With almost equal distaste she viewed the white muslin sacred to prize-givings and school concerts. Attired in this garment Renata had played the “Sonata Pathétique” amidst the applause of boarders and parents. With this pale blue sash about her waist she had recited “How they brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix.” Jane tied it in a vicious knot. Her only comfort as she went downstairs was that it was impossible to look more like a schoolgirl and less like a conspirator.
Sir William and Henry were in the hall—Mr. Ember too, close to the fire as usual.
Sir William jerked his head in Jane’s direction and grunted, “Miss Molloy, my daughter’s secretary.” Henry bowed. Jane inclined her head.
Next moment they all turned to watch Raymond Heritage come down the stair.
She wore black velvet. Her neck and arms were bare. A long rope of pearls fell to her knee.
Jane wondered whether the world held another woman so beautiful, then looked quickly at Henry, and the same thought was visible upon Henry’s face.
Dinner was not a cheerful meal. Lady Heritage hardly opened her lips. Sir William sat hunched forward over the table; when addressed, the remark had to be repeated before he answered; he drank a good deal.
Jane considered that a modest silence became her, and the conversation was sustained with some effect of strain by Captain March and Mr. Ember. They talked fitfully of politics, musical comedy, the weather, and the American Exchange.
It was a relief, to Jane at least, when she and Lady Heritage found their way to the drawing-room.
Henry wondered at their using this large, formal room for so small a party. His aunt, he remembered, had kept it shut up for the most part. The sense of space was, however, grateful to Jane. The small circle of candlelight in the dining-room had seemed to shut them in, forcing an intimacy for which no one of them was prepared.
The Yellow Drawing-Room was a very stately apartment. The walls were hung with a Chinese damask which a hundred years had not robbed of its imperial colour. Beneath their pagoda-patterned blue linen covers Jane knew that the chairs and sofas wore a stiff yellow satin like a secret pride. Electric candles in elaborate sconces threw a cold, steady light upon the scene.
Lady Heritage sat by the fire, theRevue des Deux Mondesin her hand. Her eyes were on the page and never left it, but she was not reading. In fifteen minutes her glance had not shifted, and the page remained unturned.
Then the door opened, and the two younger men came in. Lady Heritage looked up for a moment, and then went back to herRevue. She made no attempt to entertain Captain March, who, for his part, showed some desire to be entertained.
“You are using the big rooms, I see. Aunt Mary always said they were too cold. You remember she always sat in the Blue Parlour, or the little oak room at the head of the stair.”
Raymond’s lip lifted slightly.
“I’m afraid the Blue Parlour would not be very comfortable now,” she said without looking up.
Henry possessed a persevering nature. He produced, in rapid succession, a remark about the weather, an inquiry as to the productiveness of the kitchen garden, and a comment upon the pleasant warmth of the log fire. The first and last of these efforts elicited no reply at all. To the question about the garden produce Lady Heritage answered that she had no idea.
Mr. Ember’s habitual expression of cynicism became a trifle more marked.
Jane had the feeling that the pressure in the atmosphere was steadily on the increase.
“Won’t you sing something, Raymond,” said Henry. His pleasant ease of manner appeared quite impervious to snubs.
Lady Heritage closed theRevue des Deux Mondesand, for the first time, looked full at Captain March. If he was startled by the furious resentment of that gaze he did not show it.
“And what do you expect me to sing, Henry?” she said—“the latest out of theJazz Girls?”
“I don’t mind; whatever you like, but do sing, won’t you?”
Raymond got up with an abrupt movement. Walking to one of the long windows which opened upon the terrace, she drew the heavy yellow brocade curtain back with a jerk. Beyond the glass the terrace lay in deepest shadow, but moonlight touched the sea. She bent, drew the bolt, and opened half the door.
“The room is stifling,” she said. “Jeffrey, it’s your fault they pile the fire up so. I wish you’d sometimes look at a calendar and realise that this is April, not January.”
Then, turning, she crossed to the piano.
“If I sing, it will be to please myself, and I shall probably not please any one else.”
Ember came forward and opened the piano. He bent as he did so, and said a few words very low. She answered him.
Henry, left by the fireside with Jane, leaned forward conversationally, the lastPunchin his hand.
“This is a good cartoon,” he said. “Have you seen it, Miss Molloy?”
