The last rumble of the explosion had hardly died away before Anthony
Luttrell had flung open the study door, and was making his way at a run
towards the Yellow Drawing-Room.
At the glass door which led on to the terrace he halted, opened it wide,
and stood on the step looking out. Some glass was still falling from the
broken windows on this side of the house. All the terrace on the right
of where he stood was like a drawing in which the perspective has gone
wrong. There was a great bulge in one place, and some of the
paving-stones were tilted aslant, whilst others had fallen in, leaving a
gaping hole over which a cloud of dust was settling.
Anthony turned his back upon all this and came back with great strides
into the hall. Without so much as a look behind him to see whether he
was observed, he loosened the spring, pushed open the door in the
panelling and there halted, suddenly remembering the need of a light. He
went back for a torch, and then passed down the steps without waiting to
close the door.
That something appalling had happened was obvious. With the self-control
without which it is impossible to meet an emergency Anthony kept his
thought focused upon what he was doing. At the bottom of the steps the
way was still clear. He saw Jane’s broken pots and wondered what on
earth they were doing there. Then he turned into the laboratory passage,
flashing the light ahead of him. Half-way along the passage the roof had
fallen in.
Anthony turned, came back into the main corridor, ran along it until he
came to the place where the well passage joined it. Here he turned off,
made his way cautiously past the well, and again found a mass of stone
and rubble blocking his path. A cold horror came over him, and all those
thoughts to which he had barred his mind came insistently nearer,
pressing past those barriers and taking his consciousness by storm. He
came back into the hall and shut the door in the panelling.
The hall was quite empty, but the voice of Blotson could be heard at no
great distance. It was raised in exhortation and rebuke. Obviously he
rallied a staff which inclined to hysteria, for one could hear a woman’s
sobs and a subdued chorus of perturbation and nervous inquiry.
Anthony went to the front door and flung it open. His car stood at a
little distance, the inspector and the chauffeur in close conversation.
Anthony did not see them. He only saw Raymond Heritage, who was coming
slowly up the steps. She was bareheaded, and her face was very pale. She
wore a white dress with a black cloak over it. She stumbled twice as she
climbed the steps and, if Anthony was only conscious of seeing her, she
did not appear to be conscious of seeing any one at all.
It was only when the hand which she put out in front of her actually
touched Anthony that she lifted her eyes and looked at him. Then she
said in an odd, piteous sort of voice:
“Tony.”
“What is it? What has happened, Raymond? Are you all right?”
“I must speak to you—I must,” she said, catching at his arm and drawing
him towards the study. They went in, and when the door was shut she
turned to him with the tears running down her face.
“Tony, you heard? I think he’s dead. That place downstairs was mined,
and he tried to kill us all, only we got away, Henry, the girl, and I.
But Jeffrey’s dead—yes, I think he must be dead, and I know now what you
thought. I didn’t know what you meant before, but I know now. You were
wrong, Tony. Oh, Tony, won’t you believe me? I didn’t tell him about the
passages, and I didn’t know anything until to-day. They can tell you I
was speaking the truth—Henry and Miss Molloy; but, oh, Tony, can’t you
believe me, just me?”
Anthony looked at her, and looked. His face was twitching. As her voice
broke on the last two words he dropped to his knees, flung his arms
about her, and hid his face in the folds of her cloak.
By the time that Jane and Henry came into the house Blotson had set all
his machinery running once more. He himself presented a magnificent
front to two of the most dishevelled people whom he had ever been called
upon to receive. It was not until afterwards when it came home to Henry
how much green slime there was in his wildly ruffled hair, and how
little the original colour of his collar could be discerned, that he
realised how marvellous had been the unflinching calm of Blotson. He
referred neither to the explosion nor to Henry’s appearance. In point of
fact, what were emergencies and accidents that Blotson should notice
them? The hour being five o’clock, it was his business to announce tea.
He announced it.
“Tea is served in the library,” he said, and passed upon his way.
But in the library the tea cooled while Henry, very much relieved to
find that the wires had not been cut, galvanised the Withstead exchange
and got on to a distinctly relieved Sir Julian.
They arranged, speaking in Italian, that an explosion had occurred in
the course of an important experiment in Sir William’s laboratory. It
was agreed to notify Sir William and the press. The loss of two lives
was greatly to be deplored. When this was finished Piggy became less
official.
“That girl of yours is a brick; you can tell her so from me. She’s all
right, I hope?”
Henry said “Yes,” that Jane was quite all right. He sounded a trifle
puzzled.
Piggy laughed.
“Didn’t you know she had rung me up to say you’d been nobbled? Most
businesslike communication I’ve ever had from a lady in all my life.
Told me they’d got a motor-boat in Withstead Cove. And, thanks to her,
we ought to have gathered it in. I got through to the coastguard station
at once. Now look here, what’s the likelihood of laying hands on Ember’s
papers?”
“Ember’s papers?” repeated Henry. “Well, there was a safe down there,
and that’s where he’d be most likely to keep them; but I expect they’re
all gone to blazes, as the door was open.”
At this point Jane’s voice came in breathlessly:
“Henry, wait, keep him on the line!” she said, and was gone.
“It’s Jane, sir,” said Henry. “I think she’s gone to get something.”
In the middle of Piggy’s subsequent instructions Jane came back. She
held a bundle of closely written sheets. She spread them before Henry’s
eyes, holding them fan-wise like a hand at cards.
“I’d forgotten them till you said that about the papers—I’d actually
forgotten them. It’s lists of his agents in all the big towns
everywhere. I sat up all night copying them because I didn’t dare keep
the originals. I keep forgetting you don’t know what’s been happening.
But tell him, Henry, tell him we’ve got the lists.”
Henry told him.
Jane heard Sir Julian answer, and then Henry hung up the receiver and
hugged her.
“What did he say? Henry, you’re breaking my ribs! What did he say?”
“Jane, you’re a brick, and a wonder, and a darling, and he said—he said,
‘Bless you, my children!’”
THE END
Transcriber’s Notes
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