Miss Forster was strolling by herself along the corridor; she had declined to permit Mr. Tickell to accompany her, and the youth had seemed glad enough to get away. She examined her programme; she had it in her mind to cut the next dance, not from one of the reasons which usually prompt that nefarious course of action, but because she had a strong feeling that for a few minutes she would like to be alone. She passed into the conservatory through a door which was at the end of the corridor. The music for the next dance had already commenced; the sitters-out, to whom the conservatory is a haven much to be desired, had gone. She moved to a couch which was flanked on either side by towering ferns. She had just sat down and was congratulating herself upon the prospect of remaining, for at least a brief period, undisturbed, when a voice addressed her.
"I am fortunate, Miss Forster, in finding you alone."
The speaker was Captain Anthony Dodwell. She said nothing, but, rising, made as if to go away. He treated her as she had just treated Mr. Tickell; he interposed himself so as to render it difficult for her to pass.
"Pardon me, Miss Forster, but, as you are aware, there is an explanation which you owe me, and which you will be so good as to let me have before you go."
"Stand aside, sir."
"A short time ago you more than suggested that I was not the kind of person with whom you cared to dance--with whom, indeed, any decent woman would care to dance. You did this publicly, in such a way that your treatment of me is, at this moment, a common topic of conversation in the ballroom. What explanation have you to give?"
"None; you are not the kind of person with whom any decent woman would care to dance, or talk. Are you going to stand on one side, or am I to call for assistance?"
"What grounds have you for what you just now said--what have I ever done to you that you should say it?"
"Captain Dodwell--it seems incredible, but I believe you still do hold that rank in the King's service--you are a liar, a coward, and, I believe, a thief. That you are not, in any sense, an honest man, is certain; to what extent your dishonesty goes, you know better than I do, though I hope to make the thing quite clear before very long. Do you really imagine that an explanation is required as to why a decent woman is unwilling to dance, to talk, or to be associated in any way whatever, with a person of that kind?"
"You are taking advantage of your being a woman, Miss Forster; can you give me the name of any man who will be willing to be associated with you in what you just now said?"
"On an infamous occasion, Captain Dodwell, you found one man, Mr. Noel Draycott, who, for reasons of his own, was so base as to be willing to be associated with a foul lie which you uttered; but before very long I confidently hope that every man who was then present will be associated with me against you. Will you let me pass, or would you prefer that I should repeat what I have just now said in the presence of the dancers who are now leaving the ballroom?"
He let her pass. The music had ceased, couples were streaming in; among the first was Lady Cantyre on the arm of her attendant cavalier. At sight of the girl she started.
"Haven't you been dancing?" She glanced towards Dodwell, whose attitude scarcely suggested riotous enjoyment. As her eye caught Violet's she seemed to have a glimmer of understanding. She turned to her partner. "That was a perfect dance she's missed, wasn't it?" Then, to Violet, "And, by the way, I think I heard a certain gentleman inquiring for you--with an air!"
Miss Forster danced through the rest of the programme--no other of her partners had occasion to complain of her in any way whatever. Her demeanour could not have been more orthodox; she behaved just as a young woman ought to who is having a first-rate time at a delightful ball. During the dances and in that more critical period between them, she was all that her partners could possibly have desired; lucky men! No one, to look at her, or to listen to her, would have guessed that anything had happened to crumple a single rose leaf, to mar in the least degree her night's enjoyment.
Only when dancing with one partner was a word said which was not, perhaps, altogether in keeping with the spirit of the hour. The partner was Major Reith, and, in the beginning, the words came from him. That scene in the woods, far from weakening, had rather strengthened their friendship. He was years older than she; what had passed between them on that occasion seemed to have produced in him the attitude, say, of an uncle, who was on the best terms with his niece. He said the word, after the dance was over, when they had settled themselves on chairs which were in full view of the whole assembly; there was evidently no thought of the privacy of the alcove for them.