And as she bent to look at the page, he added in that low, effaced tone which does not carry a yard:
“Which room have they given you?”
“I like the line,” said Jane in her clear voice, “and that very black shadow.” Then, in an almost soundless breath—“The end room, south wing.”
“Don’t go to bed,” said Henry. “Wonderful how they keep it up, week after week. I mean to say, it must put you off your stroke like anything, knowing you’ve got to come right up to time like that.”
“Your department doesn’t work by the calendar, then? You don’t have to bother about results?”
Ember strolled back to his favourite place by the fire as he spoke, and Lady Heritage broke into a resounding chord. She played what Henry afterwards described as “an infernal pandemonium of a thing.” It appeared to be in several keys at once, and marched from one riot of discord to another until it ended with a strident crash which set up a humming jangle of vibrations.
“Like that, Henry?” said Lady Heritage.
“No,” said Henry, monosyllabic in his turn.
“No one ever likes to hear the truth,” said Raymond. “You all want something pleasant, something smooth, something like this”—her fingers slipped into the “Blue Danube” waltz. She played it exquisitely, with a melting delicacy of touch and a beautiful sense of rhythm. After a dozen bars or so she stopped suddenly, leaned her elbow on the keyboard, and through the little clang of the impact said:
“Well?”
“That’s topping,” said Henry. He looked across at her admiringly—the long sweep of the ebony piano, the white keyboard with the black notes standing clear, Raymond in her velvet and pearls, and behind her the imperial yellow of China.
“Soothing syrup,” she said. “You’re not up to date, Henry, I’m afraid. The moderns show us things as they are, and we don’t like it, but the soothing syrups lose their power to soothe once you find out that they are just ... dope.”
“I wish you’d sing,” said Henry.
She looked across him at Ember, and an expression difficult to define hardened her face.
“This isn’t modern, but will you like it?” she said, and preluded. Then she began to sing in a deep mezzo:
“The Worldly Hope Men set their Hearts uponTurns Ashes—or it prospers; and anon,Like Snow upon the Desert’s dusty FaceLighting its little Hour or two—is gone.
“The Worldly Hope Men set their Hearts upon
Turns Ashes—or it prospers; and anon,
Like Snow upon the Desert’s dusty Face
Lighting its little Hour or two—is gone.
Here in this battered Caravanserai,Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day,How Sultan after Sultan with his PompAbode his destined Hour, and went his Way.”
Here in this battered Caravanserai,
Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day,
How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp
Abode his destined Hour, and went his Way.”
The notes came heavy and tragic. In her voice there seemed to be gathered all the tragedy, all the emotion of human life. The sound fell almost to a whisper:
“The Worldly Hope Men set their Hearts uponTurns Ashes—or it prospers; and anon,Like Snow upon the Desert’s dusty FaceLighting its little Hour or two—is gone.”
“The Worldly Hope Men set their Hearts upon
Turns Ashes—or it prospers; and anon,
Like Snow upon the Desert’s dusty Face
Lighting its little Hour or two—is gone.”
Suddenly the voice rose ringing like a trumpet, a great chord crashed out:
“Waste not your Hour!”
“Waste not your Hour!”
The deep octaves followed. Then she passed into modulating phrases and began to sing again.
“Her voice is nearly as beautiful as she is,” thought Jane, “but somehow—she shakes one.”
“Ah Love, could you and I with Fate conspireTo grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire,Would we not shatter it to bits, and thenRe-mould it nearer to the Heart’s Desire?”
“Ah Love, could you and I with Fate conspire
To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire,
Would we not shatter it to bits, and then
Re-mould it nearer to the Heart’s Desire?”
With the last word she rose, turned from the piano and the room, and went out to the terrace.
Henry got up, strolled casually across the room, and followed her. She was standing by the low parapet looking over the sea. The night was still, the scent of hyacinths was heavy on the air, but every now and then a breath—something not to be called a wind—came up from across the water and brought with it cold, and a tang of salt.
The moon was still behind the house, but near to clearing it, and though they stood in the dusk, Henry could see Lady Heritage’s features as though through a veil.
Her icy mood was broken; the tears were rolling down her cheeks. She turned on him with a flame of anger.
