Page:The Whisper on the Stair by Lyon Mearson (1924).djvu/52

 And now Mat was gone; the import of it came to Val keenly, oppressively and almost overwhelmingly as he stepped out of the bookshop into the sunlight. Mat was gone; Val felt that a definite era in his life had closed—something had been done that could never be done again. New things were before him, Val felt—a new phase of life, perhaps. And he was standing in sunlight that Mat would never again see. For a moment every nerve in him cried out for vengeance.

And yet, what would the apprehension of the murderer mean? Thought raced through his brain like lightning across a summer sky. It would mean the dragging in of the girl with copper burnished hair, his lady of the bookshop. He knew, of course, that she was in no way guilty of the deed, yet regardless of the circumstances, she must inevitably be connected with the affair in the papers—her name dragged through the mire of publicity. He remembered her eyes—that strange look—was it terror?—of the night before. Curious, wasn’t it, how a man could remember a fleeting, evanescent glance in a woman’s eye—and not remember the color of the clothes she wore? Now, as Connolly might say⸺

Now he had to find her. It might seem that he was going to a great deal of fuss and trouble about a girl he had only seen for a moment. That is, it might seem so to you. But it did not seem so to Valentine Morley. It was quite simple. He had seen, for an instant, a woman he really thought worth while. He had lost her again in that same instant. It was obvious that the thing for any sane man to do was to find her again.

‘Wait a minute, Eddie,” he said to his impassive man. “Wait’ll I see where we’re going.”