"What's this I hear you've been saying to Anthony Dodwell and to Jackie Tickell?"
"How can I tell what you hear behind my back?"
"Exactly; how can you? And you can't guess either?"
"Did I ever pretend to be any good at guessing?"
"It seems that you said something to Dodwell, when he asked you for a dance, which has set people's tongues wagging; you alone know what you said to Jackie, but he's going about with a face as black as his shoes."
"My dear Major Reith, I understand that you are sleeping here to-night. If you ask me in the morning for information, I will give you all I can; but, while I may remark that I have said to both the persons you name only a little of what I propose to say, I would rather not tell you what I have said now. This is a ball; I want that to be the only fact in my mind for the remainder of the night."
"One more question and it shall. Have you heard anything of Beaton?"
"I haven't; but I may have. Something has happened that I don't understand, which puzzles me; but ask me about that also in the morning. As Mr. Tickell said when he wished to change the conversation, isn't it a capital floor?"
The major took the hint, which was more than she had done. The rest of the conversation was more in harmony with the moment; that is, they talked of nothing in which either took the slightest real interest.
The ball had come to the end to which all balls come at last, and Miss Forster, having retired to her room, had gone through, with her maid's assistance, the preliminary stages of unrobing, when, Lady Cantyre entering, she informed the maid that her services would no longer be required--and the friends were left alone. The countess, who was attired in a mysterious garment of sky-blue silk, which became her, if the thing were possible, even more than the dress which she had worn at the ball, had placed herself in an arm-chair, and was toasting her toes at the fire.
"Violet, I'm told that you've been going it."
"Haven't we all been going it?"
"Yes, but not quite, I hope, on the same lines as you. You practically, it seems, treated Captain Dodwell to a whipping in the middle of the ballroom. That is not exactly the sort of treatment that one expects one guest to mete out to another."
"Margaret, I am more than ever convinced that Sydney Beaton has been the victim of a conspiracy. Something which was on Captain Dodwell's face during the brief interview I had with him, which he forced on me, made me absolutely certain that, for some purpose of his own, which I intend to get at the bottom of very soon, he was guilty of a deliberate falsehood on that horrible night; that he's a liar and a coward, as I had the pleasure of telling him."
"Oh, you did. No wonder that I had a feeling that he looked as if he had not altogether enjoyed the night. That was not a pretty thing for you to say. Vi, take care; be very sure of what you do. Things, from your point of view, are pretty bad already, you don't want to make them worse."
"I'm not going to make them worse--I couldn't. Margaret, something has happened to Sydney--something dreadful; something which I don't understand. Look at this. Do you know anything about it?"
She handed the countess something which she had taken out of the leather case upon the table.
"Isn't it your locket, the one he gave you, with his picture? Why do you ask if I know anything about it?"
"It's the one I gave him. You remember that you came to see me before you went downstairs; when you went out, did you see anything lying on the floor just outside my room?"
"Not that I'm aware of. Why?"
"Did you see that locket?"
"I certainly didn't; why am I being cross-examined?"
"Do you know anything about a maid in your employ named Simmons?"
"I don't; is there such an one?"
"Almost directly after you had gone a maid, who said that her name was Simmons, came into the room with that locket in her hand, and said that she'd picked it up off the floor just outside my room. Margaret, how could that locket have got there?"
"I don't believe it was there when I went out; I remember, quite well, looking up and down to see who was about. I could hardly have helped seeing it if it was there. But what's the mystery?"
"When we became engaged, we gave each other a locket; here's the one he gave me, that's the one I gave him; he said that it should never leave him. The last time I saw him--you know, I told you all about it--I showed him my locket, where it was; he put his finger inside his collar, he hooked up that chain, and on it was that locket; he declared it had never left him since he had had it, and that it never should. I am quite sure that he took it away with him that night; how came it to be on the floor outside my door?"
"It does seem odd."
