“I didn’t run him down. He was clinging to the door of the car, and wouldn’t let go. When he couldn’t hold on any longer, he dropped the wrong way. I couldn’t have stopped if I’d had angels holding the motorcar back. All I could think of was that I had to see you, had to tell you that I didn’t touch Matthew.”
“Then who did?” she asked wearily.
“I don’t know. I’m going to find out, I promise you that.”
“Oh, Stephen-” Her voice broke.
He stepped forward, intending to comfort her, and then turned away. “For God’s sake, don’t cry.”
“Don’t cry?” she repeated through her tears. “Matthew’s probably dying, and I’m here, instead of there, and I love you both, and I don’t want anything to happen to either of you. Why can’t we just be happy, and not think of anything else but that?”
“Because I love you,” he told her bluntly. “And God help me, I can’t stop.”
5
Rutledge, following his quarry through the busy London streets, kept a good distance between himself and the man who had been leaning against the lamppost.
Old Bowels would have his head on a platter if he was wrong. Hamish was busy reminding him of that. But instinct told him he wasn’t wrong. The man’s interest had been too intense. Too personal.
His quarry moved briskly, but without the illusion of hurrying. They were into Kensington now, shops and flats on one side, the palace grounds on the other. At length the man turned down a side street, walked four houses from the corner, turned up the steps, and let himself in the door.
Rutledge stayed where he was. It was an old trick, walking into a building and waiting to see who was behind you. And if someone was there, he was often gullible enough to keep on going, right past the window where you watched. And you simply stepped out when he was past and went quietly in the opposite direction.