Chapter Nineteen

       Table of Contents

      And now there were but two days—to be accurate, but two nights—to the date fixed for Roger Gretorex’s execution. All those to whom the matter was of grave moment had given up hope, and, to the great relief of each member of what may be described as the outside circle of those concerned in the still mysterious story, there was something stoic in the resignation and self-control of both the mother and the son.

      But Enid Dent showed many signs of the strain and agony she was enduring, and Sir Joseph Molloy felt quite unlike his powerful, jovial self. Even against his better judgment he still felt convinced that an awful miscarriage of justice was going to be enacted. His conviction actually affected the nerves of Sir Edward Law, the Home Secretary, who happened, unfortunately for himself, to be one of Sir Joseph’s oldest friends.

      Sir Edward hoped most fervently that Gretorex would make a last-moment confession. Not that the Home Secretary really doubted the fact of the young man’s guilt. But he felt the kind of anxiety which must possess any sensitive, conscientious human being who has the onerous gift of life in his hand, if he knows that the mind of a friend he trusts as deeply as he did trust Sir Joseph’s powerful mind, is convinced of a condemned man’s innocence.

      The execution had been fixed for a Thursday. Deliberately Sir Joseph arranged to cross to Calais on the Wednesday in order to meet his wife, who was coming back the next day from the south of France.

      Though Lady Molloy was an invalid, a tiny, fragile little body, and no longer young, her husband adored her, and when he was parted from “the woman who owned him,” as he sometimes oddly expressed it, he seemed at times only half himself. His Eileen, so he told himself now, would know how to heal the ache at his heart.

      For one thing, Lady Molloy was deeply religious in a happy child-like way. Heaven seemed to her a beautiful place, just hard by, and so she would naturally view Roger Gretorex’s terrible mode of exit from life as the certain gateway to a happier existence than he could have hoped for on this earth.

      “The day after tomorrow—the day after tomorrow.”

      Those four words seemed to beat themselves on Enid Dent’s brain. Sometimes would come a variant—“What can be done, surely something can be done, before the day after tomorrow?”

      Early on the Tuesday morning she wandered out of doors and walked for miles in the cold, still empty streets. At last she went into Westminster Abbey for a while, and then into the vast Catholic Cathedral. But she found she could not pray. She felt as if abandoned by God, as well as by man.

      Reluctantly, she at last turned her feet towards Ebury Street. She shrank from seeing Mrs. Gretorex. To Enid there was something horribly unnatural in the calmness and appearance of strength shown by Roger’s mother. It was, as the girl knew, by Roger’s plainly expressed desire that they were going home tomorrow down to Sussex. By his wish, also, they would be in the parish church, which was actually an enclave in the grounds attached to what was still his house, when nine o’clock struck out his hour of doom on Thursday.

      As Enid came in to their sitting-room Mrs. Gretorex held out an open letter.

      “This has just reached me—sent on from Mr. Oram’s office this morning. It’s from the old woman who used to look after Roger.” And as the other took it from her, “Rather a touching letter, but I don’t feel I can bring myself to go to Ferry Place, my dear. I went there once, and spent such a happy, happy day with Roger. This Mrs. Huntley waited on us. Perhaps you will go instead of me? See what she says.”

      Enid took the letter, and this is what she read:

      6 FERRY PLACE. Tuesday.

       Dear Madam,

       I don’t know what to do about the doctor’s things, and I should be glad if you could spare time to come here. Also there is something on my mind that I’d like to tell you, Mrs. Gretorex. But I gave my word, I even swore my oath to the doctor not to. So perhaps I oughtn’t to.

       I’ve tried to keep everything tidy, but the police pulled everything about so.

       Yours respectfully, Bertha Huntley.

      “I wonder what she wants to tell you?”

      “I can form a shrewd guess,” said Mrs. Gretorex in a low voice.

      The girl looked at her with eager eyes. “It may be something tremendously important,” she exclaimed.

      The older woman shook her head.

      “It might have had a certain importance before the trial, but it would have no importance now. I have no doubt that what Mrs. Huntley wants to tell me is——”

      Then she hesitated, for Mrs. Gretorex was an old-fashioned gentlewoman, who considered that certain things which unfortunately do happen in life should not be dwelt on, much less mentioned, by “nice” women.

      “What do you mean, Mrs. Gretorex? Do tell me!”

      The girl was looking at her with perplexed, unhappy eyes. Perhaps, after all, it would be better to tell her the truth? It might cause her to forget Roger more quickly than she could otherwise do.

      “I have very little doubt, Enid, that Mrs. Lexton, at one time, often went to Ferry Place. Naturally Roger bound the old woman to silence. He may have even made her swear that she would never reveal a fact so damaging to Ivy Lexton’s reputation. I don’t know if a knowledge of what I feel sure was the truth would have made any difference, one way or the other, at the trial. In any case, it won’t make any difference now.”

      “May I go off to Ferry Place now?” asked Enid eagerly.

      “Do, if you like. But be careful what you say, child.” She gazed into the girl’s flushed face. “I think we ought to do what we know Roger would wish us to do—and not to do.”

      And then, with a slight break in her even voice, she quoted the fine line—“For silence is most noble to the end.”

      As Enid Dent walked with what, to one passing her, would have appeared to be the happy, eager steps of youth towards Ferry Place, she more than once felt strongly inclined to turn back.

      The thought of going to the house where Roger Gretorex had lived and worked during the months when he and she had become so entirely estranged was bitter to her. Also, she now had to endure the incessant talking and the kindly meant, but to her almost intolerable, sympathy of the landlady of Mrs. Gretorex’s lodgings. The thought that she would now endure more sympathy, and more garrulous talk, on the part of Mrs. Huntley was well nigh unendurable. Why not go back and write a nice letter to the old woman, explaining that Mrs. Gretorex was ill, but wished Mrs. Huntley to know how deep was her gratitude for everything she had done for her dear son?

      And then, just as she was going to turn around, Enid felt ashamed of her strained nerves. If this old woman had been fond of Roger, then she must be very unhappy now.

      She had to ask the way twice to Ferry Place, and each time she asked the question she saw a peculiar look come over the stranger’s face, showing, plainly enough, that he had recalled the fact that this was where Roger Gretorex had lived, the man who had committed murder for the sake of the woman he loved. The name of the obscure thoroughfare had been constantly mentioned, bandied to and fro, during Gretorex’s trial.

      Enid soon found the double row of shabby little houses. It was strange to remember that Roger had lived for over a year in this sordid-looking place.

      She