"I should say it's as certain as anything could be, that that locket has been with him all the time he's been away. As you know, I've had no communication with him of any sort or kind, in spite of all my efforts; I've not had the faintest clue to his whereabouts. Isn't it an extraordinary thing that that locket--from which he was inseparable--should be picked up on the floor just outside my room by a complete stranger, especially as it couldn't have been there before she came on the scene, or you'd have noticed it?"
"Simmons? I don't remember the name; and I rather pride myself on the fact that I do know the names of all the maids. Perhaps she came with one of the other women."
"No, she told me that she had been here only a few days, and that she came with some other new servants last week from town. Margaret, I've a feeling that that woman brought the locket with her; that she'd never found it as she pretended, that she knows more about it than she chose to say--the feeling was strong on me as she stood there with her smiling face. This locket came into her possession in some queer way. I saw it on her face, although she kept on smiling. If I hadn't been going down to the dance, I'd have had it out of her."
"Had what out of her?"
"The truth! If you only knew how I feel that everything--everyone--is against us; against me, and against Sydney; if you only knew what I've had to bear at home, from uncle, and other ways--from myself. Sydney is in some desperate plight; I'm as convinced of it as if he himself had told me. If I could only get at him to help him! But I can't! I can't! I don't know where he is! And now that woman brings me his locket, from which I'm perfectly certain he would not allow himself to be parted unless he were at his last gasp--unless something worse than death stared him in the face. I do believe he'd stick to it--yes, Margaret, I mean it. I know Sydney, as no one else does, as no one else can; he has his faults--no one need tell me that, but I know he loves me, and that, having said what he did say about that locket, he'd stand to his word while the breath was in his body, unless--mind!--unless some awful thing has befallen him, and that's what I'm afraid of. You may laugh, but there's something here"--the girl pressed her hands to her side--"which tells me--if you only knew how afraid I am--oh, Margaret, if you only knew!"
The girl sank on to her knees at the countess's side, she hid her face on her ladyship's silken lap--and she cried.
The night had gone, the morning was well advanced, the day would soon break, the countess had long since gone, and still Miss Forster had not gone to bed. There was something which kept her from placing herself between the sheets; and now that at last she was beginning to have thoughts in that direction, something occurred which banished sleep still farther from her eyes.
She was just about to remove her dressing-gown, and really make herself ready for bed, when the silence of the night was broken by a sound.
"What was that? Wasn't it in my passage?"
She stood in an attitude of listening.
"There it is again. Isn't it just outside my door? I wonder if there's anyone there at this hour of the morning? I believe there is."
Altering her intention, she suffered her dressing-gown to remain where it was. Rapidly crossing the room, she stood close up to the door and listened.
"There is someone. Who can it be, at this hour of the morning? Whoever it is, is running away."
She suddenly opened the door and looked out. There was no one there. She went into the passage. Although the lights were out, she was still able to make out dimly that a figure, but whether of a man or a woman she could not be sure, was moving rapidly along the passage, to vanish round the corner.
"I wonder who that was?"
She hesitated, returned into her room, and shut the door.
"It might have been anyone. It certainly might not be any business of mine; people can move about the house at any hour they please without consulting me. What was that? It sounded as if someone was calling. There it is again. And there is someone running past my door again. I'm going to see what this means."
Reopening the door, she returned into the passage.
"There's someone running down the stairs as if in a very great hurry. What's that? That's a queer noise. Someone calling again; someone calling for help. There's something queer going on downstairs. Someone is quarrelling. I'm going to find out what it is. I don't care if it is no business of mine; people shouldn't make a noise like that at this time of night. It's everybody's business when they do."
She went a few steps down the darkened passage. When she got out of range of the electric light shining through her open door, it was not easy to find her way; she had to touch the wall with her outstretched fingers and feel it.