“Why did you come? Why did you come? Do you know what Father said to me yesterday? I said I wouldn’t have you here, and he said—he said, ‘Good heaven! how can I keep the man away from what is practically his own house?’ Is it yours now?—have you come to see your property?”
Henry looked at her gravely.
“No, it is not mine yet,” he said, “and I came for a very different reason, as I think you know.”
“And you expected me to welcome you ... as if it wasn’t enough to be here, to live here—without——” She broke off, gripping the rough stone of the parapet with both hands. “You ask me why I don’t use the Oak Room—do you forget how you and I and Tony used to roast chestnuts there, and tell ghost stories—till we were afraid to go to bed? If there were no worse ghosts than those.... Do you know, every time you come into the room I expect to see Anthony behind you, and when you speak I catch myself listening for his voice?... Do you still wonder why I don’t use the Oak Room? What are men made of?”
“I don’t know,” said Henry. “Did I hurt you, Raymond? I’m sorry if I did, but it wasn’t meant.”
She sank down upon the parapet. All the vehemence went out of her.
“You see,” she said in a whispering voice—“you see, I can’t forget. God knows how hard I’ve tried. Every one else has forgotten, but I can’t forget. If I could, I should sleep—but I can’t. Henry, have you ever tried very hard to forget anything?”
“Yes,” said Henry.
“Will you tell me what it was?”
“I’m afraid I can’t.”
“Oh well, it doesn’t matter, and if you really understand, you know that the more one tries the more vivid it all becomes.”
“It’s Tony?” asked Henry.
“Yes, it’s Tony,” said Raymond, in an odd voice—“but it’s not because he’s dead—I don’t want you to think that. I could have borne that; I could have borne anything if I could have seen him once again, or if he had known that I cared, but he went away in anger and he never knew.”
“I didn’t know,” said Henry—“I’m sorry.”
Lady Heritage looked away across the sea. The moonlight showed where the jagged line of rocks cut sharp through the sleeping water.
“There’s a verse in the Bible—do you ever read the Bible, Henry? I don’t, but I remember this verse; one was taught it as a child. ‘Let not the sun go down upon your wrath.’ I let the moon rise and go down on mine.” She spoke very, very quietly. “Anthony stood there, just by that urn. He said, ‘You’ll have all the rest of your life to be sorry in....’ That was the last thing he said to me. He never forgave, and he never wrote. I didn’t think any man would let me go so easily, so I married John Heritage to show that I didn’t care. And, whilst we were on our honeymoon, I saw Anthony’s name in the list of missing. Now, do you wonder that I hate you for coming here, and for being alive, and taking Tony’s place? And do you wonder that there are times when I hate everything so much that I’d like well enough to see this whole sorry scheme shattered to bits—if it could be done?”
“I’m not so keen on this shattering business, Raymond,” said Henry. “Don’t you think there’s been about enough of it? There are a lot of rotten things, and a lot of good things, and they’re all mixed up. If you start shattering, the odds are you bring down everything together.”
“Well?” said Raymond, just one word, cold and still.
There was a little pause. Then she laughed.
“Is Henry also among the preachers?” she said mockingly. “You should take Orders; a surplice would be becoming.”
Henry was annoyed to feel that he was flushing.
“Shall I go on preaching?” he said, and as he spoke, Mr. Ember came through the open glass door with a cloak over his arm.
“I am a relief expedition,” he announced. “You must be frozen. Never trust a moonlight night.”
He put the wrap about Raymond’s shoulders, but she did not fasten it.
“I’m coming in,” she said.
She and Ember passed into the lighted room. Henry stood still for a minute, listened acutely; then he followed them.
There was a hedge of stiffly growing veronica bushes at the foot of the terrace wall. After Henry had gone in, the man called George Patterson came out from behind the bushes at the far end of the terrace. He walked slowly with a dragging step, keeping in the shadow of the house, and he made his way to the far end of the north wing.
Inside the Yellow Drawing-Room Henry was bidding his hostess good-night, and announcing his intention of taking a moonlight stroll.
Presently he emerged upon the terrace, descended the steps on the right, and made his way in the direction taken by George Patterson.
When Jane reached her own room, she stood a long time in front of the glass frowning at herself. It might be safe to look so exactly like a schoolgirl, but it was very, very humiliating. Henry had never glanced at her once. That, of course, was all in the line of safety too. Also, why should Henry look at her? Why should she wish him to do so? She was not in love with him; she had, in fact, refused him—could it be that there was a little balm in this thought? What did it matter to her how long he looked at Raymond Heritage?
