When Weldon woke he did one of the three things of which only gentlemen of the finest sensitiveness are capable. He gave me one quick, laughing glance, but perceiving in my solemn visage a predisposition to resent badinage, he immediately said, "Good-morning, old chap. Hope you rested well. As usual, I slept like a log—all night." Now, who could help liking a man of that stamp? Not I, most certainly. And not satisfied with pretending to have forgotten everything, he resolutely refrained from so much as glancing at his treasured sword, which I had broken. My heart went out to him in such a flood of feeling that in order to conceal how fond of him I was and how grateful, I simply had to be insulting.
"You needn't tell me you slept," I growled. "You snored like a whole sty-full of hogs" (which was a lie). "It's a wonder to me you did not wake yourself."
"Why didn't you shy a boot at my head?" he asked. "I'm awfully sorry, Pinsent. I can see I kept you awake. You look quite washed out."
"Oh! I'm alright, or will be after a hot bath," I replied ungraciously, and left the room.
When I returned he had a bottle of champagne ready for me, as a pick-me-up; and he was hard at work polishing my boots—all this by way of apology. I swallowed some wine and allowed myself to unbend. I suggested a ride to work up an appetite for breakfast. He joyously agreed, so we dressed and went out. A gallop in the park made us as jolly as a pair of sand boys. We had déjeuner at Verrey's, and then went to call on Miss Ottley. She was out, however, so I dragged my charge to an eye specialist in Harley Street. I pretended an eyeache and had my eyes thoroughly examined. The specialist could find nothing wrong with them. On the contrary, he congratulated me on a singularly perfect vision. After that we went to Weldon's club, dawdled there for a hour and then on the suggestion of Lord William Hurlingham, commonly known as "Bill," we ran down to Maidenhead for a row on the river. It was a perfect day and we enjoyed ourselves amazingly, so much so that we lost count of time and were obliged to dine at a Maidenhead hotel. It thus came about that it was after nine when we strolled to the station to return to town. There was a considerable crowd of holiday-makers on the platform, and one party gave us much amusement. These details are important to explain what followed. The party consisted of half a dozen Jews and as many Jewesses. They were all as gorgeously attired as if they had been attending a regal audience. Buttheir conversation, conducted in tones loud enough to provoke general attention, informed us that they had been spending the day on the houseboat of a certain well-known nobleman of notorious impecuniousness.
Lord Bill, a bit of a wag, made a remark that I did not catch, about the Jews and their nobleman, which sent Weldon into a convulsion of laughter. He then turned to me and began to repeat it for my benefit. Just at that moment the train came rushing into the station. Weldon stood near the edge of the platform with his back to the line, glancing sideways at the Jews and trying to restrain his mirth. I had bent my head the better to hear Lord Bill, who was a short man, but my eyes were on Weldon. Conceive my surprise to observe him stagger backwards of a sudden, as though he had been struck on the forehead. He uttered a startled cry and clawed the air with both hands. For a brief second he tottered at an angle as though he held on to something which supported him. But next instant, as if carried off his feet by a great rush of wind, he went back, back—over the edge of the platform, and before I could move a muscle or utter a word he had fallen and was lying on the rails under the very wheels of the onrushing engine. Men shouted, women shrieked. I sprang forward, and hardly aware of the peril would have leaped upon the line, but that a dozen hands restrained me. It would have meant infallibly my death as well asWeldon's, for the train was not more than a dozen feet off. But I was incapable of reasoning at the moment. I struggled like a madman with my captors and broke away from them at last—to stand dazedly staring at the engine for some horrid seconds. It had stopped. But had it——? With a great effort I dragged myself forward. The edge of the platform was lined with a crowd of white-faced, silent people. They made room for me. Several railway officials were stooping over a frightful object lying between the pavement and the nearest iron rail. One of them shouted for a doctor, and there was an immediate movement in the crowd. Two or three men set off through the station at a run. I closed my eyes. I had never been so shaken in my life. I had never lost my self-control so utterly. The wheels of the engine had completely amputated both poor Weldon's legs midway between the knee and trunk. There followed a hiatus in my reckoning. When I came properly to my senses I was hard at work tying up the arteries, assisted by a medical student who had been a passenger in the fatal train, and a nurse who had apparently been holiday-making on the river. I remember how anxious she was to save her pretty muslin gown from the spouting blood. Presently a surgeon who had been called, appeared armed with proper instruments. With his aid I hastily replaced the imperfect tourniquets I had improvised out of kerchiefs and neckcloths with gutta perchabandages, and we removed poor Weldon from the station to the villa of a gentleman who had charitably placed his house at our disposal. From the very first I felt that there was no hope. Not only had my luckless friend lost his limbs and an immense quantity of blood, but he had suffered internal injuries and a severe occipital concussion. Within an hour, in spite of all we could do, symptoms of lung congestion supervened. When it became manifest that no human skill could save, I wrote a note to Miss Ottley and sent Lord Bill to London to escort her to her lover's bedside.
After that there was nothing to do but wait. Weldon was deep in a state of coma. I sat down beside him and watched his poor, wan face. Every few minutes I administered a stimulant, yet each time asked myself what use? And were it not better to let him cross the bar in painless sleep than try to bring him back for a few moments to the agony of suffering and hopeless separation? Yet I was plagued with the most hateful doubts and ideas, and so, beyond expression miserable that when two hours had gone and I marked his pulse failing visibly with the fleeting minutes, I did that at length which, perhaps, I should have postponed till Miss Ottley's arrival. But then, it might have been too late. Who knows? He opened his eyes and looked at me. I could hardly see for sudden womanish tears.
"Give me your hand!" he whispered. I did so,and he pressed within it a hard, bulbous object. "Put in—in your pocket. Keep it safe!" he gasped. "It will—ah."
I obeyed him without glancing at what he had given me. Then I got up and rang the bell. A great change had come over him. The surgeon responded to my call.
"It is the end!" he said.
Weldon broke into a fit of coughing and beat the bedclothes with his hands. We bent over him, seeking to help and soothe him. The paroxysm passed and for a moment he seemed to sleep. Soon, however, he gave a strong shudder and opened his eyes again. "Pinsent—you will avenge me—you have the clue," he said. It was but a breath, but I heard. Yet I cannot say I comprehended. Indeed, I thought he wandered. But I answered softly: "Trust me, lad!" And at that he smiled and lay still, gazing up at me with eyes of deep affection.
"I have sent for her," I whispered.
"Yes," he sighed. "I know; but she will be too late. Tell her—not to fret!" and at the last word the light faded from his eyes and he was dead.
Long afterwards Miss Ottley came into the room. She was pale, but invincibly composed. I gave her his message and left her alone with the dead. The owner of the house, Lord Bill and the surgeon led me out into the garden. They spoke to me in decorous hushed voices for a while, then letme be. I walked up and down the pathway till break of day, and what I thought about I cannot tell. I remember being closely questioned by a policeman. Then Miss Ottley took my arm and we walked to the station. I thought it my place to be kind to her, yet she was kind to me.