"I ought to have brought some matches, or something; the place is as dark as pitch. Shall I go back and fetch them? Whatever was that? There's a light downstairs; someone is still up. That's a man's voice. I seem to know it. Whose can it be? I know it quite well. And that's another man's voice. They're quarrelling. I believe they're fighting. What are they doing? They're making noise enough. Surely, I'm not the only person in the place who hears them--a noise like that; it sounds as if they were fighting like two mad dogs."
She had reached what she realised to be the head of the great staircase. A faint light streamed in through the stained-glass window. She hesitated; she might have been frightened by the noise that was going on below. A strange sound was coming through the darkness, as if furniture was being upset in all directions by persons who were chasing each other round the room; then--surely they were blows. Then a voice exclaimed, in a tone which suggested that the speaker, stricken with sudden, dreadful fear, was fighting for his life. The words which, in his agony, he uttered were destined to keep ringing in her ears:
"Beaton! My God!"
The sound of a blow, heavier than any of the others; the noise of a heavy body falling to the ground, and bringing articles of furniture down crashing with it. Silence, except for the light footsteps of the girl who was flying down the staircase as if for life. Beaton!--that was what he had said. Someone had called upon her lover's name in that terrible voice. What did it mean? She was rushing down to see. As she neared the bottom she caught her heel in her dressing-gown; striving to disentangle it in her haste, in the darkness she missed her footing, stumbled, went bungling to the foot of the staircase. Luckily, she had only a short distance to fall, but it was far enough; the thing was so unlooked for. She had fallen clumsily, heavily; the shock had nearly stunned her. For some moments she lay in doubt as to what really had befallen her; then, rising, not without difficulty, to her feet, she found that she was trembling, that her whole frame seemed to ache, that her right ankle pained her so that she could scarcely stand on it.
But it was no time to consider her bruises, what had happened to her; there was something else for her to do. She listened, but all was still; there was no sound of voices, of struggling, of falling furniture, or blows--no sound of anything. The silence, after what she had heard, in itself was ominous. Something terrible had happened.
She went limping across the hall, wincing each time her right foot touched the ground. All sorts of unseen things were in her way. The hall was used as a sitting-room; the household had its tea there. It was crowded with all kinds of impedimenta; it was not easy, by mere instinct, to find her way among them. She did not know until she had come in sometimes painful contact with them that the things were there. Presently she tripped, with her bad foot, over what doubtless was a footstool; she would have gone headlong to the ground had not an arm-chair saved her. It was an arm-chair; she was in doubt as to what it was at first, but when she perched herself upon its friendly arm she knew. She had been unable to keep back a cry of pain; the jerk to her twisted ankle had sent a shock all over her, as if red-hot needles were being driven into her limbs.
How it hurt her as she sat there; it really was excruciating agony. The foot was dangling in the air. How much worse it would be when, putting it back upon the ground, she would have to use it to stand and walk upon. She essayed a little experiment: putting it gingerly down, resting her weight upon it as lightly as she could. She flattered herself on her capacity to bear pain, but that was too much even for her. A sound, which was half wail, half sob, came from between her lips.
She had a feeling as, back again upon the arm of the chair, with an effort she held her breath, that someone had heard the cry which came from her lips. She peered about her; it was impossible to make things out, to see what was there and what wasn't. She might have been surrounded by a dozen people without her eyes even hinting that a soul was there. There was something which did her better service than her eyes--perhaps it was her ears--some subtle sense which she would have been unable to define. She felt sure that she had been overheard by--she did not know by whom or by what--by someone, something. It might have been a man, or a woman, or an animal--a dog. It could scarcely have been the latter; it is not the canine habit to preserve such silence when the sense of hearing is assailed. It was something human. She was not alone; someone else was with her in the hall.
She adopted the simplest way of finding out. She asked:
"Who's there?"