She took off the white muslin dress and put it away.
The worst part of being Renata was, not the risk, but having to wear Renata’s clothes. All the things were good, horribly good, and they were all quite extraordinarily dull. “If your shoes want mending, and your things are threadbare, every one knows it’s because you’re poor, and not because you like being down at heel and out at elbows. But Renata’s things must have cost quite a lot, and, of course, every one thinks they are my choice.”
By some deflected line of reasoning “every one” meant Henry.
Jane folded up the pale blue sash and shut it sharply into a drawer. Then she put on Renata’s dressing-gown. It was made of crimson flannel, very thick and soft, with scalloped edges to the collar and cuffs—“exactly like one’s grandmother’s petticoat.”
She rumpled the bedclothes and disarranged the pillows. Then she put out the light, sat down on the window-seat, and waited.
The blind was up; she had slipped behind the chintz curtains. The terrace lay beneath her, only half in shadow now. There was no sound in the house, no sound from the sea. The line of shadow moved backwards inch by inch.
When Jane sat down to wait, she told herself that she would not listen and strain; she would just sit there quite peacefully, and if anything was going to happen—well, let it happen. But as she sat there, she became afraid against her will, aware once more of that sense of pressure which had come upon her in the drawing-room. It was as if something was steadily approaching not her alone, but all of them—as if their thoughts and actions were being, at one and the same time, dictated by an outside force and scrutinised—watched—spied upon.
With all her might she resisted this sensation and the fear that it suggested. But, as the night passed to midnight and beyond, a strange feeling of being one watcher in a slumbering household detached itself from the general confusion, and she began to long with great intensity for something—anything—to happen.
Once something moved in the foot-wide strip of shadow against the house. Jane caught her breath and then saw that it was only a cat, a half-grown kitten rather, beloved of the cook. It came out into the moonlight and walked solemnly the entire length of the terrace with delicately taken steps and a high waving tail. It was as soundless and black as the shadow out of which it had come, and presently it was gone again, and second by second, minute by minute, slow, interminable, the night dropped away. In the hall a clock struck the quarters. The silence, shattered for a moment, closed again.
When the rapping came, it brought the oddest sense of interruption. Jane sprang to her feet, stood for a moment catching at her self-control, and then went noiselessly to the door. She listened before opening it, and could hear nothing; and, as she listened, the knocking came again, but from behind her.
Bewildered, she edged the door open and looked out. A shaded light burned far away to the left. The long, dim corridor was empty. She shut the door.
Some one was knocking—somewhere—but where?
She turned and stood facing the windows. Up in the far corner a large cupboard filled the angle and blunted it. Jane had hung her serge dress there hours and hours ago. The knocking seemed to come from the cupboard, just where the room was at its darkest because next the lighted window.
Jane crossed the floor very slowly, put both hands on the cupboard doors, and flung them wide. For a moment everything was quite black, then, with a most unpleasant suddenness, a narrow white ray cut the dark, and Henry’s voice said, “It’s only me.”
Jane’s hand went to her lips, pressing them firmly. She would not have admitted that this action alone saved her from screaming. After a moment she gave a little gasp, and located Henry, or rather Henry’s head, which was almost under her feet.
In the cupboard floor there was a square black hole, and, just above floor-level, Henry’s face looked up at her, tilted at an odd angle, whilst his one visible hand manipulated a small electric torch.
“Wait,” said Jane, in a whisper.
She went quickly to the door, locked it, removed the key, and put it in one of the dressing-table drawers. She did not know quite what made her do this, only suddenly when her eyes saw Henry, her mind had a vivid impression of that long corridor with its one faintly glimmering light.
Then she sat down on the cupboard floor, close to Henry’s head, and breathed out:
“Henry!—how on earth?”
Henry, who appeared to be standing upon a ladder or something equally vertical, came up a few steps, sat down on the edge of the hole, and switched off his torch.
“I had to see you,” he said. “This was my room in the old days, and Tony and I found this passage. It leads down to another cupboard in the garden room where they keep the tennis and croquet gear. How are you?—all right?”
“Yes, quite all right.”
“That’s good. Now which of us is going to talk first?”