"One might think you cared," she said, and smiled into my face. We got into a train and as soon as it started Lord Bill broke out crying. He declared that Weldon was the best fellow in the world and that he would miss him dreadfully. Then he said in the midst of life we are in death, and laughed, and without asking permission, he began to smoke a cigarette. It is strange how differently people are affected by emotion. I was mentally dazed, and I fancy part of my brain was benumbed. Miss Ottley was poignantly awake, but her pride, and her strength of mind served her for a mask. Lord Bill, on the other hand, acted as responsively to his feelings as an infant. And yet each of us behaved naturally. I reflected on these things all the way to town. Lord Bill bade us farewell at the station. Miss Ottley and I drove to her home in a hansom. During the drive she spoke about the funeral quite calmly and mentioned poor Weldon's love for big, red roses. His coffin should be smothered in roses, she declared.
When I helped her to the pavement, she pointed up at a window that was open. "Dr. Belleville's room," she said, and smiled. "He is enjoyinghis triumph. He kept his word to the letter. It is the seventh day. The seventh day, Hugh Pinsent; that is a terrible man. How shall I possibly withstand him?"
I shook my head. "You are wrong," I answered dully. "He is not responsible for this. It was an accident."
"Are you sure?" she asked.
"I am sure of nothing," I replied. "But it seems to me an accident—and yet. But there. I am incapable of reasoning in my present mood. I shall see you again. In the meanwhile—think of Weldon's last words to you and do not grieve too much!"
"And you?"
I shrugged my shoulders. "I have never felt more miserable. And already I am beginning to fancy I might have saved him."
"How?"
"By going yesterday to your father and Dr. Belleville and forcing them at the muzzle of a revolver to tell me things they know and which I want to know."
"You rave," she muttered coldly, and slowly climbed the steps.
I followed her and rang the bell.
"If you persist in thinking my father a bad man, I never want to speak to you again," she whispered.
There were steps in the passage. I took offmy hat to her. "I must mend my thoughts," I said.
The door opened and Dr. Belleville appeared upon the threshold.
The girl gave him a quick look before which he quailed. But he recovered quickly. "I sincerely trust you bring good news," he said, in tones of deep concern.
"The best," answered Miss Ottley, and drawing in her gown she swept past him with a glance of bitter hate, into the house.
Belleville looked after her, then turned to me, plucking at his jetty beard and frowning heavily.
"Weldon is better?" he inquired.
"He is dead," I said.
"Poor, poor fellow," sighed Dr. Belleville. "I am greatly pained to hear it. You were his friend, were you not, Pinsent? I can see that you are upset. Won't you come in and have a glass of brandy? you look quite done up."
"No, thank you," I answered. "I must get home and change these bloodstained clothes—there is to be an inquest this afternoon. Good-morning."
"Good-morning!" he replied. He was staring at the bloodstains to which I had purposely directed his attention. But he did not give a sign of agitation. His face remained as expressionless as wood.
On arrival at Jermyn Street I changed my clothes and, having collected all my belongings, I repaired at once to Dixon Hubbard's flat. I could not endure the thought of spending one unnecessary moment in my poor dead friend's abode. I saw his honest face and gay, mirth-filled eyes in every corner; and he smiled at me from every dark nook and shadow of the trophy-covered walls. Hubbard received me with his usual frozen politeness. He was still in bed. But I felt an overmastering desire for human sympathy, so I ignored his manner and told him what had passed. He was sorry, I think. He had only met Weldon twice, and had merely exchanged a word or two with him, but he admitted having felt drawn to the bright and manly lad; and though he said little, it could be seen that he was shocked to hear of a death so untimely and on all accounts so utterly regrettable. And he strove to cheer me in his way. After a long silence, he suddenly remarked on the iron-bound remorselessness of fate. "There," he said, "was a young fellow just about to taste his cup of long-anticipated happiness. A man with many friends and no enemies; universallyliked and respected. Yet destiny, without warning, dashed the cup for ever from his lips. And one cannot console oneself with the reflection that he has been spared the pain and shame of finding the contents bitter-sweet and mixed with dregs; for the girl loved him, I am told, and she was good to look upon, and honest-hearted. What is the meaning of it all? Omar laughingly declares that the Potter is a Good Fellow and 'twill all be well. But how many pots have encountered that experience? Have I—though still I'm here? And you? I'm all awry. The Potter's hand shook in making me. As for you, you started straight, but you grow more crooked every day and it's not your fault; you are a helpless dough puppet in the hands of destiny."
"You think I grow crooked?" I asked, surprised. "Mentally?"
"Morally," he answered, with a sneer. "You picked a foolish quarrel to leave me, and now you are back again. Why?"
"Can you tell me?"
"I have a theory," he said, with kindly eyes. "Tell me if I am wrong. My wife has become interested in you. She has marked you for a victim. At first you were unwilling. You could not even bear to be near me. But now you are more callous."
"You are wrong," I replied—then suddenly remembered that I had given a solemn promise to Lady Helen.
No doubt Hubbard marked the change in my expression. His sneer grew more pronounced. But I had a task to get through somehow.
"Lady Helen, with all due deference to you, Hubbard," I said slowly, "is not a woman I could ever care about. I feel certain she is even less interested in me than I am in her. But even were the reverse the case with her, as you suspect, what odds? I have the utmost contempt for her; and I think that she deserves—but there, you have the misfortune to be her husband, so I'll say no more."
His face was scarlet. "What reason have you to despise her?" he demanded.
"Is it not enough that she has most unwarrantably caused you a great deal of unhappiness?" I retorted. "Besides, you have told me sufficient of her character to convince me that she is one of those flighty butterfly women whom all honest men regard with only one step short of loathing."
"And you are an honest man?" he sneered.
"I try to be," I answered modestly.
He was furious. In order to hide it, he sprang out of bed, flung on his dressing-gown and rushed to the bath. I thought of Lady Helen's acute prevision of the event, and almost contrived to smile. Hubbard had come within an ace of defending his defamed wife with naked fists on my impertinent face, according to the simple rules of the Supreme Court of Appeals of primeval unlettered aborigines.
We tabooed the subject by tacit consent for the remainder of the forenoon, but Hubbard announced his intention of accompanying me to the inquest, and as soon as we were seated in the train he opened fire again.
"I am afraid I have given you an exaggerated idea of Lady Helen's shortcomings," he commenced, looking anywhere but at me. "I am afraid I have created a false impression in your mind. I don't want you to consider her entirely blameworthy, Pinsent; if she were that I should long ago have ceased to care a pin for her."
I shrugged my shoulders and looked out of the window.
He went on presently. "I'm afraid, Pinsent, I have done a foolish thing, perhaps even a caddish thing, in telling you anything about our private quarrel. It did not occur to me at the time that I might prejudice you against her. To be honest, there were faults on both sides, and if you knew all you might consider me the more deserving of censure, her the more deserving of pity."