No answer. She had a feeling that her question had put the unseen person on his--or her--guard; that someone had withdrawn farther from her, and was awaiting a chance to effect a safe retreat. She was persuaded that there had been a just audible movement, that someone had been quite close to her, and had drawn away. While she waited, with straining ears and bated breath, uncertain whether to speak again or what to do--her foot was causing her such pain that walking was beyond her strength--there came what was undoubtedly a sound of an unmistakable kind. Someone had come hastening into the hall from the direction of the suite of rooms which was on the other side, someone who was pressed for time. Although he moved with a curious noiselessness, as if his feet had been shod with velvet, she felt sure that it was a man. She doubted if he was able to see any better than she could; the fashion of his progress suggested it. He seemed to be making for the side of the hall on which she was, and to be following her example by coming into contact with most of the objects which he met upon his way. She heard him mutter something beneath his breath which might have been an oath. She was sure it was a man. Plainly he was as blind as a bat; he was floundering closer and closer; he was nearly on her, came into actual contact with the chair on which she was perched. That was too much. She had to speak.
"Who are you? Take care--oh!"
This last was a cry of pain wrung from her much against her will. The chair on which she was resting had received a sudden push; she was precipitated forward, on to the bad foot. The result was anguish; her feelings escaped her in spite of herself. Whoever had done it was evidently as much taken by surprise as she was. There was a muttered, distinctly masculine ejaculation. Then, as she continued to wail--there can be few things more painful than a twisted ankle, and the pain of that was really unendurable--all at once a light was shining in her face. Her unintentional assailant was carrying a dark lantern; turning the shutter, he flashed it on her. For a second or two the effect it had on her was to make her blinder still; then the hand of the person who was holding it swerved, a pencil of light passed across his face so that she caught a glimpse of it--only one glimpse, but that was enough.
"Sydney!" she cried. "My darling! Thank God, it's you."
In the first wild rapture of the recognition she forgot everything--her foot, the singularity of the fact that her lover should be there at all; all she thought of was to reach him. Even while she was speaking she moved quickly towards him. That same instant the light was darkened, her foot gave way beneath her. As she sank to the floor she was conscious that the bearer of the lantern, instead of sharing her rapture, of coming to her assistance, of rushing to take her in his arms, was retreating with so much expedition that things were being overturned in all directions in his haste to get away. She had been aware that, as he started back instead of forward, something had fallen from his hand on to the seat of the chair on whose arm she had been resting. He had not stopped to retrieve it, whatever it was. Her hand came into contact with it as she tried to raise herself. It was a leather bag of some sort, so much she learnt from the sense of touch. She found the handle, tried to lift it; it was oddly heavy.
As she was still trying to lift it she became conscious that someone else was coming down the stairs. Her heart was heavy as lead within her. She was filled with a great fear; the presence of that bag had frightened her more than anything else. A cushion was on the ground beside her; she picked it up, using it to cover the bag to the best of her ability so that its presence on the chair need not be at once detected.
The person who had descended the stairs had paused at the bottom. A match was struck. If she had only brought a box of matches with her, how much might have been avoided! The holder of the match moved forward towards an electric switch; immediately a light was shining down at her. A voice addressed her:
"Miss Forster! What on earth are you doing here?"
She looked up at the kindly, friendly face which was bending over her.
"Major Reith!"
Then something came to her. All at once the world was whirling round; for the first time in her life she had fainted.
There was a sort of self-consciousness in her brain, even though she swooned; something which told her that this was the moment in all her life in which it was most necessary that she should keep her wits about her--and here she was losing them. They were willing to slip still farther away; with comfort she could have remained, to all intents and purposes, unconscious for quite a considerable length of time; but she would not. So it came about that her faintness endured but for a moment.
Major Reith's ideas as to what to do with a young lady who had fainted were vague. His impulse was to return upstairs and alarm the household; but before he could put his impulse into practice the lady relieved him of his difficulties by sitting up and returning to life.
"Oh, Major Reith, I've hurt my foot."
He thought that he had never seen her looking prettier. He probably never had; that dressing-gown became her.
"I'm very sorry." His tone was gravity itself. "Is it very bad? Let me help you to get up."
