When Jane reached her own room, she stood a long time in front of the
glass frowning at herself. It might be safe to look so exactly like a
schoolgirl, but it was very, very humiliating. Henry had never glanced
at her once. That, of course, was all in the line of safety too. Also,
why should Henry look at her? Why should she wish him to do so? She was
not in love with him; she had, in fact, refused him—could it be that
there was a little balm in this thought? What did it matter to her how
long he looked at Raymond Heritage?
She took off the white muslin dress and put it away.
The worst part of being Renata was, not the risk, but having to wear
Renata’s clothes. All the things were good, horribly good, and they were
all quite extraordinarily dull. “If your shoes want mending, and your
things are threadbare, every one knows it’s because you’re poor, and not
because you like being down at heel and out at elbows. But Renata’s
things must have cost quite a lot, and, of course, every one thinks they
are my choice.”
By some deflected line of reasoning “every one” meant Henry.
Jane folded up the pale blue sash and shut it sharply into a drawer.
Then she put on Renata’s dressing-gown. It was made of crimson flannel,
very thick and soft, with scalloped edges to the collar and
cuffs—“exactly like one’s grandmother’s petticoat.”
She rumpled the bedclothes and disarranged the pillows. Then she put out
the light, sat down on the window-seat, and waited.
The blind was up; she had slipped behind the chintz curtains. The
terrace lay beneath her, only half in shadow now. There was no sound in
the house, no sound from the sea. The line of shadow moved backwards
inch by inch.
When Jane sat down to wait, she told herself that she would not listen
and strain; she would just sit there quite peacefully, and if anything
was going to happen—well, let it happen. But as she sat there, she
became afraid against her will, aware once more of that sense of
pressure which had come upon her in the drawing-room. It was as if
something was steadily approaching not her alone, but all of them—as if
their thoughts and actions were being, at one and the same time,
dictated by an outside force and scrutinised—watched—spied upon.
With all her might she resisted this sensation and the fear that it
suggested. But, as the night passed to midnight and beyond, a strange
feeling of being one watcher in a slumbering household detached itself
from the general confusion, and she began to long with great intensity
for something—anything—to happen.
Once something moved in the foot-wide strip of shadow against the house.
Jane caught her breath and then saw that it was only a cat, a half-grown
kitten rather, beloved of the cook. It came out into the moonlight and
walked solemnly the entire length of the terrace with delicately taken
steps and a high waving tail. It was as soundless and black as the
shadow out of which it had come, and presently it was gone again, and
second by second, minute by minute, slow, interminable, the night
dropped away. In the hall a clock struck the quarters. The silence,
shattered for a moment, closed again.
When the rapping came, it brought the oddest sense of interruption. Jane
sprang to her feet, stood for a moment catching at her self-control, and
then went noiselessly to the door. She listened before opening it, and
could hear nothing; and, as she listened, the knocking came again, but
from behind her.
Bewildered, she edged the door open and looked out. A shaded light
burned far away to the left. The long, dim corridor was empty. She shut
the door.
Some one was knocking—somewhere—but where?
She turned and stood facing the windows. Up in the far corner a large
cupboard filled the angle and blunted it. Jane had hung her serge dress
there hours and hours ago. The knocking seemed to come from the
cupboard, just where the room was at its darkest because next the
lighted window.
Jane crossed the floor very slowly, put both hands on the cupboard
doors, and flung them wide. For a moment everything was quite black,
then, with a most unpleasant suddenness, a narrow white ray cut the
dark, and Henry’s voice said, “It’s only me.”
Jane’s hand went to her lips, pressing them firmly. She would not have
admitted that this action alone saved her from screaming. After a moment
she gave a little gasp, and located Henry, or rather Henry’s head, which
was almost under her feet.
In the cupboard floor there was a square black hole, and, just above
floor-level, Henry’s face looked up at her, tilted at an odd angle,
whilst his one visible hand manipulated a small electric torch.
“Wait,” said Jane, in a whisper.
She went quickly to the door, locked it, removed the key, and put it in
one of the dressing-table drawers. She did not know quite what made her
do this, only suddenly when her eyes saw Henry, her mind had a vivid
impression of that long corridor with its one faintly glimmering light.
Then she sat down on the cupboard floor, close to Henry’s head, and
breathed out:
“Henry!—how on earth?”
Henry, who appeared to be standing upon a ladder or something equally
vertical, came up a few steps, sat down on the edge of the hole, and
switched off his torch.
“I had to see you,” he said. “This was my room in the old days, and Tony
and I found this passage. It leads down to another cupboard in the
garden room where they keep the tennis and croquet gear. How are
you?—all right?”