"My dear old chap," I answered solemnly, "have I known you all these years for nothing? All you have said only the more assures me of your chivalry and generosity and tenderness of heart, and makes me feel the angrier at her insensate incapacity to appreciate your qualities. I grant you that you hide yourself at times behind a mask of surliness, but do you mean to tell me that anytrue woman, any woman, indeed, even such a frivolous creature as she has proved herself to be, could have failed to penetrate so transparent a disguise? I can't believe it, my boy. In my opinion, Lady Helen knows you perfectly for what you are. But instead of responding with an equal or similar nobility of mind, at the instance of her innate selfishness she is using her knowledge to put upon you, to hurt you, to trifle with you, and to drain your purse, all that she may pass the sort of existence she prefers without the wheel-brake of your tutelage."
Hubbard moved uncomfortably in his seat. He frowned and bit his lip. Then he coughed and put up a hand to his brow.
"Damme!" at length he blurted out. "You're as wrong as you can be. It was I who insisted on the separation."
"But she forced you to it. She broke her marriage vow of obedience, by refusing to accept the rules of life that you had planned."
"I prescribed conditions which she characterised as grossly unreasonable and unfair. I am by no means sure now that she was not right."
"Nonsense, Hubbard. It's a woman's first duty to obey and cleave to her husband at all costs and whatever be the consequences or fancied consequences to her comfort or convenience. Marriage imposes that obligation on the woman in its sacramental character. It is a sacred obligation and itcannot be violated without the guilt of crime. I could have no mercy on such a criminal."
Hubbard unbuttoned his coat and threw back the lapels. He seemed hot. He puffed out his cheeks and began to fan himself with a newspaper.
"Lord!" he muttered. "What strait-laced ideas you have of matrimony. Upon my soul I cannot follow you. They are out of date. There was a time, perhaps, when they were necessary. But now! My dear Hugh, you should reconsider the matter. Your views are somewhat narrow. For years past the world has been allowing an ever-increasing license to woman. And who shall say that it is wrong! Woman is a reasoning, responsible being. I——"
"Nonsense, Hubbard," I interrupted. "Woman is the weaker vessel, and the more she is restricted the better for her own protection. Look at the Divorce Court! Thousands of marriages are every year dissolved. That is all owing to the greater freedom which men have conceded woman of latter years. Divorce was, comparatively speaking, an unknown quantity when men asserted the right to confine their wives in proper bounds and forced them to observe and practise the domestic virtues both for occupation and amusement. Look around you and consider what has been brought about by the unwise relaxation of the old, sound laws! A race of social moths and drones and gad-flies has been created, whose chief business in life it is to amusethemselves; whose pleasure it is to spend money often earned with difficulty by devoted fools; whose delight it is to ensnare and to deceive their former tyrants; whose estimate of motherhood is an avoidable and loathsome human incident; whose morality is a resolution to preserve their immorality from public criticism; whose faith is a shibboleth composed of superstitious formulæ, and whose religion is occasionally to attend divine service in some fashionable church arrayed in the latest thing in headgear and a chic French gown."
Hubbard straightened his shoulders. His expression had grown quite superior during my tirade, and when it was over, it was plain that he looked down on me from the heights of a philosophic Aconcagua.
"I would not advertise those opinions if I were you," he observed with a slight sneer. "They have a grain of truth in them, but not enough to conceal the brand of special advocate. I suppose you do not wish to be regarded as a social reformer?"
"I shall be content to reform one woman—if ever I marry," I answered, with a straight face, though it was hard to keep it straight.
"She has my unmeasured sympathy," said Hubbard. "Once upon a time I was a woman-hater—but in my most uncharitable moments I was never such a fool as you. You will forgive my plain speaking?"
"Certainly, Hubbard, certainly. You are notresponsible. It is plain to me that Lady Helen has bewitched you. One of these days you'll be lauding her as a creature of incomparable excellences—a very paragon of merit and a pattern of the virtues. I can see it coming. I am sorry, for, of course, I know what she is."
Hubbard turned crimson. He snapped his teeth together and rapped out: "See here, Pinsent, we are very old friends, but I'll be damned if I allow you to disparage my wife. Is that plain?"
I took out my cigarette case. "Perfectly," I murmured.
He glared at me for a moment, then scowled still more blackly and growled deep in throat: "I can't think what has come over you. You haven't the least right or cause to hate her. It's positively unmanly. Especially as she thinks of you far more highly than you deserve. She feels it, too. You must have shown her how you regard her. She made me feel a brute."
"Look here, Hubbard," I cried, with a nicely assumed show of indignation, "I want to oblige you and I want to keep the peace between us, but I shan't be able to if you keep on defending her when you know as well as I——"
"What?" he thundered.
"That she is a butterfly!" I thundered back.
"She is not!" he shouted.
"She is!" I said.
"You, you, you imbecile!" spluttered my poorfriend. "I tell you once and for all that is only one phase of her. I don't like it, I admit," (he began to cool off), "but still it is only a phase. She is in reality a woman of great depth of character." (He was quite cool by this.) "I had a conversation with her the other night that astonished me. Of course, I have always known that she is an educated woman, but the extent of her knowledge had previously escaped me. She has a much more than superficial acquaintance with the modern forms of speculative philosophy. She has read Kant and Spencer and Nietzsche with understanding: and she is now engaged in the study of Egyptian history. You have interested her deeply in the subject."
I shrugged my shoulders. "And from all this you conclude?"
"That I have been an idiot not to recognise long ago that she is my intellectual equal. And I have treated her as if she were an irresponsible child."
"But she is a woman."
"Quite so," replied this converted woman-hater, "and because she is a woman, and such a woman, she has the power to bless the man fortunate enough to win her—her affection—as few men are blessed. Now you can appreciate my position. I have blindly sacrificed my chance. I——"
"Pish!" I interrupted. "Tell her what you have told me and be blessed! You'll repent it all your life through."
"It is too late," he groaned. "I have been weighed in the balance and found wanting. Pride, if nothing else, would always prevent her from forgiving me. She—liked me once, I think—but now——" He cleared his throat and forced a wry smile. "She looks upon me as her treasurer and friend. It was my own choice. I have no right to grumble." Then he burst out suddenly, "But it's damnable, Pinsent, damnable!"
Lady Helen's medicine was working like a charm. I thought it best to let well enough alone. So I made a rude effort and changed the conversation. We soon reached our journey's end.
The inquest was a nightmare dreamed by day. The courtroom was filled with poor Weldon's relatives. His father, the old baron, ostentatiously turned his back on me. He seemed to think me in some way responsible for his son's fate. Weldon's sisters, too, whom I knew slightly, vouchsafed me no sign of recognition. His younger brother—now the heir—was the only member of the family who extended the slightest token of civility. He was so manifestly delighted at the unlooked-for promotion of his prospects that I read in his warm hand-grip a secret pæan of joy. He had been intended for that limbo of younger sons and blue-blooded incompetents, the bar. Happily, the inquest was soon over. I was only in the box five minutes, and a quarter-hour later the verdict was recorded: "Accidental death."