He helped her; would have placed her on the chair on which was the cushion and, underneath, the bag, but she managed to make him understand that she preferred another. He was all sympathy.
"Can I do anything for it, or would you rather that I let the people know?"
"Thank you, I would rather that you didn't. It is painful for the moment, but I shall manage; it's the first twinge. Did you hear a strange noise upstairs?"
"I did, and wondered what it was; it was that which brought me down."
It was on the tip of his tongue to ask what had brought her down, but he refrained. Where she was concerned he was a man of quick perception. He was already conscious that there was something in the situation which he did not understand, which, possibly, she would rather that he did not understand.
"What did you hear?"
"I thought I heard someone in the hall just now, but I suppose it was you."
"I expect it was. I heard something, and I came down to see what it was, tripped on the stairs, and I've been behaving like a goose ever since."
"As I came round the corner from my room I saw a light flashing down in the hall. Was that you?"
"A light? What light?" She went on without giving him a chance to answer the questions she asked: "Did you hear a sound as if someone was quarrelling?"
"That's what roused me. First of all, I heard someone running up and down my passage----"
"So did I."
"I looked out to see what was up, thinking that someone might be ill; then I heard a din as if a free fight was taking place downstairs."
"Did you hear anyone call out?"
"I heard voices."
"More than one?"
"I should certainly say that there was more than one. I couldn't hear what they said, but it seemed to me that two men were slanging each other at the top of their voices for all they were worth. Then I heard something which brought me down."
"What was it? I don't know; it's no good your looking at me as if you thought I did. I've been able to get no farther than where you see me now. Like you, I heard what seemed to me to be two men quarrelling, so I came down hoping to prevent mischief being done."
"It was very plucky of you to come down all alone. And you don't know what's happened?"
"No more than you. I'm not very well up in the geography of the house, but I thought that the argument was taking place in one of the rooms on the other side; but before I could get down it had stopped. It was the sudden stopping I did not like."
"Nor I, to be frank. Shall I help you upstairs, or will you stay here while I go and see? We may both of us be false alarmists; let's hope we are."
She seemed to be considering.
"I think you had better leave me where I am, only--mind you're not long. It's very silly of me, but I don't feel as if I'd care to be left alone too long."
She watched his tall figure, shrouded in a long grey dressing-gown which covered his pyjamas, across the hall. Directly he was out of sight she rose from her chair; leaning on the back of it, standing on one foot, she looked eagerly about the hall. The one electric light illumined the spot on which she stood; it scarcely penetrated the shadows beyond. She hesitated whether to switch on other lights, to make sure that no hidden eyes were watching, but it was only with difficulty that she could move; there was not time, the major might be back at any moment. She took the bag from underneath the cushion; considering it was only a small, brown, brief bag, it was curiously heavy. All the time she had been talking to Major Reith she had been wondering what would be the nearest convenient place in which to hide it, if opportunity offered. Against the wall, within a few feet of where she was standing, was an old oak chest, which was sometimes used as a seat, which was covered with a piece of dark blue velvet, embroidered almost as if it had been an altar cloth. Lady Cantyre had told her that it was half-full of things, but she herself did not know what they were; no one ever looked inside. If the lid was open, there might be room for the bag; it would be the very place.
She managed to get as far as the chest, hopping, for the most part, on one foot. The lid was open. She raised it. Pressing back the velvet cover, she saw that there was room. She thrust in the bag, lowered the lid, and returned to where the major had left her. She would have liked to sink into the chair, only to relieve her foot; something stopped her. She might have been guilty of some crime, her bearing was so strange. She pressed her hand to her side, as if to calm the beating of her heart. She endeavoured to peer into all the shadowy places in the great hall; there were so many places in which, in that light, a spy might be hidden. Suppose she had been seen?