“I think I had better,” said Jane. “You see, I saw Renata, and she told me things, and I think, if you don’t mind, Henry, that I had better tell you everything that she told me.”
“Yes, please.” He hesitated. “One minute, Jane, I just wanted to say, you don’t mind talking to me like this, do you? I wouldn’t have asked you to if there had been any other way—what I mean to say is....”
Jane gave a very small laugh, which was instantly repressed. She reflected that it was pleasanter to suppress a laugh than a scream.
“What you mean to say is, there aren’t any chaperons in this scene. You needn’t apologise, Henry. Sleuths never have chaperons—it’s simply not done; and, anyhow, I’m sure you’d make a beautiful one. Shall I go on?”
It may be doubted whether Henry really cared about being described as a chaperon. His tone was rather dry as he said:
“Go on, please.”
As for Jane, who had prodded him on purpose just to see if anything would happen, she certainly felt a slight disappointment accompanied by a sense of increased respect.
“You saw Renata. What did she tell you?”
“She told me what she overheard,” said Jane, speaking slowly. “Henry, if I tell you what it was, will you promise me not to let any one guess that you know? If they were certain that I knew, I shouldn’t be alive to-morrow; and if they thought you knew the secret, you’d never get back to London alive.”
“Who is ‘they,’ Jane?” said Henry.
“I want to tell you about Renata first. She really did walk in her sleep, you know. She must have waked when she opened the door. She said the first thing she knew was the cold feel of the hall linoleum under her feet. The door was open, and she was standing just on the threshold. There was a screen in front of her, and beyond the screen a man talking. She heard every word he said, and I am sure that what she repeated to me was just exactly what she heard. The first words that she caught were ‘Formula “A.”’”
Henry gave a violent start.
“Good Lord!” he said under his breath. “You’re sure?”
“Quite. Then he went on, and this is what he said: ‘You all have Formula “A.” You will go to your posts and from your directions you will prepare what is needful according to that formula, carrying out to the last detail the cipher instructions which each of you has received. As soon as the experiments relating to Formula “B” are completed, you will receive a summons in code. You will then assemble at the rendezvous given, and Formula “B,” with all instructions for its employment, will be entrusted to you. With Formula “A” you have the key. When Formula “B” is also complete you will have the lock for that key to fit; then the treasures of the world are yours. The annihilation of civilisation and of the human race is within our grasp. When the key has turned in the lock we only shall be left, and....’ Just then, Renata said, some one else cried out, ‘The door! The door!’ They pushed the screen away and pulled her in. She nearly fainted. When she revived a little, her father and Mr. Ember were trying to find out what she had heard. Fortunately for herself, she told me, at first it was all confusion. The only thing that stood out clearly was that shout at the end, but afterwards, when she was alone, it all came back. She said it was like a photographic plate developing, hazy at first, and then everything getting clearer and sharper until each detail came out. She repeated the whole thing as if it were a lesson.”
“Wait,” said Henry. “My head’s going round. I want to sort things out.”
Jane waited. She had been prepared for Henry to be impressed or incredulous. What took her by surprise was the puzzled note in his voice. “Lord, what a mix-up!” she heard him say.
Then he addressed her again.
“Did you ever play ‘Russian Scandal,’ Jane?” he said.
“Yes, of course. But if you had heard Renata—the sort of queer mechanical way she spoke, exactly like a gramophone record—why, the words weren’t words she’d have used, and all that about Formula ‘A’—do you think that’s the sort of thing that a schoolgirl makes up?”
“No,” said Henry unexpectedly. “I think it is quite possible that she overheard something about Formula ‘A,’ and I’d give a good deal to know just what she did hear.”
“I’ve told you what she heard,” said Jane. “Jimmy always said I had a photographic memory, and I said the whole thing over to myself until I had it by heart. You see, I didn’t dare to write it down.”
“Can you say it again?” said Henry. “I’d like to get it down in black and white, and have a look at it. At present it makes me feel giddy.”
“You mustn’t write it down,” said Jane breathlessly. “Oh, you mustn’t, Henry! It’s not safe.”
Henry turned on his torch, propped it against the wall, and produced a notebook and a pencil. The cold, narrow beam of light showed his knee, the white paper, a pencil with a silver ring, and Henry’s large, brown hand.
“He has ahorriblydetermined hand,” thought Jane.