Hubbard and I returned at once to London. There arrived, I plunged into work upon my book and for a space of two days I managed to forget that the world contained anything but steles and obelisks and mural hieroglyphic inscriptions which, though always half obliterate with time, had somehow or other to be made sense of and translated into English prose.
Weldon's funeral was held on the afternoon of the third day following his death. His body was interred in the vault of his family at their seat at Sartley, in Norfolk. I was not invited to attend, but I felt I had to go. Miss Ottley was there with her father and Dr. Belleville. She was clad in deep mourning, and her face was thickly veiled. One of Weldon's sisters sobbed throughout the ceremony, yet I do not think she felt her brother's loss half as deeply as I did. I heard her whisper to her neighbour once—between sobs—(I knelt immediately behind her)—"Have you ever seen such callousness—not a tear, not a sigh?" She was referring to Miss Ottley. I spent the rest of the afternoon on the cliffs beside the sea. I did not wish to return by the same train as the Ottleys, but destiny ruled otherwise, although I waited for the last. It seemed that Sir Robert had overtaxed his strength and had been obliged to rest. I had hardly taken my seat when he was helped into the same compartment by Belleville and the porter. They made him comfortable with cushions, without observing me; but Miss Ottley started as she entered, andraised her veil. "You!" she muttered, then paused as if in doubt, eyeing Belleville. A second later she let fall her veil again and sat beside me. Without asking anyone's permission, Belleville turned down the light, leaving the compartment in comparative obscurity. The porter muttered thanks for the tip and, departing, locked the door.
Plainly my presence had passed unnoticed. But an exclamation from Belleville soon showed he had discovered me. "Excuse me, sir," he said, "this carriage has been specially reserved." Then he recognised me. "Oh!" he cried. "You—but——"
But the train had begun to move. I sank back in my corner. Belleville took the corner opposite. In a few minutes Sir Robert complained of the light, in the manner of a sick man. Belleville sprang up and put it out altogether. The darkness now was absolute.
"If you will take this side, I can make you comfortable; there is a cushion to spare," said Belleville's voice. He was not addressing me.
"I prefer to remain where I am, thank you," said Miss Ottley, in a frigid tone.
Belleville sat down silently. Now and then I caught the glimmer of his eyes from the reflection of passing lights, or the glow of the engine smoke and steam, wind-blown beside the train. He was staring into the corner which I occupied. I felt his hatred wrap and heat me like a coat composed of nettles. And the man had occasion, for ere longMiss Ottley's hand stole to mine, and she sighed when mine enclosed and pressed it close. Belleville could not have known, yet he must have felt we were in sympathy opposed to him—just as I felt his hostile influence. It was a silent ride, but not uninteresting. Twice Belleville unexpectedly struck a match and flashed it in our faces. But my rug covered the occupation of our hands. Once instinct warned me that he was bending forward, peering and prying. I raised my foot and brushed it in his beard. He fell back, coughing, to prevent himself from cursing. It was in that moment probably that he resolved upon my death, for I was unable to restrain a low, grim laugh. Sir Robert slept always, even when we paused at stations on the road. At those times Belleville and I exchanged pretty courtesies. He would offer me his flask, or I would offer him a cigarette. We both refused these charming civilities, but our manner was so densely sugar-coated that there might have been detected by a skilled psychometrist a scent of honey in the air. And our eyes beamed upon each other with the sweetest friendliness. Needless to say, whenever the engine whistled or the train slowed down Miss Ottley's hand left mine. She only spoke to me once, and that was on the London platform, while Belleville was assisting her father from the car.
"Do not go out ever between three and five!" she muttered behind her veil, without looking at me."I shall come as soon as I can. Do not call on me! Do not reply! Just say good-bye!"
"Well—if you'll allow me, I'll say good-bye, Miss Ottley," I announced in ordinary tones. "You might be good enough to let me know your opinion of my book at your leisure, for I value your opinion. You will have an advance copy in a week or two."
"Most certainly, Dr. Pinsent. It is kind of you to remember your promise. Good-bye!"
I lifted my hat and left her; nodding to Belleville as I passed. He looked surprised, also distrustful, but he said something polite. Sir Robert saw me, but chose to ignore my existence.
I walked home to Bruton Street and found Hubbard ensconced before the fire. The night was chilly enough to warrant one, despite the season. He was staring gloomily into the heart of the glowing coals.
I helped myself to a glass of whisky and took an armchair beside him.
"I can't stand this. I'll go abroad," he announced at the end of a good half hour.
"What's the matter, Hubbard?"
"Oh! I've been there again. I couldn't keep away. She was alone, for a wonder."
"You refer to your wife, I suppose. Well?"
He allowed me to finish my cigar before replying, then he said: "I have no business to tell you, but I shall. She is in love, and I believe with you."
"Nonsense."
"I wish it were," he answered dreamily, "but it is not. She has practically admitted it."
"That—she cares for me?" I cried.
"No—but for someone. And I am not so great a fool that I cannot read between the lines, although she thinks so. Her thoughts dwell constantly on you."
"Impossible!"
He turned and gazed at me. "It's so, old man, upon my honour."
"You are mistaken, Dixon."
"I know you are as true as steel," he muttered. "That is why I do not even feel a wish to thwart the fates. I am nothing but an interloper, a marplot. I ought to efface myself. When I am strong enough I shall. But I wish you'd be frank with me—Hugh, entirely frank. You think you despise her now, but you are sure you have no other feeling deep at heart? Think well before you answer, Hugh!"
"Why?"
"Because if I were sure that you cared, too, I would find my happiness in helping. You are worthy of her—and she—as God hears me, is worthy of the best man living."
"Dixon! Dixon!"
"Oh! I know this must sound oddly from my lips. But though I've been a fool, I'm wiser now. I hold a purer, finer faith; a human faith. And itis now my deep belief that the greatest crime of all is the prevention of the fullest union of predestined mates—and all that sin entails—the birth of children generated by the fires of lust and hate upon the copperplate of physical and psychical indifference; the production of a race prenatally ordained to be degenerates; the determination of unhappy souls galled into madness by their chains,—their ultimate destruction."
He got suddenly afoot and raised his hands on high. "I tell you, Hugh!" he cried, with eyes afire, "there is no surer way to damnation, no surer path. We are born into this world for one strong purpose which is told us by our hearts if we will hear them. And this concerns ourselves not half so much as our potentialities of helping by their proper use the unborn spirits placed by Providence at our control and mercy. It is then for us to choose if we will be servants of the good, to assist in their perfection, or the servants of the evil to promote their desolation and to advance the stages of their ruin. No human being has the right to bring any but a love child into the world. That which is not a love child is a child of hate. There is no course between. And because the father of a child of hate is a criminal for whom there is no punishment conceivable, to a finite mind, acute enough on earth his expiation of his crime will but begin at death. You laugh at me."
