In spite of his frank confession, there was
still such a cloud of mystery over the man's soul as to render any
revelation possible. Had his hurt declared itself to be a mortal
one? Had he summoned me to unburden his conscience while yet there
was time? Was it going to be a repetition, with a difference, of
my last interview with Reggie Dacre? I worried myself with
unnecessary conjecture.
After a miserable drive through February rain and slush, I reached
my destination in Belton Square, a large mansion, presumably
equipped by its owner as a hospital for officers, and given over
to the nation. A telephone message had prepared the authorities
for my arrival. Marigold, preceded by the Sister in charge,
carried me across a tesselated hall and began to ascend the broad
staircase.
I uttered a little gasp and looked around me, for in a flash I
realised where I was. Twenty years ago I had danced in this house.
I had danced here with my wife before we were married. On the half
landing we had sat out together. It was the town house of the late
Lord Madelow, with whose wife I shared the acquaintance of a
couple of hundred young dancing men inscribed on her party list.
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