“Now,” said Henry, “will you start at the beginning and say it all over again, please?”
Jane did so meekly, but her inward feelings were not meek. Once more she repeated, word for word, and sentence for sentence, the somewhat flamboyant speech of Number Four.
Henry’s hand travelled backwards and forwards in the little lane of light, and, word for word, and sentence by sentence, he wrote it down. When he had finished, he read over what he had written. If he had not a photographic memory, he was, at any rate, aware that Jane in her repetition had not varied so much as a syllable from her first statement.
He went on looking at what he had written. At last he said:
“Jane, I think I must tell you something in confidence. Sir William, as you know, is conducting important experiments for the Government. How important you may perhaps have gathered from the extraordinary precautions which are taken to prevent any leakage of information. These experiments have resulted in two valuable discoveries represented, for purposes of official correspondence, by the terms Formula ‘A’ and Formula ‘B.’ Within the last week we have had indisputable proof that Formula ‘A’ has been offered to a foreign power. That is the reason for my presence here. Now these are facts. Let them sink into your mind, then read over what I have just taken down, and tell me how you square those facts with Renata’s statement.”
Jane picked up the notebook, stared at the written words, set Henry’s facts in the forefront of her mind, and remarked candidly:
“It does make your head go round rather, doesn’t it?”
Henry assented. They both sat silent. Then Jane put down the notebook.
“Never mind about our heads going round,” she said. “Let me go on and tell you the rest of it. It isn’t only what Renata heard; it’s the things that keep happening—little things in a way, but oh, Henry, sometimes I think they are more frightening just because they are little things. I mean, supposing you know you’re going to be executed, you brace yourself up, and it’s all in the day’s work, but if you are out at a dinner-party and you suddenly find poison in the soup, or a bomb in the middle of the table decorations, it’s ... well, it’s unexpected—and, andperfectly beastly.”
Jane’s voice broke just for an instant.
Henry’s hand came quickly through the torchlight, and rested on both hers. It was a satisfactorily large and heavy hand.
She told him about her interview with Ember at the flat, and one by one she marshalled all the small happenings which had startled and alarmed her.
Henry waited until she had quite finished. Then he said:
“This lip-reading—you know, my dear girl, it’s a chancy sort of thing; it seems to me that there are unlimited possibilities of mistake.”
“Some people are much easier to read from than others. Lady Heritage is very easy. I’m sure I was not mistaken; she was saying, ‘If she overheard anything, would she have the intelligence to be dangerous? That is what I ask myself,’ and she said, ‘Despise not thine enemy,’ and ‘Anything but Formula “A.”’ Now Mr. Ember is very difficult. I can’t really make him out at all. His lips don’t move. It’s no use not believing me, Henry. Look here, I’ll show you.”
She caught up the little torch, and turned the light upon his face.
“Say something,” she commanded.
Henry’s lips formed the words, “Jane, I love you very much indeed”—and Jane switched off the light.
“Henry, you’re a perfect beast! Play fair,” she said, in a low, furious whisper.
“Sorry. Wasn’t it all right? Try again.”
Jane allowed the ray to light up Henry’s mouth and chin. The hand that held the torch was not quite steady. This may have been the result of anger—or of some other emotion. As a result the light wavered a good deal.
Henry’s lips moved, and Jane read aloud, “A sleuth should never lose its temper.”
Henry’s hand caught the little shaking one that held the torch, and gave it a great squeeze.
“How frightfully clever you are, and—oh, Jane, what a goose!”
“I’m not,” said Jane.
“But don’t you see that, with Renata’s story in your mind, you would be looking out for things? You couldn’t help it.”
“What do you think, then, of Lady Heritage saying that Mr. Ember’s verdict was inclined to be ‘Guilty, but recommended to mercy,’ whereas she said that she herself doubted the guilt, but that if she did not, she would have no mercy at all? Do you know, that frightened me almost more than anything. I don’t know why. That wasn’t lip-reading; I heard the words with my own ears.”
“But—don’t you see——” He paused. “Let’s get back to facts: Formula ‘A’ has been stolen and offered for sale. Renata, undoubtedly, overheard something relating to Formula ‘A.’ Now, supposing Mr. Molloy or one of his friends to be the person who is doing the deal, don’t you see that the possibility of Renata having overheard something compromising would be sufficient to account for a good deal of alarm?
