The cold, indigestible lump of his lie to Scotland Yard, and before that to his employer, had by this time so settled into his system that it did not impede its normal workings. Nevertheless it remained as an uneasiness, a perpetual vague discomfort. Especially was it a reproach in his relation to David Wintringham. But for seven months Terry could not bring himself to confess his fault. It was not that, at this stage, he feared any reprisals from the office, or, which had prevented an earlier admission, any loss of faith in his story among the police. From Dr. Wintringham he learned that the Mrs. Hilton, whose photograph he was prepared to swear to, had indeed disappeared, and that there was a good deal of evidence to support the theory that she had been murdered. It was simply a question, now, of personal pride. He had gone up to dizzy heights in Cyril’s estimation, and in that of his other friends who had been let into the secret. He could not bear to think of the loss of face he would suffer if he decided to put matters right at this late hour.