Why was the major so long? She had expressly requested him to be quick; it seemed to her to be a frightful time since he had gone. What could be keeping him? She would have liked to call to him, but she did not dare. Something must be keeping him which perhaps she ought to know. She was suddenly afraid of what the major might have learnt. She would go and see what it was. She hobbled across the hall, ignoring the pain which each movement gave her, bent on being stayed by nothing. She passed into the room through whose door the major had vanished. It was brightly lit. He had switched on the lights, but he was not there. She listened. All was so still. He might be in the room beyond.
She had walked thirty miles with much greater ease than she traversed those less than thirty feet. More than once she had to stop. It needed all her self-control to keep from crying out; she was conscious that beads of perspiration were on her brow, induced either by the effort or the pain. When she came to the door leading to the other room she had to lean against it on one foot, the agony of putting the other to the ground had become so great. She turned the handle and, somehow, went through.
That room was also lighted, the electrics serving to show that it was in a state of singular confusion. The fine old furniture was all anyhow; chairs, tables, ornaments were overturned; scarcely anything seemed in its place. But she had found the major. He was on his knees about the centre of the room, leaning over something which was recumbent on the floor, something by which he was so engrossed that, plainly, her entrance had gone unnoticed. His unconsciousness of her presence affected her unpleasantly.
When he continued to ignore her, her heart stood still. She stole closer towards him, again resolute to disregard her suffering foot. She came to a point at which she could see what he was looking at--and she saw.
On the floor, in the centre of a sort of circle formed by ill-used articles of furniture, a man was lying--very quietly. It was Mr. Noel Draycott.
"Is he dead?"
Although she asked the question in a whisper, it seemed to be more audible than if she had shouted it. Major Reith looked up at her, showing no signs of being startled or of being taken unawares. His eyes met hers steadily.
"I'm afraid he is."
He could hardly have spoken in more even tones, yet one knew that it was not because he was unmoved. There was silence. Her glance was wandering round the room. What she saw was eloquent; its condition so plainly showed what a scene of violence it had witnessed. She pressed her hand again to her side. She tried to speak, but the words would not come. He saw something of what she was enduring.
"You can do nothing. You are in pain. Let me take you to your room."
She shook her head. Then words came; she spoke as if her throat had all at once grown dry and husky.
"How did it happen?"
"He was killed with this."
He picked up from the floor what looked like a lacquered Oriental club; there was something gleaming on the end of it.
"Could it have been that I heard?"
"Who can say?"
"Was he like that when you came in?"
"He was lying a little more over on his face; I turned him over to see if there were any signs of life left in him."
"You are sure--that no one else--was in the room?"
For some reason there was a perceptible interval before he answered; they looked at each other, as if each were reading something which was in the other's eyes; then his glance dropped, and he said:
"There was no one else in the room when I came in."
Somehow she felt that his words conveyed much more than was on the surface; neither spoke; it was as if each were occupied with thoughts which would not be denied.
All at once the stillness was broken in a manner which was sufficiently startling; what sounded like the report of a firearm rang through the silent room. The major sprang to his feet. Her face was turned in the direction from which the sound had come.
"What was that?" she asked.
"That was a revolver--someone fired a revolver."
"Where?"
"I should say in the next room; it was certainly very close."
He started to move towards the adjoining apartment. She stopped him. "Where are you going?" He turned to her.
"I'm going to see who fired that shot."
"Let me come with you; don't leave me here--with him. If you let me lean upon your arm, I can get along quite well."
He stood eyeing her, as if in doubt what was the right thing for him to do. His tone was stern, perhaps unconsciously so.
"You know you ought not to be here; this is no place for you--you ought to be in bed."
"I know, but what's the use of talking like that? You're not going to leave me here--alone? You shall take me with you. Give me your arm; I don't believe I can move without it, or I would; give me your arm."
He did as she asked, crossing the open space in which Mr. Noel Draycott lay to do it. Not only did he give her his arm, he put it round her, so that she was supported rather by his shoulder. Together they made what haste they could.