"On the contrary," I answered gravely, "I accord with you."
"Then you admit my duty. I should stand aside?"
"Ay—but first be sure, my friend! You love your wife; she may love you."
"I am sure that she does not. But you? It is time, Hugh, that you answered me."
I stood up and put a hand on his shoulder. "I love with all my strength another woman," I said slowly. "And just as sure I am that I love her am I that she loves me. Are you answered?"
He stared at me, and in the moment that my eyes held his, his face grew dull and grey. "My poor Helen," he muttered, "I had hoped to help her to her happiness."
"At—any cost?" I demanded.
"Yes, yes," he said.
"Death?"
"I would have welcomed it," he groaned, and turning, he went slowly from the room. He walked like an old, old man. I had never admired him so little, nor liked and pitied him so much. Straightway I wrote a note to Lady Helen and, going out, posted it myself. It contained only these three words: "It is time." I could trust a woman of her proven cleverness to understand.
I expected Miss Ottley next afternoon, and Hubbard, as though aware I wished to be alone, went out soon after three. But she did not come. Hubbard returned an hour after midnight. He kept me awake by tramping about his room until far into the small hours. Next morning I found the library filled with corded boxes and Hubbard's man padlocking the last of them. "Master's gone to France, and I'm to follow," he announced with an air of suppressed exultation. "He left this letter for you."
The letter contained these lines: "I know you at length for the cunning scamp you are. How you must have laughed at me. But I forgive you. We shall be away a year, at least. As always, everything I have is yours. Let us find you here on our return. I cannot write more. My heart is too full. Pinsent, she loves me! D. H." The last three words were deeply underlined. By the end of that week I had completed the revision of my book and forwarded the manuscript to Mr. Coen. Afterwards, I was uncomfortably lonely and unoccupied. I waited in from three to five everyafternoon, but no one came. The rest of the days I spent wandering about the streets nursing the long sickness of too much thinking. The end of it was, I disobeyed Miss Ottley and went one afternoon to call on her. I might as well have saved myself the trouble. She was "out," likewise her father and Dr. Belleville. Two days later I called again. Again everyone was out. Then I wrote a guarded note and sent it with an advance copy of my book, asking for an expression of her opinion. After much waiting, I received a long typewritten disquisition challenging on apocryphal authority my attribution of a stele superscribed by Amen-aken to the fourteenth dynasty. It was signed by Miss Ottley, but I failed to recognise it as her composition. One evening, however, having nothing else to do, I applied to its verbiage the simple rules of a well-known cipher. This gave me an astonishing result. "Impossible see you without endangering your life. Constant supervision." But it was worth testing the matter further. I therefore composed a formal reply to the challenge, showing my reasons for concluding that Amen-aken had unwarrantably altered for purposes of his own glorification the historic record of a predecessor. I used the same cipher and embodied the following message by its aid: "Shall pass the house before midnight Friday. Throw letter from window explaining all! I live to serve you." This document I forwarded to Miss Ottley enclosed in a letter inwhich I took pains to show that I had been disappointed by her criticism, and that I was not anxious for the correspondence to be continued. Then I waited as patiently as possible for Friday to come round. The hours passed with leaden feet, but they passed—and midnight found me in the lane walking slowly by the house. It was wrapped in gloom from roof to basement, but her window was open. As the clocks began to chime, a white thing flashed out and fluttered to my feet. It was a kerchief weighted with a golden bracelet. I felt a paper crinkle in its folds. Hastily concealing it within my coat, I pressed on and returned by a circuitous route to Bruton Street. Soon I was poring over my treasure. It was typewritten like the challenge. It read: "I have been obliged to typewrite this, because I am a close prisoner and am forbidden the use of pen or pencil. But they make me work as their stenographer some hours each day—and I was forced to seize the opportunity so presented. Thank God you understood the cipher. If you love me give out that you proceed immediately to Egypt. Then go to Paris and return to London under another name and well disguised. Take lodgings East; and wait until you see in Personal Column ofDaily Wiredirections addressed to 'D. Menchikoff!' Follow them implicitly! Am in power of fiends. Open opposition perilous. Must allay suspicion. Otherwise forced immediate marriage B." Here the missive ended.
I sat down before the fire and thought hard for some minutes. The paper was crunched up in my hand. Suddenly the door opened. I turned my head at the sound of the creak, but could see no one. What could have opened the door? I heard the sound of caught breath, a foot on the door and a sigh. In a flash I understood. I had been seen by my enemies picking up the letter in the street, and they had sent their invisible messenger to win it from me. Quick as thought I thrust the paper in the flames and sprang afoot. There followed a deep-voiced oath and a rush of air fanned my face. I struck out with all my strength right and left, half beside myself with rage and fear. But my blows encountered nothing tangible, and a second later the door banged shut. I was so unnerved that I simply walked over and locked it. How can a man fight with an enemy he cannot see? or even follow him? When my hands stopped shaking I began to pack up my trunks. I resolved to follow Miss Ottley's bidding to the letter. To-morrow I would announce my departure for Egypt and cross the Channel in order to put Belleville off the track. Meanwhile I ransacked my wardrobe. Presently I received a shock. From an unremembered corner in a chest I brought out the clothes I had worn on the day of poor Weldon's death. They were covered with dyed bloodstains, the blood of my dead friend. I placed them on the table and eyed them, shuddering. My mind, as if spell-compelled,reviewed all the details of Weldon's death. I saw him stagger back, back, and fall beneath the wheels of the onrushing locomotive. I heard his dying shriek. Once more I struggled desperately, but alas! how vainly with the dark angel, for his life. Once more, as the end approached, I saw his glazed eyes open and look into mine. Once more I heard his dying words—"Give me your hand!"
And but—God in Heaven! How could I ever have forgotten it! Had he not given me something—something I had put in my pocket half unconsciously without looking to see what it was—something he had implored me to "keep safe."
I felt my senses rock at the recollection; and then I went hot all over with shame, to think of my neglect, my inattention. Until that moment—despite his dying direction, I had utterly forgotten his sad trust. And the thing he had given me to keep—where was it now? Where, indeed, but in the pocket of that coat where I had placed it. Oh! It was safe enough, no doubt—but that did not absolve me. For weeks I had been a recreant trustee. I had, I saw it now, I had been a coward. I felt his death so much that I had resolutely put all thoughts of him aside, smothered them with work, fearing the misery which they must bring. And I had been his friend!
