The Astonishing Adventure of Jane Smith. Patricia Wentworth
hard to tell, but I believe that our voices are as much alike as the rest of us.”
She opened her bag, and took out The List and a pencil.
“Now, write something—I don’t care what.”
Renata wrote her own name, and then, after a pause, “It is a fine day.”
“Quite like,” said Jane, “but nearly all girls do write the same hand now. I can manage that. Now, tell me, where were you at school?”
“Miss Bazing’s, Ilfracombe.”
“When did you leave?”
“Two months ago.”
“Have you been in America?”
“Not since I was five.”
“Anywhere else out of England?”
“No.”
“What languages do you know?”
“French—I’m not good at it.”
“Well, that’s that. Now, Arnold tells me you heard them say you were to go to Luttrell Marches?”
Renata looked terrified.
“Yes, yes, I did.”
“You’re not supposed to know? They haven’t told you officially?”
“No—no, they haven’t told me anything.”
“Your father goes away to-morrow. Have they told you that?”
“I can’t remember,” said Renata, bursting into tears. “Oh, Jane, you don’t know what it’s like!—to be locked in here—to have them come and ask questions until I don’t know what I’m saying—and to know, to know all the time that if I make one slip I’m lost.”
“Yes, yes, but it’s going to be all right,” said Jane.
“I can’t sleep,” sobbed Renata, “and I can’t eat.” She held up her wrist and looked at it with interest. “I’ve got ever so much thinner.”
Jane could have slapped her. She reflected with thankfulness that Bolivia was a good long way off.
“Now, look here,” she said, “you talk about ‘they’—who are ‘they’?”
“There’s a man in a fur coat,” faltered Renata—“that is to say, he generally has on a fur coat; he always seems to be cold. He’s the worst; I don’t know his name, but they call him Number Two. He’s English. Then there’s Number Four. He’s a foreigner of some sort, and he’s dreadful—dreadful. I think—I think”—her voice dropped to a whisper—“my father is Number Three.” Then almost inaudibly, “Number One is at Luttrell Marches. It’s Number One who will decide about me—about me. Oh, Jane, I’m so dreadfully frightened!”
Renata’s eyes, wide and terrified, stared past Jane into vacancy.
“You needn’t be in the least frightened; you’re going to Bolivia,” said Jane briskly.
“I must tell some one,” said Renata, still in that whispering voice—still staring. “I didn’t tell them, I wouldn’t tell them, but I must tell some one. Jane, I must tell you what I heard.”
Quick as lightning Jane put her hand over the other girl’s mouth.
“Wait!” she said, and in the pause that followed two things stood out in her mind clear and sharp. If Renata told her secret, Jane’s danger would be doubled. If Renata did not tell it, the crime these men were planning might ripen undisturbed. Jane had a high courage, but she hesitated.
Her hand dropped slowly to her side. She saw Renata’s mouth open protestingly, and there came on her a wild impulse to stave things off, to have time, just a little time before she let that secret in.
“We’ve got to change clothes,” she said. “Quick, give me that skirt and take mine. Yes, put on the coat, and I’ll give you my shoes, too. My hat’s on the bed; you’d better put it on.”
Renata obeyed. A resentful feeling of being hustled, ordered about, treated like a child, was upon her; but Jane moved and spoke so quickly, and seemed so sure of herself, that there seemed no opening for protest. She thought Jane’s blue serge shabby and old fashioned—not nearly as nice as her own—and Jane’s shoes were terribly worn and needed mending.
“Now, listen,” said Jane.
“If Arnold likes to go to my rooms and pay up two weeks’ rent, he can get my box and all my other clothes for you. There’s not very much, but it’ll be better than nothing. I’ll write a line for him to take, and put the address on it. And will you please remember now and from henceforth that you are Jane Renata Smith, and not Renata Jane Molloy?”
Jane was scribbling a couple of lines as she spoke, and as she turned and gave the paper into Renata’s hand, she knew that she must decide now. The moment of grace was up, and whether she bade Renata speak or be silent, there could be no drawing back.
“What were you going to tell me?” she said.
Renata stood silent for a long minute. She was twisting and turning the slip of paper which Jane had given her. She looked down at her twisting fingers; her breath began to come more quickly. Then with great suddenness she pushed the note into her pocket, and caught at Jane with both hands.
“Yes, I must tell you—I must. It will be coming nearer all the time, and I must tell some one, or I shall go mad.”
“Tell me, then,” said Jane. “You were walking in your sleep, and you opened the door and heard—what did you hear?”
Jane’s eyes were bright and steady, her face set. She had taken her decision, and her courage rose to meet an unknown shock.
“I was walking in my sleep,” repeated Renata, in a low, faltering voice, “and I opened the door, and I heard——”
“What did you hear?”
“There was a screen in front of me, and just beyond the screen a man talking. I heard—oh, Jane, I heard every single word he said! I can’t forget one of them—if I could, if I only could!”
“What did you hear?” said Jane firmly.
Renata’s grip became desperate. She leant forward until her lips touched Jane’s ear. In a voice that was only a breath, she gave word for word, sentence by sentence, the speech in which Number Four had proclaimed the death sentence of the civilised world. It was just a bald transcript like the whisper of a phonograph record, as if the words and sentences had been stamped on an inanimate plate by some recording machinery, to be released again with utter regularity and correctness.
Every vestige of colour left Jane’s face as she listened. Only her eyes remained bright and steady. Something seemed to knock at her heart. Renata’s last mechanical repetition died away, and with a sob of relief she flung her arms round Jane.
“Oh, Jane, I do hope they won’t kill you! Oh, I do hope they won’t!”
“So do I,” said Jane.
She detached herself from Renata, and as she did so, both girls heard the same thing—from beyond the two closed doors the groan and grind of the lift machinery in motion.
“They’ve come back,” said Renata, in a whisper of terror.
Jane’s hand was on the electric-light switch before the words had left Renata’s lips.
As darkness sprang upon the room she had the door open. Her grip was on Renata’s wrist, her arm about Renata’s waist, and they were in the hall. It seemed pitch black at first, with a gloom that pressed upon their eyes and confused the sense of direction.
The lift rose with a steady rumble.
Then, as Jane stared before her, the oblong of the window