This was a suite of rooms opening one into the other; they passed into the next. It was in darkness.
"I fancy the switches are against the wall by the door here."
The surmise was correct, he switched the light on. When he had done so, they were conscious of two things; one was an open window, the other was the smell of powder.
"It was in here that the shot was fired."
"But by whom? The room is empty; who fired it? And why?"
"Whoever fired it may have gone through the open window. Sit down on that chair; I must look into this."
He withdrew the support of his arm, but she did not sit down on the chair, she leaned on the back of it; perhaps she feared that if she sat she would not be able to rise unaided. He advanced towards the open window, then gave an exclamation, stooping as he did so.
"Here, at least, is the revolver." He held up the weapon for her to see, and examined it. "One of the chambers has been discharged, that was the shot we heard; the others are still loaded."
He seemed to be about to say something else, but all at once, stopping, he stood at attention. It was she who spoke.
"You heard?"
"Wasn't that someone moving?"
"It was someone in the next room--there's someone in there now--listen!"
"Good gracious!"
There unmistakably was someone--a woman's scream rang out. There still seemed to be another room beyond, or, at any rate, there was another door. The major dashed towards it; this time he was through before the girl had a chance of stopping him.
She was left alone--to listen. And, clinging to the chair, she stood on one foot, and she listened. She never forgot those few moments. There was the dead man behind her; some strange thing had happened where she was; what was taking place in front? Her helplessness rendered her position so much worse than it need have been. She tried to move, but she had done too much of that already; the moment she put her injured foot to the floor a shock went all over her which made her shut her eyes, and the room swam round. She could not even get to a bell to summon assistance if it were needed; all she could do was to stand--and wait.
She was aware that she was in that state of mind and body in which it was quite possible that her imagination might play her tricks. Was it her imagination which made her fancy that such strange things were going on about her; which made her think, as she glanced towards it, that a face had been looking through the open window, which had been quickly withdrawn as she turned her head? The sounds she heard--were none of them real? The footsteps outside the window; the mutterings--surely they were mutterings--was that not someone speaking in whispers? She felt sure that they were footsteps, that someone was speaking. The horror of it--but she was too incapable of movement to make sure.
And then, in the room behind her, where he lay, with the lacquered club beside him, amid the broken furniture--was this another trick her imagination played her? Were those not real movements which she heard; was it only that she fancied that voices were speaking? Again she felt convinced that it was not imagination only; there was something going on which it behoved her to see--in the room behind her, outside the window--she knew not where besides. What was Major Reith doing? Had he not found the woman who had screamed? He pretended to be her friend, to care for her--did he not understand what she must be enduring, in that room, helpless, alone?
If he was much longer, she would have to scream, as that woman had screamed. Flesh and blood has its limits; she had really reached them. She would either have to scream, or go mad--or something would happen to her; she had never felt like that before, never.
In the nick of time, when it seemed to her that something would have to go, that she must break down, Major Reith returned.
"I am very sorry to have kept you waiting so long, but I can't help thinking that someone has been playing tricks with me."
"Haven't you found her--the woman who screamed?"
It sounded so strangely in her ears that she did not know her own voice.
"I found no one. I believe my attention has been diverted with some ulterior purpose. Have you heard nothing?"
"What haven't I heard? I believe there has been someone in the next room."
"We will soon see about that--come. I'm going to take you into that room on the road to bed; and I shall have to rouse the house, but first I shall see you safe to your own chamber."
Only with the greatest difficulty, even with his support, could she return to the adjoining apartment. The instant the door was opened they made a discovery.
"You see," she cried, "it wasn't only imagination, someone has been here--the lights are out."
What she said was correct; the room, which they had left lighted, was in pitch darkness. There appeared to be switches by every door, and it took Reith but an instant to have the room as radiant as before. Both their glances travelled in the same direction. This time it was the major who exclaimed:
"Good God! Draycott's gone!"