I took up the coat and felt in the pocket. Yes, it was there. What was it? I drew it out before the light and saw nothing! Yet I held somethingheavy and hard. Was I going mad? Was my sight diseased or what? I rubbed my eyes and looked again. Nothing! I strode over to the gas jet and held the thing between my visual organs and the flame. Ah! something now! But how describe it? I saw a small light blur; a sort of shapeless haze off which the rays, the jet of light diffused, recoiled obliquely. It was not transparent, but neither was it in the true sense visible. It seemed to defy the light rays, to repulse them rather than absorb them. When held directly before the flame I could not see the gas jet through it, and yet itself I could not truly see. It confused and disarranged my vision as a watery mote does floating on the surface of an eyeball. Slowly and surely experimenting with the thing, I found that the farther I withdrew it from the lamp the less sensibly my sense became aware of its existence. But when I placed it directly against the lamp the flame became mysteriously obscured. I say mysteriously, because the thing cast no discoverable shadow, and although solid to the sense of touch, it was not otherwise apparently opaque. The flame still burned behind it, and I still saw the flame, yet not through, but over and around an intermediate blur. In that connection the thing did not resemble glass. Had the reverse been the case I should have seen the flame through it directly. As it was, as far as I can make out, the impression of the flame was conveyed to my retina by rays of light thatdid not travel in a straight path. They climbed over and surrounded the interposed object first, and thus gave me a slightly distorted image of the flame; and instead of revealing the obstacle which they had to overcome in transit, all they did was to indicate vaguely its situation. Thus, above and below the indiscernible point where their straight and proper course was interfered with I perceived a misty, indefinable haze. And at the point where the rays seemed to reassemble and readjust themselves to the resumption of their ordinary business there was a blur. Perhaps the best way to depict the effect was to present the hypothesis of a weak flame held up before a stronger one. This does not exactly describe the phenomenon I witnessed and investigated, but it approximates as closely as I can manage. The chief points of difference are, that every flame casts a shadow, and this thing did not, unless a blur of light be a shadow; and furthermore, a flame may be seen even confronted with a stronger flame, and this thing I held was destitute of a perceptible outline. The pity was that I was then working without a single clue to any comprehension of the thing; and the greater pity is that though my knowledge became fuller, I am still ignorant of the action of the properties which made the thing visually impalpable. I can only guess at them. But I think I guess correctly when I conjecturally assert that it was surface coated with some essence which had the power to compel thegreat majority of the light rays to travel along its sides and surface and to resume their original direction afterwards. I do not pretend to understand how this essence could so interfere with and control the laws of light. But granting that it could, the explanation is a natural one. And though scientists may frown at me for advancing a theory which I am unable to substantiate, I prefer to incur their scorn rather than adopt the alternative—supernatural agency. I simply decline to believe in the supernatural. It is my profound conviction that nothing has ever happened on this planet, however mysterious and inexplicable, which has not been produced by a purely and perfectly natural cause. And the longer I live the more certain do I become that, deep and wonderful as our scientific acquaintance with Nature undoubtedly is, we have not yet even thoroughly explored the porch of her palace of secrets, her vast treasure-house of wonders.
But I stray from my subject. It is my present business to relate events, not to discuss their basic principles.
To resume then, after a great while spent in experimenting with the thing which poor Weldon had given me, before the light, I was obliged to confess myself baffled. I then fell back upon my other four senses. I got out a pair of scales and weighed the thing. It weighed exactly seven ounces. Then I smelt it. The thing was odourless. I bit it, but it was tasteless. Yet it yielded to myteeth like stiff rubber or leather. Next I placed it on a sheet of paper and traced its outlines with a pencil. That was the first really definite result I got. The tracing showed a bulbous object four inches wide by five long. It was shaped something like a pear. Its base contained four indentations with corresponding rounded protuberances like knuckles. The apex was ragged. Next I took a knife and with the blade scratched its surface. A moment later a long streak of dark, dry tissue was revealed. I could see it plainly. I shook all over with excitement. The mystery seemed to be clearing up. But even as I took up the knife again I paused, convulsed with a wild, improbable idea. What if?—but there. I held my breath and took the thing before the fire to think its problem out. I sat down. My nerves were all jangled. The fire needed replenishing. It was low and I was cold. I stooped down and heaped on some coal. Then came a thought. I put the thing on a shovel and held it over the grate. Heat! Yes, heat! The greatest of great resolvents. Fool not to have thought of it before. Fool, indeed! One minute—two—three. There was a shadow on the shovel. I bent forward. Instantly my nostrils were assailed with the unforgettable perfume of the tomb of Ptahmes! Ah! the flood of recollections that came surging at its bidding to my brain! But I fought them back. I bent right over the fire—and I made out presently, lying on the shovel, the dim form of a tight-clenched human hand.
It was the hand of a mummy. It had been half snapped, half torn from the forearm, just above the wrist. Thus the edges of the stock were ragged and the tendons were drawn out and torn; the bone, however, had fractured clearly, just as glass breaks, leaving a hard, smooth edge. But the hand was not an ordinary mummy's hand. The bones were covered with mummified flesh truly, but, although dry, it was neither stiff nor brittle. On the contrary, it possessed the tough consistency of leather and was resilient and kneadable like rubber. The phalanges, when pulled straight, returned to their ordinary and original position, like springs, immediately the pressure was removed. The colour of the skin was a very dark chocolate. It was marvellously preserved. The very pores were still discernible, and the veins and arteries beneath the epidermis, which had been converted by age into fine black cords, could be traced with ease. Now, whose hand was it? From what mummy torn? And how had Weldon become possessed of it? I gave up the attempt to solve the first two problems as soon as I had mentally propounded them. The third,however, answered itself. I knew Weldon too thoroughly to admit a doubt that he would ever have carried about with him such a ghastly trophy. Like most healthy young Englishmen, he had a horror of such things. Well, then he must have snatched the hand, then invisible, from the grasp of someone—in the very moment in which he had been falling to his death. But no one had been near him. That is, no one visible to us or him. But since the hand had been practically invisible until I had subjected it to the influence of heat, was it not just as likely that it might have been—nay, must have been—carried by an invisible person? But that invisible person must have been very near Weldon. He must have been close enough to have saved Weldon had he chosen. Why had he not chosen? Why, indeed, unless he had wished Weldon to die? And if he had wished Weldon to die, would it not have been easy for him—because invisible—to help Weldon to die? Easy! Good heavens, how easy! How appallingly easy! And then I remembered how astonished I had been to see Weldon stagger back, step after step, to the platform's edge—three steps at least. I understood it now—and his startled outcry. He had been assailed by an invisible adversary. He had been forced back. He had been hurled over the platform—and as he fell he