“One particular person,” said the young man grimly.
“This is very interesting,” said Tuppence. “Won’t you tell us some more?”
“My name’s Reilly,” said the red haired man. “James Reilly. You may have heard it. I wrote a little volume of Pacifist poems—good stuff, although I say so.”
“ Pacifist Poems ?” said Tuppence.
“Yes—why not?” demanded Mr. Reilly belligerently.
“Oh! nothing,” said Tuppence hastily.
“I’m for peace all the time,” said Mr. Reilly fiercely. “To Hell with war. And women! Women! Did you see that creature who was trailing around here just now? Gilda Glen, she calls herself. Gilda Glen! God! how I’ve worshipped that woman. And I’ll tell you this—if she’s got a heart at all, it’s on my side. She cared once for me, and I could make her care again. And if she sells herself to that muck heap Leconbury—well, God help her. I’d as soon kill her with my own hands.”
And on this, suddenly, he rose and rushed from the room.
Tommy raised his eyebrows.
“A somewhat excitable gentleman,” he murmured. “Well, Tuppence, shall we start?”
A fine mist was coming up as they emerged from the Hotel into the cool outer air. Obeying Estcourt’s directions, they turned sharp to the left, and in a few minutes they came to a turning labelled Morgan’s Avenue.
The mist had increased. It was soft and white, and hurried past them in little eddying drifts.