“If Molloy and his friends had stolen Formula ‘A’ and were trying to dispose of it, it would naturally be of the highest importance to them to find out how much Renata knew, and to take steps which would ensure her silence. They would almost certainly try and frighten her—that’s how it seems to me.”
“Then where does Mr. Ember come in?” said Jane. “He was there.”
“Are you sure?”
“Renata described him,” said Jane. “She said he was the worst of them all.”
“She knew him by name?”
“No. But ... but”—a little chill breath of doubt played on Jane’s certainty—“she called him the man in the fur coat. The others spoke of him as Number Two.”
“But you don’t know that it was Ember?”
For a moment Jane felt that she was sure of nothing; then, with a swift revulsion, her old fears, suspicions, certainties, received vigorous reinforcement.
“Henry,” she said, “listen. You’re on the wrong scent—I know you are. I can’t tell you how I know it, but I’m quite, quite sure. If you were an anarchist, and wanted to produce some horrible thing that would smash civilisation into atoms, how would you set about it?—where would you go? Don’t you see that the very safest place would be somewhere like this, somewhere where you could carry on your experiments under the cover of real experiments? It’s like the caterpillars that pretend to be sticks—what do you call it?—protective mimicry.”
“Jane!” said Henry.
“I’m sure that’s what they have done. I’m sure that there is something dreadful going on in this house. And if you can’t square what Renata heard with what you know of Formula ‘A,’ why, then I believe that there must be more than one Formula ‘A.’ Don’t you see how cunning it would be for them to take the name of a real Government invention to cover up whatever horrible thing it is that they are working at?”
There was a dead silence.
“Another Formula ‘A’?” said Henry slowly. Then, with an abrupt change of manner:
“Leave it—all of it—and tell me some things I want to know. Sir William, for instance—he was put out at my coming down, I know—but what is he like as a rule? He does not always drink as much as he did to-night, does he?”
“I think he does. Henry, I think he takes too much—I do, really; and he’s frightfully irritable. But that’s not what strikes me most. The thing I notice is that he doesn’t seem to do any work. Mr. Ember is supposed to be his secretary, but he really does all his work with Lady Heritage. She goes on all the time. She spends hours in the laboratories. I believe she works there till ever so late, but Sir William just sticks in his study and broods. I thought how strange it was from the very first day.”
“And Lady Heritage? Put all this mysterious business on one side and tell me what you make of her?”
Jane hesitated.
“She’s—she’s disturbing. I think she has too much of everything, and it seems to upset the balance of everything she touches. She’s too beautiful for one thing, and she has too much intellect, and too much, far too much, emotion. I think she is dreadfully unhappy too, with the sort of unhappiness that makes you want to hurt somebody else. You know what she sang this evening. I think she really feels like that, and would like to smash—everything. That’s why....” Jane broke off suddenly; her voice dropped to the least possible thread, “Oh, what’s that—what’s that?”
As she spoke, her hand met Henry’s on the switch of the torch. The light went out. Jane clung to one of the hard, strong fingers as she listened with all her ears. She heard a footstep, light and unmistakable, and it stopped upon the threshold.
There were about twenty seconds of really terrifying silence, and then the handle of the door turned slowly. Jane heard the creak of the hinge, the minute rattle of the latch. Then the handle was released, but slowly and with the least possible noise. There was another silence.
Jane pinched Henry as hard as she could, and though this, of course, relieved the strain she felt dreadfully afraid that she would scream unless something broke through this dreadful quiet.
Something did break through it next moment, for there came a low knocking on the door, and with the first sound of that knocking Jane recovered herself. With an extraordinary quickness and lightness she was on her feet and out of the cupboard, the cupboard was shut, and Jane, her shoes noiselessly discarded, was sitting on the side of a rumpled bed, a fold of the sheet across her mouth, inquiring in sleepy, muffled accents:
“What is it? Who’s there?”
The knocking had gone on steadily. Now it stopped, and a voice said, “It is I, Lady Heritage. Open the door.”
Jane threw back the bedclothes so as to cover the chair at the bed-foot—a chair upon which there should have been a neatly folded pile of clothes—pulled off her stockings, and took the key out of the dressing-table drawer.
“Oh, what is it?” she said, and fumbled at the lock.