had clutched out wildly and seized the mummy's hand. He had been foully murdered; and we had watched his murder, comprehending nothing. My fleshbegan to creep as the light of understanding broke in upon my brain. For I realised in the same instant that Weldon's murderer was, in all probability, the man who had had most occasion to desire his death—Belleville—my enemy and the enemy, although the lover, of the woman I loved; the wretch in whose power she was at that moment. He had warned Miss Ottley that unless she broke off her engagement with Weldon her fiancé would die within the week. He had died—murdered in cold blood—on the evening of the seventh day. Belleville had been most terribly faithful to his awful promise. To the very letter he had kept his dreadful vow. And now—Miss Ottley was his prisoner in her own father's house; and, no doubt, Sir Robert Ottley, sick, enfeebled in body and intellect, was Belleville's puppet instrument to the furtherance of his atrocious purposes. What chance had I—fighting a man so utterly unscrupulous, so strong-willed and remorseless, and endowed with a power so tremendous and far-reaching as the possession of a chemical agent capable of rendering himself imperceptible to mortal sight whenever it should please him to make use of it? How could I or anybody bring such a man to justice? Why, even if I should foil his scheme for my undoing, and were it possible, as well, to get the better of him to the extent of satisfying myself beyond doubt as to his guilt, what court on earth would believe the evidence I could bring forward? A tissue of absurdities; anetwork of hypotheses and chimeras! I should be laughed at as a madman, a foolish visionary; and he would go scot free with undamaged reputation, free to work his evil will upon an unconscious and defenceless world. Belleville's advantage over me was so manifestly overwhelming that I confess the prospect of entering into a trial of strength and cunning with him daunted me. And yet, if I did not, Weldon's death would surely go unavenged, and Miss Ottley's fate would be sealed. She would be forced into a marriage—somehow or other—with a man she loathed—the murderer of her dead lover. I felt so sure of this that towards morning I resumed my packing. I did not go to bed at all. After breakfast I went out and called at half a dozen newspaper offices. I saw as many journalists, who all promised to paragraph my departure for the East. I then wrote a letter to the Society stating, guardedly, my intention of again visiting the Nile; and I caught the afternoon train to Dover. That night I slept at Calais. On the following day I went to Paris and put myself in the hands of a hairdresser and costumier, who carried on a peculiar business at Montmartre under the secret surveillance and government of the police. For a respectable consideration he effected a complete metamorphosis in my appearance. He speckled my black eyebrows with silver. He shaved off my moustache and beard and dyed my skin a jejeune saffron, my hair a bilious iron-brown. He forbade me to weara starched collar. He taught me how to walk like an elderly man; and, finally, he provided me with a suit of clothes that fitted fairly well, but which could not be said to possess any other virtue. But the fellow was well worthy of his hire. When he had finished with me I could not recognise myself. The mirror showed me a gaunt piece of human wreckage. I was to the life a decayed gentleman; an unobtrusively rakish, elderly degenerate. I was remarkable in nothing except height, and even that singularity departed as I learned to stoop. In such guise I returned to London by way of Boulogne and Folkestone, and I took up residence immediately in a tenement-house in Soho, to which I had been recommended by my friend, the costumier. It was a curious place. It was populated by Frenchmen, Italians, and a sprinkling of Swiss, and a number of Russian political refugees. I found them a decent lot of law-abiding miserables. The majority were derelicts of fortune, who lived like parasites on the toil of some few hardworking, foolish artisans among them. And yet, despite their deplorable estate, they always had a cheerful word and a smile to spare for a stranger. They were a picturesque, interesting people, and I should have liked to study them under other circumstances. But placed as I was, I conceived it best to keep my room as much as possible, and I only went abroad to buy a paper and to eat and drink. On the fourth morning the expectedsummons came to hand. It was the first advertisement in the column. "D. Menchikoff. Fearless. Doorfront. Twelve. Unfailing. Noiseless. Open. Mizpah." And this I interpreted to mean, "Fearlessly approach the front door at midnight this evening! You will find it open. Enter without noise! God be with you till we meet!"
I set out wearing rubber shoes and armed with a loaded revolver. This I concealed in my breast pocket. I timed myself so nicely that I arrived at Sir Robert Ottley's mansion on the fifth stroke of twelve. Forthwith I mounted the steps and softly tried the door. It was ajar. I pushed it back and entered, closing it noiselessly behind me. I locked it, too. The hall was unlighted and black as Erebus. I stood for a moment or two listening breathlessly. Then I thought I heard a sigh. "May!" I whispered.
I was answered by a sibilant soft "S-Sh!" Then a hand was laid upon my sleeve and I felt myself drawn forward. I gave myself up to be guided the more willingly that I hardly knew the place. We came to a staircase. My guide breathed "S-Sh" again, and muttered "stairs." We climbed them step by step. Heavens, how dark it was! Afterwards I was drawn like a shadow through a maze of thickly carpeted corridors. Finally, we stopped. The hand left my arm and I heard a door creak open. "Come!" whispered my guide. I stepped towards a dim, dim glow, and as I crossed thethreshold, the door, shutting on my entrance, grazed my arm.
"At last!" the voice whispered.
It was a signal. Hardly was it uttered than a blaze of white light stabbed the darkness. I found myself in an immense apartment, blinking foolishly into the muzzle of a revolver presented at my forehead by Dr. Belleville. Our eyes met presently across the sights. His were smiling coldly.
"An excellent disguise, Dr. Pinsent; my sincere congratulations," he observed. "It is evident you have obeyed my instructions to the letter."
"Your instructions," I said.
"Ay. Mine."
"Then you——"
"The cipher was my idea entirely. Ah! but you must not blame Miss Ottley. She signed the first letter without understanding. Later, however, she would not write. She knew. I was obliged to use the typewriter, and in order to convince you of the authenticity of the letter I threw at your feet last Thursday night—my emissary followed you home and pretended to wish to wrest it from you. You fell into the snare. And now you are here, and no one knows, eh? No one knows?"
"You think so?" I asked. I was beginning to get back my wits.
But he only laughed. "It does not matter. The great thing is, you are here and in my power. That was all I wanted. Now, Ottley! Now!"
It was another signal. Something hard and heavy crashed against my skull. For a second I fought for breath against a horrible feeling of sickness and impotence, then came blank night and nothingness. I had been sandbagged.
I recovered to find that my captors had strapped me hand and foot in a huge iron chair. I could not move an inch in any one direction, but otherwise my situation was tolerably comfortable. Belleville sat facing me some feet away. He was plucking thoughtfully at his big, black beard. There was no one else in the room. Perceiving I was awake, he arose and took from a table near him a glass of water, which he brought to me.
"It is not poisoned," he remarked. "I have considerable need of you for some time yet." He placed the glass to my lips then, and I drank with confidence. I felt better afterwards, but my head ached bravely still.
Belleville resumed his chair and again began to pluck at his beard. "No doubt your head aches," he observed. "I regret having been obliged to use you so discourteously, but we have had so much experience of your muscular vigour that to have risked a physical encounter would have been absurd. We might have been forced to kill you, and that would not have suited my plans."
"Indeed," said I. It cost me a painful effort to speak at all.
