"The police!"
"Yes, sir, three officers. They say someone telephoned for them, but I
can't for the life of me say who it could have been, sir. Who would
want to?"
In blank astonishment Roger stared as three men in uniform filed into
the room and stood at attention. Two wore the regulation dress of
sergents-de-ville, the third was clearly of superior rank. He was an
aggressive, youngish fellow with a sharp, sallow face and a black,
bristly moustache, cut very short. He began by eyeing Roger all over
with a sort of dark suspicion, then addressed him in French.
"I take it that you are Monsieur Clifford?" he interrogated accusingly,
keeping his smouldering black eyes fixed on Roger's face, while with
his right hand he brought a notebook out of his pocket.
"Certainly my name is Clifford, but perhaps you will be good enough to
inform me why you----"
"That can wait. You are English, monsieur?"
"Naturally. And I refuse to answer another question until you tell me
how in thunder you come to be here," replied Roger, rapidly losing his
temper.
"English, British subject," muttered the officer, writing busily with a
stump of a pencil and ignoring utterly Roger's statement. "Occupation,
monsieur?"
"Who sent for you to come here?" demanded Roger, more and more irate.
The question had an unexpected reply.
"_C'était moi, messieurs, qui viens de vous téléphoner. Moi je suis
Lady Clifford._"
The voice, metallic and defiant, rang out from the door leading into
the right-hand bedroom. The officer stared in surprise, while Roger
wheeled with a brusque movement of incredulity to behold Thérèse facing
them.
"_You_ telephoned them?" he repeated, hardly able to believe his ears.
"Certainly. I simply reported the fact to police headquarters that I
am being kept a prisoner in my bedroom."
She eyed him squarely, the yellow flecks in her grey irises plainly
apparent. For two seconds she flashed him a challenge, while he
regarded her steadily in complete silence. Then with a sudden softer
air and a little gesture of appeal, she turned to the officer in charge
and spoke rapidly in French.
"This is the gentleman, monsieur, my stepson, Mr. Roger Clifford."
"Your stepson, madame?" reiterated the man in a shocked tone.
"Yes, monsieur, the son of my late husband, Sir Charles Clifford, who
has been dead less than a week."
There was a slight tremor in her voice, and, Roger could almost have
sworn, tears in her eyes. The officers averted their eyes decorously,
while Roger gazed at her with aloof impersonality, simply curious. He
watched her score her point and wondered just how far she intended to
pursue the advantage. What was her plan? Was she, after all,
technically innocent, able to prove the fact? Or was this a bold
stratagem, to throw dust in his eyes? He was totally unable to choose
between the two diametrically opposed theories.
The officer in charge shot a black glance at him and made ready to
write further particulars.
"Pray proceed, madame. Will you kindly inform me as to the exact
nature of this gentleman's conduct towards yourself."
"Monsieur, it is simply what I told you on the telephone. My stepson,
who is a guest in my house, had the audacity to force me, under
threats, to enter my room, after which he turned the key on me."
The man looked nonplussed, but intensely respectful.
"But, madame, permit me to suggest that you do not appear to be a
prisoner."
"I will explain, monsieur. He did not lock that door there, it was not
necessary, since he has never left the room. He has, in, fact, been on
guard here. But the outer door, leading to the hall, is fastened, as
you will see if you care to look."
At a sign from the superior officer one of the sergents-de-ville
stepped into the hall and quickly returned to confirm Lady Clifford's
statement. The chief representative of the police then drew a long
breath and spoke to Roger in a threatening voice.
"Monsieur, you have heard Madame's statement to the effect that you, a
guest in her house, forced her to remain in her bedroom by locking the
door and removing the key. Do you deny this?"
"Not at all, it is perfectly true."
The reply was so cool that the interlocutor's self-possession wavered
for an instant.
"Ah, indeed, then, monsieur, you make no attempt to contradict Madame's
accusation?" inquired the man importantly the repetition giving him
time to arrange his thoughts.
"It is true as far as it goes," Roger replied coldly. "If you wish to
know the whole of the matter I must refer you to Madame."
There was an uncomfortable pause while the officer bit the end of his
stubby pencil, evidently uncertain how best to proceed. Twice he
glanced at Lady Clifford, and once he opened his mouth to speak, then
closed it again. Suddenly, with an impulsive gesture, Thérèse turned
directly to Roger.
"How can you say such a thing, Roger?" she inquired with an air of
frankness and mild reproach. "I know only too well that in your heart
you have always disliked me, have always been jealous of any little
influence I may have had with your father, but how can you stand there
and suggest that I can tell this gentleman why you behaved as you did
when I don't know the reason?"
The stroke told; moreover, the absolute candour with its hint of
lurking tears enhanced the strong appeal which her beauty had already
exerted over the three limbs of the law. Not wishing to disclose
anything more than was necessary Roger remained stonily silent, letting
the officers think what they pleased. He felt the triumph in Thérèse's
voice when she spoke again.
"You see, monsieur, Mr. Clifford does not care to reply. I leave you
to draw your own conclusions. For me it is quite evident that he is
unwilling to reveal his reasons for subjecting me to this treatment."
The man with the black moustache shifted from one foot to the other.
From his expression it became apparent that he was growing ill at ease,
scenting the presence, perhaps, of some purely domestic difference
which lay outside his province. As he hesitated his roving eye caught
sight of Sartorius, who had risen unobtrusively and was regarding the
scene with dispassionate interest.
"May I be permitted to inquire, madame, who this gentleman is?"
"But certainly, monsieur. This is Dr. Gregory Sartorius, who for some
weeks has been my husband's private physician. He is still staying
here, as a favour to me, in order to be of service to my stepson, who
has not been well."