“Yes, quite all right.”
“That’s good. Now which of us is going to talk first?”
“I think I had better,” said Jane. “You see, I saw Renata, and she told
me things, and I think, if you don’t mind, Henry, that I had better tell
you everything that she told me.”
“Yes, please.” He hesitated. “One minute, Jane, I just wanted to say,
you don’t mind talking to me like this, do you? I wouldn’t have asked
you to if there had been any other way—what I mean to say is....”
Jane gave a very small laugh, which was instantly repressed. She
reflected that it was pleasanter to suppress a laugh than a scream.
“What you mean to say is, there aren’t any chaperons in this scene. You
needn’t apologise, Henry. Sleuths never have chaperons—it’s simply not
done; and, anyhow, I’m sure you’d make a beautiful one. Shall I go on?”
It may be doubted whether Henry really cared about being described as a
chaperon. His tone was rather dry as he said:
“Go on, please.”
As for Jane, who had prodded him on purpose just to see if anything
would happen, she certainly felt a slight disappointment accompanied by
a sense of increased respect.
“You saw Renata. What did she tell you?”
“She told me what she overheard,” said Jane, speaking slowly. “Henry, if
I tell you what it was, will you promise me not to let any one guess
that you know? If they were certain that I knew, I shouldn’t be alive
to-morrow; and if they thought you knew the secret, you’d never get back
to London alive.”
“Who is ‘they,’ Jane?” said Henry.
“I want to tell you about Renata first. She really did walk in her
sleep, you know. She must have waked when she opened the door. She said
the first thing she knew was the cold feel of the hall linoleum under
her feet. The door was open, and she was standing just on the threshold.
There was a screen in front of her, and beyond the screen a man talking.
She heard every word he said, and I am sure that what she repeated to me
was just exactly what she heard. The first words that she caught were
‘Formula “A.”’”
Henry gave a violent start.
“Good Lord!” he said under his breath. “You’re sure?”
“Quite. Then he went on, and this is what he said: ‘You all have Formula
“A.” You will go to your posts and from your directions you will prepare
what is needful according to that formula, carrying out to the last
detail the cipher instructions which each of you has received. As soon
as the experiments relating to Formula “B” are completed, you will
receive a summons in code. You will then assemble at the rendezvous
given, and Formula “B,” with all instructions for its employment, will
be entrusted to you. With Formula “A” you have the key. When Formula “B”
is also complete you will have the lock for that key to fit; then the
treasures of the world are yours. The annihilation of civilisation and
of the human race is within our grasp. When the key has turned in the
lock we only shall be left, and....’ Just then, Renata said, some one
else cried out, ‘The door! The door!’ They pushed the screen away and
pulled her in. She nearly fainted. When she revived a little, her father
and Mr. Ember were trying to find out what she had heard. Fortunately
for herself, she told me, at first it was all confusion. The only thing
that stood out clearly was that shout at the end, but afterwards, when
she was alone, it all came back. She said it was like a photographic
plate developing, hazy at first, and then everything getting clearer and
sharper until each detail came out. She repeated the whole thing as if
it were a lesson.”
“Wait,” said Henry. “My head’s going round. I want to sort things out.”
Jane waited. She had been prepared for Henry to be impressed or
incredulous. What took her by surprise was the puzzled note in his
voice. “Lord, what a mix-up!” she heard him say.
Then he addressed her again.
“Did you ever play ‘Russian Scandal,’ Jane?” he said.
“Yes, of course. But if you had heard Renata—the sort of queer
mechanical way she spoke, exactly like a gramophone record—why, the
words weren’t words she’d have used, and all that about Formula ‘A’—do
you think that’s the sort of thing that a schoolgirl makes up?”
“No,” said Henry unexpectedly. “I think it is quite possible that she
overheard something about Formula ‘A,’ and I’d give a good deal to know
just what she did hear.”
“I’ve told you what she heard,” said Jane. “Jimmy always said I had a
photographic memory, and I said the whole thing over to myself until I
had it by heart. You see, I didn’t dare to write it down.”
“Can you say it again?” said Henry. “I’d like to get it down in black
and white, and have a look at it. At present it makes me feel giddy.”
“You mustn’t write it down,” said Jane breathlessly. “Oh, you mustn’t,
Henry! It’s not safe.”
Henry turned on his torch, propped it against the wall, and produced a
notebook and a pencil. The cold, narrow beam of light showed his knee,
the white paper, a pencil with a silver ring, and Henry’s large, brown
hand.
