“Well?” his cold murmur came through the night. He said he would meet me at my door in ten minutes’ time. “What are you doing about Iris?” he asked me and I think I said: “Nothing. What can I do?” Iris was waiting by her car under the lamp. The car was like a great yellow beast with shining scales, and Iris, tall and gentle and white, the lovely princess of the tale who has enslaved the beast. Far above them towered the pile of Sunderland House, enchanted almost into dignity by the darkness. She looked at me gravely as I came, she seemed to crouch like a tired fairy into her white cloak. “You look very white,” she said. “Now, Lady Pynte!” I made to mock her, and I suppose we laughed. Then she was at the wheel, sunk into the low seat, staring up at the darkness of the faint London stars. “I’m tired,” she said again, and again I thought, what could I do? Then she did something to the dash-board with her left hand, and the engine hummed. I was on the curb, above her. Nearby a policeman was flashing his lamp on a door. I supposed one told the police.... “Will you see Gerald in the morning?” the slightly husky voice just reached me. “And tell him to follow me to Paris? I shall be at number -- Avenue du Bois for a week or so, and then ... Good-bye,” she said sharply, as though impatient with herself. “Good-bye, dear. You’ve been very kind--to the twin Marches. Good-bye ... perhaps for a long time. You have your work in England, and I’m the slave of freedom. Good-bye, my friend.” I could not tell her just then. She lay aslant in the driving seat, and her tawny curls flamed in the light, and she looked sad and tired. I could not tell her, and as she took her hand from mine the great car leapt down the fat little slope of East Chapel Street to the end, turned in a blaze of light and colour, rushed up the parallel little street to Curzon Street. I was at the corner where I had last seen Gerald putting his shoulder against the saloon-door of The Leather Butler; and as Iris’s car turned into Curzon Street a two-seater passed me swiftly, going the same way. I thought I heard a cry of “Iris!” above the rustle of the two engines, and I thought I heard Iris’s surprised voice, and the rear-lights of the two cars seemed to draw together, but I was not sure. I crossed towards Queen Street, sure only that I wished to see Guy. From Jolley’s corner I saw, far up, two red rear-lights twisting into South Audley Street, and then, from afar, came the scream of a Klaxon, the growl of a horn. I wondered who was in the two-seater, but at that moment the tall figure of Guy came towards me from my door, where a taxi had just dropped him. “Sorry,” he murmured. “Poor young devil. Only hope the other side won’t disappoint him as much.” “I couldn’t tell her,” I said. Guy smoked thoughtfully, looking over my head. “I’ll tell her,” he said, “in the morning. Had an idea he might blow his brains out.” CHAPTER FIVE: THE DARK LETTER I