Next moment the door was open, and she saw Lady Heritage in her white linen overall and head-dress, the latter pushed back and showing her hair.
Lady Heritage saw a startled girl in a red flannel dressing-gown. Between the moonlight and the light from the passage there was a sort of dusk. Lady Heritage put her hand on the switch, but did not pull it down. Instead, she said quickly:
“I saw a light under the door. Are you ill?”
Jane rubbed her eyes.
“A light?” she said.
Raymond crossed the room quickly and felt each of the electric bulbs.
“A light?” said Jane again.
Lady Heritage went back to the door and turned all the lights on.
“Do you always lock yourself in?” she said. “And why did you take the key out of the door?”
“Was it wrong? They say that if you lock your door and put the key away, even if you walk in your sleep, you don’t go out of the room. I shouldn’t like to walk in my sleep in a big house like this, and perhaps wake up in a cellar or out on the terrace.”
Lady Heritage did an odd thing. Something flashed across her face as Jane was speaking, and she put both hands on the girl’s shoulders and pulled her round so that she faced the light.
Jane met, for a moment, a most extraordinary look. It did not seem to go through her as Mr. Ember’s scrutiny had done, but it shook her more. She looked down and said shakily:
“What is it? Oh, please tell me if I have vexed you—oh, please....”
Lady Heritage took her hands away.
“I had forgotten you walked in your sleep,” she said. “I don’t like locked doors as a rule, but I suppose you had better keep yours fastened. I shouldn’t like you to walk into the sea and get drowned, or break your neck falling off the terrace. Get back to your bed. I’m just going to mine. I’ve been working late.”
She went out, and it was a long, long time before Jane, who had heard the soft footfalls die away in the distance, dared open the door and take a hasty look along the corridor. It was quite empty.
After another pause she went to the cupboard door and opened it. The flooring stretched unbroken; there was no square hole, and no Henry. She sat down on the floor, hesitated, and then knocked lightly.
Under her very hand a board rose with a little jerk—a line of light showed, and Henry’s voice said softly:
“All clear?”
“Yes, be quick, I daren’t wait.”
“Who was it?”
“Lady Heritage.”
“What did she want?”
“I don’t know. She said she saw a light. Henry, she frightens me, she really does.”
The board rose a little higher.
“A sleuth who gets frightened is no earthly——” said Henry firmly. “Now look here, Jane, I can get you out of this quite easily if you want to come. You are the only person in the house whom I haven’t interviewed. Mr. Ember said that of course I shouldn’t want to see you, as you did not get here until after the leakage must have taken place. I made no comment at the time, but it is perfectly open to me to insist on seeing you, to say that I am not satisfied with the interview, and to take you back to London for further interrogation.”
Henry had opened the trap door about a foot. His face, lighted from below, looked very odd with the chin almost resting on a board at Jane’s feet and the trap held up by one hand and only just clearing his hair. Jane would have wanted to laugh if his last suggestion had appalled her less.
“Oh, you mustn’t,” she said. “If you do that, it’s all up. Mr. Ember would never, never, never, allow you to interview me. He’d be afraid of what I might say, and he’d find some awful way of keeping me quiet. As to letting me go off to London with you, well, if we started we’d certainly never get there. And oh, Henry, please, please go away. I’m sure they suspect something, and if she comes again, or if he comes—oh, Henry, do go.”
“All right,” said Henry. “Now, Jane, look here. I’m off before breakfast, but I can make an excuse to come down at any time if you want me. If anything is going wrong, or you get frightened, or if you want to get out of it write for patterns of jumper wool to the Misses Kent, Hermione Street, South Kensington. It’s a real wool shop and they’ll send you real patterns, but Miss Kent will ring me up the minute she gets your letter. I’ll come down straight away, and you look out for me here.”
“Do you mean you’ll come and stay? Won’t they suspect something?”
“They won’t know,” said Henry. “Don’t ask me why, but send for me if you want me, and be very sure that I shall come. Got that address all right?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll be off.”
“Yes, please go.”
As a preliminary to going, Henry came up a step higher, set the torch on the floor, and took Jane by the hand.
“Don’t get frightened, Jane,” he said. “I hate you to be frightened.”
“I’m not, not really.”
Henry came up another step; the trap now rested on his shoulders.
“Oh, Henry,please....”