and Emma, coming back to awareness of the present, heard her speaking to Damon Thorne's secretary. There was the usual inter-change of names and appointment times and then the blonde replaced her receiver and turned to Emma.
‘Mr. Thorne's secretary is sending someone down to take you up to his suite,’ she said, in cool, aloof tones. ‘Sit down for a moment, won't you?'
She waved a careless hand in the direction of several comfortable chairs, placed at intervals, and then returned to her perusal of a sheaf of papers which had presumably been her occupation before Emma's arrival.
Emma seated herself nervously on the edge of one of the red and white armchairs, and drew off her gloves meticulously, wondering however she was going to find words to conduct this interview. It was all very well for Johnny, staying blithely out of the way and leaving all the dirty work to her, but even he could have had no idea of the desperate torment of the situation into which he had thrust her, or surely he would have thought before asking her help in so doing shifting the burden of his guilt on to her shoulders.
In his simple reasoning, the fact that Emma had been on more than friendly terms with Damon Thorne several years ago was sufficient to warrant her intervention on his behalf. But neither Johnny, nor in fact anyone else, had ever known the whole story so far as she and Damon Thorne were concerned, and therefore could not know that she was the last person Damon Thorne was likely to grant favours to.
Emma, now, looked round the luxurious entrance hall, saw the line of electrically operated lifts, and wished that whoever Damon Thorne's secretary was sending to, so to speak, ‘collect’ her, would hurry up and do so. Waiting was agony for her nerves, and she had been terribly nervous to begin with. Why, oh, why had Johnny been stupid enough to get himself into this mess?
She glanced at her watch. She had been waiting a little over ten minutes already. However long was he going to keep her waiting? She looked hopefully towards the receptionist, but she seemed unaware of her existence, and had now transferred her attentions to buffing her nails with an instrument from her manicure case.
Emma sighed. Was this a tactical attempt on Damon Thorne's part to intimidate her? Although he could not be aware of the reasons for her request to see him, had he guessed her appeal was not of an impersonal nature?
The whirring of the lift heralded the arrival of a tall, slim youth, who looked expectantly round the entrance hall, his eyes lighting on Emma's small figure. He advanced towards her, smiling.
‘Miss Harding?’ he asked, and when Emma nodded and rose hastily to her feet, he said: ‘Won't you come this way, please?'
The lift elevated them smoothly to the top floor of the building, where Damon Thorne's suite of offices was situated. In addition to the usual business premises, he had a furnished penthouse apartment on this floor, which he used for the informal entertaining of guests. Emma knew this. She had once been in his apartment, although then she had used the private lift which gave access to the hall of his apartment.
Today, the lift gates opened revealing a long, red-carpeted hall-way, with many doors opening from its wide expanses, and the steady hum of electric typewriters in a nearby room indicated that this was the business side of the floor.
The young man, who had introduced himself in the lift as Jeremy Martin, led Emma along the corridor to the far end, well away from any discordant sounds, and into the comfortable office occupied by Damon Thorne's private secretary, Jennifer Weldon. She had been Damon Thorne's secretary in the London office for over ten years and Emma felt sure she must have recognized her name, as she could not have been unaware of their relationship almost eight years ago when Emma had been given free use of his private line.
‘This is Miss Harding,’ said Jeremy Martin, as he ushered Emma into the room.
‘Thank you, Jeremy,’ said Jennifer Weldon, giving the young man a wintry smile, and then, as he withdrew, she rose from behind her desk, and looked carefully at Emma.
‘Good morning, Miss Harding,’ she said coolly. ‘Mr. Thorne will see you now, but I should warn you that he is an extremely busy man while he is in London, and his next appointment is at eleven-fifteen.'
Emma retained a little of her composure. She would not allow this elegant female who was Damon Thorne's secretary to intimidate her as she was obviously trying to do.
‘My business with Mr. Thorne should not take very long,’ she replied, almost as coolly as the other woman. ‘Shall I go in?'
Jennifer Weldon gave a sleek bow of her head, and Emma knocked with trembling fingers on the heavy door leading to Damon Thorne's office.
His deep voice called: ‘Come', and Emma went in, and firmly closed the door in the secretary's face.
She was in a large, businesslike room, with dark blue carpeting, and heavy blue drapes at the wide windows which gave a panoramic view of the city. Set square in the centre of the carpet was a massive mahogany desk, littered with papers and several telephones. A tray of drinks was on a side table, while the walls of the room were lined with bookshelves packed with books, mostly scientific and technical tomes, with polished hide covers and gold lettering.
But it was the man behind the desk, who rose politely at her entrance, to whom Emma's eyes were drawn, as she tried in those first few minutes to assess any changes in his appearance. Seven and a half years was a long time, and she had only seen occasional pictures of him in the papers which did not do him justice.
Damon Thorne was a man in his early forties who looked younger. He was a big man, broad and thick set, with very black hair which was only slightly tinged with grey. His face was strong, rather than handsome, with deep set green eyes, and a full, almost-sensual mouth. Yet he was a man whom women found attractive, without the added allure of his undoubted wealth and position in society.
His eyes had narrowed at her entrance, and his thick blackes lashes veiled the expression hidden in their depths, but his smile was rather cynical and his tone was mocking, as he said:
‘Well, well, Emma. It's been a long time.'
Emma twisted her gloves together, and attempted to walk, with some dignity, across the floor towards the desk. To her, he had changed little, and as always she found his personality electrifying.
‘Good morning,’ she said, omitting to give him a name. She did not really know whether she ought to call him Mr. Thorne, or Damon as she had used to do.
Damon Thorne walked round his desk, and drew out the chair opposite his own, and indicated that she should sit down. Emma did so, afraid that if she did not, her legs might give out under her.
‘Can I offer you a drink?’ he asked, and when she shook her head: ‘Coffee, perhaps?'
‘No, thank you. I … er … you must be wondering why I'm here.’ She studied the ovals of her nails intently.
Damon Thorne returned to his seat, but instead of sitting down he reached for a cigar from the box on his desk, and lit it, watching her speculatively as he did so.
‘Yes,’ he said, at last, when his cigar was lighted and giving off a delicious aroma of Havana tobacco, ‘I must admit I am rather curious.'
Emma forced herself to look up at him. ‘It's Johnny,’ she said flatly. ‘He seems rather to have got himself into a mess.'
Damon Thorne seated himself and lay back lazily in his seat, surveying her sardonically. ‘Is that so? You mean your brother Johnny, of course.'
‘Of course.’ Emma nodded.
‘Go on.'
Emma sought about for words. To say what she had to say blankly would a complete admission of Johnny's guilt, whereas in actual fact he had been the victim of his own driving compulsion. But how could she convey that to this apparently unsympathetic business tycoon? Damon Thorne, whose companies occupied premises in many of the larger countries of the world, and who had always worked ruthlessly for anything he wished to achieve? He would never understand or condone weakness in any of his staff, and her brother, who worked in the accounts