"I desire to be perfectly candid with you," saidBelleville. "But before we get down to business it were as well to prove to you how completely at my mercy you are." He took, as he spoke, a revolver from his pocket and aimed carelessly at the opposite wall. "This apartment used to be a shooting gallery," he observed. "All the walls are padded." He then discharged the weapon six times in rapid succession. The bullets spattered on a plate of steel. The sound of the reports was simply deafening. A full minute passed before the echoes and reverberations ceased. All the while Belleville smiled at me. "No one heard but you and I," he said. "The futility, therefore, of wasting your breath in shouting for help will appeal to you."
I glanced about and found that all the walls I could see were windowless. The room was lighted by electricity. The door was thickly coated with padded cushioned leather. The floor was carpeted with one vast sheet of rubber. The place was fitted up as a chemical laboratory. I counted half a dozen glass tables littered with retorts and dynamos, testing tubes and other instruments. There were big glass cases filled with porcelain boxes and phials of drugs and large jars containing acids. And finally there was one object my eyes rested on with a little shock of recognition. This was the sarcophagus of Ptahmes. It was raised about three feet from the ground upon two steel trestles. The great sculptured lid was propped on end against a neighbouring wall. But although the coffin wasopen I could not see within it because the edge was almost on a level with my eyes.
"Are you satisfied?" asked Belleville presently. He had followed the direction of my glances with a sort of half-contemptuous, half-amused curiosity, reloading his revolver the while. The man evidently cherished an immense opinion of himself—but he was as cautious as a sage: witness the reloading of his weapon—despite the fact that I was as helpless as a trussed fowl.
"Yes. I am satisfied," I answered.
"And cool? What I mean is are you perfectly collected? Do you feel able to engage in conversation? Or are you too dazed—or perhaps too angry?"
"I can promise at least to listen and try to understand you."
He gave me a sardonic smile. "The under dog is a fool to be sarcastic," he said drily. "However, please yourself. Listen then! You are no doubt aware that it is one of my ambitions to marry Miss Ottley?"
"Yes."
"Captain Weldon stood some time since in my road."
"Yes."
"Peace to his ashes," smiled the Doctor. Then he frowned. "But to my astonishment I now find that the lady did not care for the gallant Captain."
"Indeed."
"Indeed and indeed." Belleville bit his lip. "But for you," he snarled.
I was silent.
"It is almost incredible, but it is true."
"She has confided in you?" I asked.
"As a preliminary step to defying me," replied Belleville. "It was rather silly of her, but perhaps she could not help herself. Women, even the wisest, are slaves to their emotions of the moment. I was willing to make all sorts of concessions, too. I even offered her your life."
"My life."
"I offered to permit you to live if she would marry me."
"And she?"
Belleville bared his teeth just as I have seen a jackal grin. "You know how women love to glorify the objects of their admiration," he said slowly. "In their opinion the men they—they love—are always the wisest, the strongest, the most astute and the best. I am free to admit, my dear Pinsent, that you are by no means a fool. You have no doubt a fairly keen intelligence—but Miss Ottley has placed you on an alabaster pedestal—pedestal do I say? A pinnacle! She has actually ventured to contrast your ability with mine to my disparagement. She rejected my offer with disdain and challenged me to measure wits with you. And when I accepted the challenge she calmly predicted that you would defeat and destroy me. It thus becamemy duty to show her how mistaken and fallible in truth is her estimate of me. Weldon's death taught her nothing, absolutely nothing. She protested that if I was really thedeus ex machinait only proved me to be an ordinary sort of heartless murderer. Weldon's particular order of intellect never impressed her, it appears. But yours, in her eyes, is little short of divine. There was no help then but to dispose of you in such a way as to open her eyes. It is no boast to say that I could have killed you at any time of the day or night I pleased for weeks past. Had I done so, however, I should have been constrained so to arrange matters—as in Weldon's case—as to make your end appear natural; and I'm afraid Miss Ottley would on that account have been inclined to consider, for a second time, me a lucky prophet and you the second victim of an inscrutable Providence. That is her present attitude toward Weldon's final exit from the stage of life. I was obliged then so to arrange matters as to get you into my power, but,bien entendu, without the fanfare of trumpets. I flatter myself that I have managed very well. You may pretend the contrary if you choose, but you'll not convince me. I have had your every movement carefully followed, and I believe that outside of this house there is not a soul in England of your acquaintance who has a doubt but that you are on your way to Egypt. And I have neglected no precautions that could ever give rise to such a doubt. Immediately you quitted yourlodgings in Soho this evening, my emissary entered your room by means of a master key and brought away your trunks. No one saw him, for he was invisible; and no one saw your trunks depart, for he made them invisible, too. They are at this moment in this house. You doubt me?"
"Yes," I cried. "I doubt you; produce them!"
"I am too comfortable to move," smiled Belleville. "But here is something I found at the bottom of one of them."
As he spoke he took from his breast pocket the mummy hand poor Weldon had given me. I could not suppress an exclamation. He had spoken truly then. Belleville tossed the hand upon a table. "I was rather glad to get it back," he said. "Not that it really mattered; but I wondered who had found it. Did Weldon still cling to it after he was dead?"
"You scoundrel!" I cried. "It was you—really then? You pushed him over the platform?"
He laughed. "In person, no, but by direction, yes." Then he became serious. "But let us avoid personalities, if you please. We each possess an ugly temper, I believe; and mine is sometimes uncontrollable. Do you agree?"
"Proceed!" said I.
He bowed ironically. "There is but little more to tell you now. You know almost all you need to know, and enough, I feel sure, to enable you to anticipate your fate."
"You intend to murder me, I suppose?"
"Exactly. But it depends on yourself whether you shall have a painless death or no. If you will do what I require you shall have the choice between aconite and morphia. If you refuse, well,"—he pursed up his lips—"you'll live longer, Pinsent; yes, you'll live longer—but frankly, old chap, you won't like it. I hate you, you know, and I am a surgeon, and you are there and I am here; I repeat, I hate you. And I am not only a surgeon, I am a skilful surgeon. I am, besides, a vivisectionist. That is one of my hobbies. And I'll keep you alive as long as possible. For let me yet again assure you Ihate—you—hate you, hate you!"
There was no doubt of it. He hated me. The emotion was infectious. I hated him. I had before; but I now realised how much. After one long glance into his gloating eyes I lowered mine and asked in a voice I strove to render civil: "What is it you want me to do for you?"
"I want you to play the part of a friendly disembodied ghostly match-maker."
"I fail to understand you."
"Naturally. But listen. I intend to render you invisible. When that is done I shall bring Miss Ottley here. She knows your voice. You will speak to her. Do you see daylight now?"
"I begin."
"That is well. You will inform the lady that you are dead, but that your spirit is held in durancevile at my command. Like all other women, she is at heart deeply superstitious. She will believe what you say and she will conceive a prodigious respect for my power and ability. You will assure her that I control your fate and that you can only obtain deliverance from unimaginably awful tortures at the price of her consenting to become immediately my wife. Well?"
"A pretty plot," said I.
"I felt certain it would earn your admiration," he returned.