“He has a _horribly_ determined hand,” thought Jane.
“Now,” said Henry, “will you start at the beginning and say it all over
again, please?”
Jane did so meekly, but her inward feelings were not meek. Once more she
repeated, word for word, and sentence for sentence, the somewhat
flamboyant speech of Number Four.
Henry’s hand travelled backwards and forwards in the little lane of
light, and, word for word, and sentence by sentence, he wrote it down.
When he had finished, he read over what he had written. If he had not a
photographic memory, he was, at any rate, aware that Jane in her
repetition had not varied so much as a syllable from her first
statement.
He went on looking at what he had written. At last he said:
“Jane, I think I must tell you something in confidence. Sir William, as
you know, is conducting important experiments for the Government. How
important you may perhaps have gathered from the extraordinary
precautions which are taken to prevent any leakage of information. These
experiments have resulted in two valuable discoveries represented, for
purposes of official correspondence, by the terms Formula ‘A’ and
Formula ‘B.’ Within the last week we have had indisputable proof that
Formula ‘A’ has been offered to a foreign power. That is the reason for
my presence here. Now these are facts. Let them sink into your mind,
then read over what I have just taken down, and tell me how you square
those facts with Renata’s statement.”
Jane picked up the notebook, stared at the written words, set Henry’s
facts in the forefront of her mind, and remarked candidly:
“It does make your head go round rather, doesn’t it?”
Henry assented. They both sat silent. Then Jane put down the notebook.
“Never mind about our heads going round,” she said. “Let me go on and
tell you the rest of it. It isn’t only what Renata heard; it’s the
things that keep happening—little things in a way, but oh, Henry,
sometimes I think they are more frightening just because they are little
things. I mean, supposing you know you’re going to be executed, you
brace yourself up, and it’s all in the day’s work, but if you are out at
a dinner-party and you suddenly find poison in the soup, or a bomb in
the middle of the table decorations, it’s ... well, it’s unexpected—and,
and _perfectly beastly_.”
Jane’s voice broke just for an instant.
Henry’s hand came quickly through the torchlight, and rested on both
hers. It was a satisfactorily large and heavy hand.
She told him about her interview with Ember at the flat, and one by one
she marshalled all the small happenings which had startled and alarmed
her.
Henry waited until she had quite finished. Then he said:
“This lip-reading—you know, my dear girl, it’s a chancy sort of thing;
it seems to me that there are unlimited possibilities of mistake.”
“Some people are much easier to read from than others. Lady Heritage is
very easy. I’m sure I was not mistaken; she was saying, ‘If she
overheard anything, would she have the intelligence to be dangerous?
That is what I ask myself,’ and she said, ‘Despise not thine enemy,’ and
‘Anything but Formula “A.”’ Now Mr. Ember is very difficult. I can’t
really make him out at all. His lips don’t move. It’s no use not
believing me, Henry. Look here, I’ll show you.”
She caught up the little torch, and turned the light upon his face.
“Say something,” she commanded.
Henry’s lips formed the words, “Jane, I love you very much indeed”—and
Jane switched off the light.
“Henry, you’re a perfect beast! Play fair,” she said, in a low, furious
whisper.
“Sorry. Wasn’t it all right? Try again.”
Jane allowed the ray to light up Henry’s mouth and chin. The hand that
held the torch was not quite steady. This may have been the result of
anger—or of some other emotion. As a result the light wavered a good
deal.
Henry’s lips moved, and Jane read aloud, “A sleuth should never lose its
temper.”
Henry’s hand caught the little shaking one that held the torch, and gave
it a great squeeze.
“How frightfully clever you are, and—oh, Jane, what a goose!”
“I’m not,” said Jane.
“But don’t you see that, with Renata’s story in your mind, you would be
looking out for things? You couldn’t help it.”
“What do you think, then, of Lady Heritage saying that Mr. Ember’s
verdict was inclined to be ‘Guilty, but recommended to mercy,’ whereas
she said that she herself doubted the guilt, but that if she did not,
she would have no mercy at all? Do you know, that frightened me almost
more than anything. I don’t know why. That wasn’t lip-reading; I heard
the words with my own ears.”
“But—don’t you see——” He paused. “Let’s get back to facts: Formula ‘A’
has been stolen and offered for sale. Renata, undoubtedly, overheard
something relating to Formula ‘A.’ Now, supposing Mr. Molloy or one of
his friends to be the person who is doing the deal, don’t you see that
the possibility of Renata having overheard something compromising would
be sufficient to account for a good deal of alarm?
