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He told himself that he had no indication as to Mary Trevert's business in Rotterdam save the supposition that she had found the van der Spyck letter and had come to Rotterdam to investigate the matter for herself.
"The chain is not yet complete. I wonder what this van der Spyck letter of Miss Trevert's contained that made Victor Marbran and the secretary chap so desperately anxious to get hold of it. For you understand, don't you?" he said briskly, turning to Robin, "that they were after that and that alone. And they risked penal servitude in this country to get it ..." Robin nodded.
In itself the death of Hartley Parrish left him cold. Yes, he must admit that. But the look in Mary Trevert's eyes, as she had urged him to shield himself from the suspicion of having driven Hartley Parrish to his death, haunted him. Already dimly he was beginning to realize that Hartley Parrish in death might prove as insuperable a bar between him and Mary Trevert as ever he had been in life ...
Robin put his hand on young Trevert's shoulder. Horace shook him roughly off. "I don't care to discuss it with you, Robin!" he said. Robin deliberately swung the boy round until he faced him. "My dear old thing," he expostulated. "What does it all mean? What won't you discuss with me?" Horace Trevert looked straight at the speaker. His upper lip was pouted and trembled a little.
Parrish has left directions for the payment of an allowance I may say, a most handsome allowance to Lady Margaret Trevert during her ladyship's lifetime. This is a provision over which Miss Trevert's decision, of course, can have no influence. I would only remark that, according to Mr.
Darkness had fallen upon Rotterdam and the lights from the houses made yellow streaks in the water of the canal as the car, piloted by Robin, drove the party to Mary Trevert's hotel. They found the girl, pale and anxious, in the lounge. "Well, now," cried the doctor breezily, "and how are you feeling? Did you take my advice and have some tea?"
But, until he could clear himself of the suspicion lurking in Mary Trevert's mind that he, Robin Greve, was in some way implicated in Hartley Parrish's death, the dead man, he felt, would always stand between them. And so ... Robin pitched the stump of his cigarette into a rose bush with a little gesture of resignation.
You know what young female servants are, Miss ..." "And you think that Mr. Greve went to Mr. Parrish to talk about ... me?" Mary Trevert's voice faltered a little. She looked eagerly at the other's fat, smooth face. "I presoomed as much, Miss, I must confess!" "But what did you hear Mr. Greve say?" "I heard nothing, Miss, except just only the sound of voices. After Mr.
In the solitude of his first-class smoker he unfolded the newspapers. None had more than the brief fact that Hartley Parrish had been found dead with a pistol in his hand, but they made up for the briefness of their reports by long accounts of the dead man's "meteoric career." And, Robin noted with relief, hitherto Mary Trevert's name was out of the picture.
"H'm," was Robin's comment; "he writes like an Englishman, anyway." He ascertained the number of Mary Trevert's room and went up to her floor in the lift. He waited in the corridor outside the room for the doctor to emerge, and lit a cigarette to while away the time. It was not until he had nearly finished his second cigarette that the doctor appeared. The doctor hesitated on seeing Robin.
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