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know,’ said Elsie, ‘that I don’t mind a man whose breath smells of onions.
Colin’s always did.’
    ‘Makes
me sick, the thought of it.’
    ‘Oh
well,’ Elsie said, ‘I suppose there was something psychological in my
childhood. It makes me sick too, in a way.’

 
     
     
    Chapter IV
     
    PATRICK Seton sat in his
room in Paddington, about which nobody except Mr. Fergusson knew anything, and
thought. Or rather, he sat and felt his thoughts.
    It was
the unfortunate occurrence.
    Freda
Flower: danger.
    Tomorrow
morning at ten at the Magistrate’s Court. Unless Freda Flower had changed her
mind again…
    Mr.
Fergusson would know. Mr. Fergusson had taken his passport away from him.
    Patrick
brushed his yellow-white hair with an old brush in his trembling hand and went
out to see Mr. Fergusson. He walked hastily, keeping well in to the shop side
of the streets. He hastened, for something about Mr. Fergusson always brought
him peace. Meanwhile, he felt his thoughts, and they began to run on optimistic
lines.
    A great
many witnesses for the defence. They knew he was genuine. Marlene in the box.
    Freda
Flower: what a gross, what a base, betrayal of all she had held sacred!
    You are
acquitted, said the judge. After that: Alice. Alice must be dealt with, and her
unbelievable baby. For her own sake. He loved her. And always would. Even unto
her passing over. The spirit giveth life.
    He had
come to the police-station. The constable at the desk looked up and nodded. ‘I’ll
tell Detective-Inspector Fergusson you’re here,’ he said.
    Patrick
sat and fidgeted until the policeman came to call him. Patrick dusted the lapel
of his dark coat with a moth-like flicker of the fingers and followed the
policeman.
    Patrick’s
nerves came to rest on Detective-Inspector Fergusson, who stood sandy-haired,
with his fine build, and spoke with his good Scots voice.
    ‘I’ve
come to see if there has been any development, Mr. Fergusson,’ Patrick said, ‘in
the unfortunate occurrence.’
    ‘Mrs.
Flower has been here,’ said Mr. Fergusson. ‘You must have got at her.’
    ‘She’s
changed her mind, I presume?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Oh!’
    ‘But we
haven’t.’
    ‘How do
you mean?’ Patrick said.
    Mr.
Fergusson said, ‘It’s a police prosecution, you know. Witnesses can’t change
their minds.’
    ‘Yes,
but Mrs. Flower’s your chief witness. You’ll want the best out of her. You’d
want it given willingly.’
    ‘You’re
right there.’ Mr. Fergusson gave Patrick a cigarette. ‘The Chief is considering
our next course of action. There will probably be a remand tomorrow.’
    ‘I won’t
be sent for trial?’
    ‘The
case will merely be postponed,’ said Mr. Fergusson reassuringly. ‘We’ve got
your statement.’
    ‘I
could always deny it,’ Patrick whispered absentmindedly. ‘I was in a dazed
condition after a séance when I signed it.’
    ‘That
didn’t get you very far the last time.’
    ‘It
made an impression on the court.’ And Patrick waved the subject away as a wife
does when reciting to a husband retorts that she has repeated on other weary
occasions.
    ‘Keep
in touch with me,’ Mr. Fergusson nodded.
    Patrick
felt sorry the interview was over. He felt steadied-up when in the company of
this policeman. One expected worldliness from Mr. Fergusson. One did not expect
it from people with an interior knowledge of the spirit, like Freda Flower.
    ‘It’s a
very painful occurrence,’ Patrick said.
    ‘Very,’
said Mr. Fergusson.
    ‘Is
there any chance of the Chief deciding not to proceed?’ Patrick said.
    ‘A
slight chance. If Mrs. Flower remains reluctant to give evidence against you there’s
a chance we won’t proceed. But Mrs. Flower may change her mind again. We have
to see her again and have a talk.’
    Mr.
Fergusson rose and patted Patrick’s shoulder, at the same time propelling him
gently towards the door. ‘Ring me every morning,’ he said, ‘or call round. I’ll
keep you