“If Molloy and his friends had stolen Formula ‘A’ and were trying to
dispose of it, it would naturally be of the highest importance to them
to find out how much Renata knew, and to take steps which would ensure
her silence. They would almost certainly try and frighten her—that’s how
it seems to me.”
“Then where does Mr. Ember come in?” said Jane. “He was there.”
“Are you sure?”
“Renata described him,” said Jane. “She said he was the worst of them
all.”
“She knew him by name?”
“No. But ... but”—a little chill breath of doubt played on Jane’s
certainty—“she called him the man in the fur coat. The others spoke of
him as Number Two.”
“But you don’t know that it was Ember?”
For a moment Jane felt that she was sure of nothing; then, with a swift
revulsion, her old fears, suspicions, certainties, received vigorous
reinforcement.
“Henry,” she said, “listen. You’re on the wrong scent—I know you are. I
can’t tell you how I know it, but I’m quite, quite sure. If you were an
anarchist, and wanted to produce some horrible thing that would smash
civilisation into atoms, how would you set about it?—where would you go?
Don’t you see that the very safest place would be somewhere like this,
somewhere where you could carry on your experiments under the cover of
real experiments? It’s like the caterpillars that pretend to be
sticks—what do you call it?—protective mimicry.”
“Jane!” said Henry.
“I’m sure that’s what they have done. I’m sure that there is something
dreadful going on in this house. And if you can’t square what Renata
heard with what you know of Formula ‘A,’ why, then I believe that there
must be more than one Formula ‘A.’ Don’t you see how cunning it would be
for them to take the name of a real Government invention to cover up
whatever horrible thing it is that they are working at?”
There was a dead silence.
“Another Formula ‘A’?” said Henry slowly. Then, with an abrupt change of
manner:
“Leave it—all of it—and tell me some things I want to know. Sir William,
for instance—he was put out at my coming down, I know—but what is he
like as a rule? He does not always drink as much as he did to-night,
does he?”
“I think he does. Henry, I think he takes too much—I do, really; and
he’s frightfully irritable. But that’s not what strikes me most. The
thing I notice is that he doesn’t seem to do any work. Mr. Ember is
supposed to be his secretary, but he really does all his work with Lady
Heritage. She goes on all the time. She spends hours in the
laboratories. I believe she works there till ever so late, but Sir
William just sticks in his study and broods. I thought how strange it
was from the very first day.”
“And Lady Heritage? Put all this mysterious business on one side and
tell me what you make of her?”
Jane hesitated.
“She’s—she’s disturbing. I think she has too much of everything, and it
seems to upset the balance of everything she touches. She’s too
beautiful for one thing, and she has too much intellect, and too much,
far too much, emotion. I think she is dreadfully unhappy too, with the
sort of unhappiness that makes you want to hurt somebody else. You know
what she sang this evening. I think she really feels like that, and
would like to smash—everything. That’s why....” Jane broke off suddenly;
her voice dropped to the least possible thread, “Oh, what’s that—what’s
that?”
As she spoke, her hand met Henry’s on the switch of the torch. The light
went out. Jane clung to one of the hard, strong fingers as she listened
with all her ears. She heard a footstep, light and unmistakable, and it
stopped upon the threshold.
There were about twenty seconds of really terrifying silence, and then
the handle of the door turned slowly. Jane heard the creak of the hinge,
the minute rattle of the latch. Then the handle was released, but slowly
and with the least possible noise. There was another silence.
Jane pinched Henry as hard as she could, and though this, of course,
relieved the strain she felt dreadfully afraid that she would scream
unless something broke through this dreadful quiet.
Something did break through it next moment, for there came a low
knocking on the door, and with the first sound of that knocking Jane
recovered herself. With an extraordinary quickness and lightness she was
on her feet and out of the cupboard, the cupboard was shut, and Jane,
her shoes noiselessly discarded, was sitting on the side of a rumpled
bed, a fold of the sheet across her mouth, inquiring in sleepy, muffled
accents:
“What is it? Who’s there?”
The knocking had gone on steadily. Now it stopped, and a voice said, “It
is I, Lady Heritage. Open the door.”
Jane threw back the bedclothes so as to cover the chair at the
bed-foot—a chair upon which there should have been a neatly folded pile
of clothes—pulled off her stockings, and took the key out of the
dressing-table drawer.
“Oh, what is it?” she said, and fumbled at the lock.
Next moment the door was open, and she saw Lady Heritage in her white
linen overall and head-dress, the latter pushed back and showing her
hair.
Lady Heritage saw a startled girl in a red flannel dressing-gown.
