went away in order to concoct some villainy against her. Margaret could not face the barrister's thoughtful, searching gaze.
He grabbed the Italian by the breast with his right hand, lifted him high in the air, gathered the papers from the table in his left hand, and carried his kicking, cursing, but helpless adversary to the door. Then he set him down again, opened the door, and remembering Brett's advice, assisted him outside, flinging the documents after him and closing the door.
Cara herself barely escaped its savage onslaught, and as she staggered into safety she turned a desperate, agonised face seaward. Brett was still some yards away, and Ann would die die with succour almost at hand! Her own helplessness drove her nearly frantic. She was beating her hands together and quite unconsciously repeating Brett's name over and over in a sick agony of urgency. "Brett! Brett!
Brett's curiosity was answered to some extent by the next report, delivered about five o'clock. It read as follows "Le Ver is still in the house No. 11, Rue Barbette. My agent explains that he did not follow the Turk, who left and returned to the place earlier, because his definite instructions were not to leave the locality, but to report on all persons who entered or left.
He had again passed No. 37, giving a casual glance to the second floor front window, in which a light illumined the blind, when he became aware that a man was approaching from the Kennington Park Road. Otherwise the street was empty. The lamp opposite No. 37 did not throw its beams far into the gloom, but the advancing figure instantly enlisted Brett's attention.
They were in the thick of Piccadilly, but his action was too swift for any interference. Four reports rang suddenly out, and the muzzle of the revolver was held deliberately within an inch or so of Brett's heart.
You are the cat, simply employed by the monkey to pull the chestnuts out of the fire, and you have only succeeded in getting your own paws burnt. Your sole chance of safety now is to inform the commissary and me exactly how you came to be mixed up with this affair." The Frenchman's truculency seemed to vanish under Brett's cutting words.
It was, after all, absurd to take an irresponsible being like Brett Forrester too seriously. "I don't altogether envy Brett's wife," pursued Lady Susan judicially. "Still, she'd never find life monotonous, whatever else. He'd probably beat her and drag her round by the hair when he was in a rage. But he'd know how to play the lover, my dear don't make any mistake about that!"
This personal development came as a complete surprise to her. Pride would not permit her to plead her own cause. Dubois glanced at her covertly. He was still annoyed and defiant; but even he, hardened scoundrel and cynic though he was, could not find words to contest Brett's decision. The barrister deemed the moment ripe for his final smashing argument.
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