Between the moonlight and the light from the passage there was a sort of
dusk. Lady Heritage put her hand on the switch, but did not pull it
down. Instead, she said quickly:
“I saw a light under the door. Are you ill?”
Jane rubbed her eyes.
“A light?” she said.
Raymond crossed the room quickly and felt each of the electric bulbs.
“A light?” said Jane again.
Lady Heritage went back to the door and turned all the lights on.
“Do you always lock yourself in?” she said. “And why did you take the
key out of the door?”
“Was it wrong? They say that if you lock your door and put the key away,
even if you walk in your sleep, you don’t go out of the room. I
shouldn’t like to walk in my sleep in a big house like this, and perhaps
wake up in a cellar or out on the terrace.”
Lady Heritage did an odd thing. Something flashed across her face as
Jane was speaking, and she put both hands on the girl’s shoulders and
pulled her round so that she faced the light.
Jane met, for a moment, a most extraordinary look. It did not seem to go
through her as Mr. Ember’s scrutiny had done, but it shook her more. She
looked down and said shakily:
“What is it? Oh, please tell me if I have vexed you—oh, please....”
Lady Heritage took her hands away.
“I had forgotten you walked in your sleep,” she said. “I don’t like
locked doors as a rule, but I suppose you had better keep yours
fastened. I shouldn’t like you to walk into the sea and get drowned, or
break your neck falling off the terrace. Get back to your bed. I’m just
going to mine. I’ve been working late.”
She went out, and it was a long, long time before Jane, who had heard
the soft footfalls die away in the distance, dared open the door and
take a hasty look along the corridor. It was quite empty.
After another pause she went to the cupboard door and opened it. The
flooring stretched unbroken; there was no square hole, and no Henry. She
sat down on the floor, hesitated, and then knocked lightly.
Under her very hand a board rose with a little jerk—a line of light
showed, and Henry’s voice said softly:
“All clear?”
“Yes, be quick, I daren’t wait.”
“Who was it?”
“Lady Heritage.”
“What did she want?”
“I don’t know. She said she saw a light. Henry, she frightens me, she
really does.”
The board rose a little higher.
“A sleuth who gets frightened is no earthly——” said Henry firmly. “Now
look here, Jane, I can get you out of this quite easily if you want to
come. You are the only person in the house whom I haven’t interviewed.
Mr. Ember said that of course I shouldn’t want to see you, as you did
not get here until after the leakage must have taken place. I made no
comment at the time, but it is perfectly open to me to insist on seeing
you, to say that I am not satisfied with the interview, and to take you
back to London for further interrogation.”
Henry had opened the trap door about a foot. His face, lighted from
below, looked very odd with the chin almost resting on a board at Jane’s
feet and the trap held up by one hand and only just clearing his hair.
Jane would have wanted to laugh if his last suggestion had appalled her
less.
“Oh, you mustn’t,” she said. “If you do that, it’s all up. Mr. Ember
would never, never, never, allow you to interview me. He’d be afraid of
what I might say, and he’d find some awful way of keeping me quiet. As
to letting me go off to London with you, well, if we started we’d
certainly never get there. And oh, Henry, please, please go away. I’m
sure they suspect something, and if she comes again, or if he comes—oh,
Henry, do go.”
“All right,” said Henry. “Now, Jane, look here. I’m off before
breakfast, but I can make an excuse to come down at any time if you want
me. If anything is going wrong, or you get frightened, or if you want to
get out of it write for patterns of jumper wool to the Misses Kent,
Hermione Street, South Kensington. It’s a real wool shop and they’ll
send you real patterns, but Miss Kent will ring me up the minute she
gets your letter. I’ll come down straight away, and you look out for me
here.”
“Do you mean you’ll come and stay? Won’t they suspect something?”
“They won’t know,” said Henry. “Don’t ask me why, but send for me if you
want me, and be very sure that I shall come. Got that address all
right?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll be off.”
“Yes, please go.”
As a preliminary to going, Henry came up a step higher, set the torch on
the floor, and took Jane by the hand.
“Don’t get frightened, Jane,” he said. “I hate you to be frightened.”
“I’m not, not really.”
Henry came up another step; the trap now rested on his shoulders.
“Oh, Henry, _please_....”
“I’m going,” said Henry. He continued to hold Jane’s hand and appeared
immovable. Jane could of course have taken her hand away and left the
cupboard, but this did not occur to her till afterwards.
Quite suddenly Henry kissed her wrist, and a piece of the red flannel
cuff. The next minute he was really gone. Perhaps it had occurred to him
that he was a chaperon.
Jane lay awake for a long time.