The officer bowed, plainly as much impressed by the lady's generosity
to her ungrateful relative as by the magnificence of having a private
physician in attendance. He cleared his throat and turned again to
Roger with a resumption of his truculent manner.
"Monsieur, the reasons for your inexcusable action have no interest for
me. The point is that the law does not allow you to restrict the
liberty of this lady in any way whatsoever. If you even attempt to do
so, you will find yourself in serious trouble. Are you, or are you
not, prepared to hand over the key to Madame's door?"
Without hesitation Roger put his hand in his pocket and took out the
key.
"Here it is," he said simply, and held it out to the astonished
officer, who shot him a puzzled and suspicious glance from under his
black brows.
"Furthermore, monsieur, I warn you in the presence of witnesses that if
you make a second attempt to molest Madame, I shall be compelled to
give you in charge."
Roger offered no comment. The dark man looked from one to the other
around the room, and although he had delivered his ultimatum in a
hectoring tone, it was plain that he found himself dissatisfied with
the situation. Perhaps he was uncertain whether or not the whole thing
was a hoax and himself the butt of a joke, to be laughed at later for
treating the affair in a melodramatic way. The faces before him told
him nothing. At last he cleared his throat again with finality, and
bowing to Lady Clifford with something approaching a flourish, extended
the key to her.
"_Voilà, madame!_" he announced triumphantly. "I think there is
nothing more that can be done at the moment." He moved closer to her
and, speaking in a confidential tone added, "I fear it is impossible
for me to arrest this gentleman, as he has withdrawn from his offensive
position. All it is in my power to do is to warn him not to repeat the
insult. I rely upon you, madame, to keep me informed in case of
further trouble."
Thérèse smiled with a clear-eyed serenity which enslaved the posse to a
man.
"Thanks to you, monsieur, I do not anticipate any further trouble," she
replied with a glance from under her lashes. "Only this was the sort
of thing I felt I could not deal with alone."
"Naturally not, madame," rejoined the officer, flattered but
embarrassed. "While I am entirely in the dark as to the motives
underlying this gentleman's conduct, I can safely promise that the law
of France will protect you from him."
With another fierce glance in Roger's direction, he turned to go,
making a sign to the _sergent-de-ville_.
"One moment, messieurs! It would give me pleasure to have you partake
of some refreshment before you leave. Aline!" she called, and the maid
appeared instantly from the open door behind. "Aline, show these
officers to the dining-room and ask them to have a glass of port."
"Madame is most kind! With Madame's permission we will drink Madame's
health!"
She flashed a gracious smile at the three who departed, led by Aline.
Roger watched them go, conscious that Thérèse was regarding him out of
the corners of her eyes. A moment later he felt rather than saw her
withdraw, with a sort of elaborate nonchalance, to her own room once
more.
As on former occasions Roger was revolted by what he considered her
innate vulgarity, but this time he was puzzled as well, unable to
decide whether it covered innocence or guilt. Quite possibly he was
doing her the grossest injustice. In any case he now knew that he had
acted foolishly in trying to restrain her movement. He had been moved
by an impulse and regretted it. Until he had more trustworthy
information he could do nothing whatever, take no step against either
her or the doctor. It was lucky for him, indeed, that the latter had
not seen fit to inform the police of the threat used against him. The
fat would have been in the fire then and no mistake. Why had the
fellow kept quiet? It argued against him, although perhaps he
considered that even an unsubstantiated charge would do no good to a
professional man.... Thérèse, too, had carefully avoided giving any
details of the affair, for which he was heartily thankful. For a
moment he had been paralysed by the dread lest the whole business
concerning Esther should be dragged into the open. It was not a matter
for the public yet, and might never be.
More and more did it become difficult to know what course to pursue.
Yet some bulldog instinct within him made him unwilling to relinquish
his watch over the two people concerned.
Two things he was determined Thérèse should not do. One was to find
her way into his bedroom, the other to hold any communication with
Sartorius. This in mind, he lit a cigarette with at least an outward
show of calmness, and took his seat near the door. From here he could
see what went on in the hall, in case Thérèse should attempt to come
outside, and at the same time keep a quiet eye on the phlegmatic figure
of the doctor.
A dozen small incidents, hitherto scarcely noticed, recurred to him.
Moreover the disjointed words uttered by Esther as she had lain with
her head on his arm now linked themselves together to form a coherent
meaning. Could it be possible that what both doctors suggested had any
foundation in fact? It seemed unthinkable. His whole association with
the girl rose before him to assert her unimpeachable normality. And
yet there was proof that Sartorius, a physician of standing, had cast
doubts upon her sanity long before her attack upon him. The condition
he had attributed to her could so easily account for her dramatic
reappearance and her invention of a mad story of crime and persecution,
as easily as it could explain the morphia injections, self-inflicted.
His aunt had no doubt that the doctor was right in his belief; no one
had any doubt except himself--and Chalmers. In his own case his
opinion might be influenced by his love for the girl--for it was love,
there was no question in his mind now.
He heard the representatives of the police take their leave, with
voluble expressions of gratitude for the hospitality of the house. A
few minutes afterwards Chalmers came up to bring him some food and a
whisky and soda.
"No good starving yourself, sir," he whispered, setting down the tray
on a small table. "It won't help us to find out what we want to know.
Shall I bring him something too, or shall I let him have it in the
dining-room?"
Roger signified the latter, and the butler approached Sartorius with a
confidential air and formally announced that dinner was served. It was
all rather absurd, Roger thought. With a nod the doctor rose and
lumbered from the room. It was now after half past nine.
Left alone Roger found himself too disturbed to eat more than a few
mouthfuls. To his relief Chalmers returned almost at once.
"I've left Marie to look after him, sir," he said in a guarded tone,
"thinking you'd be wanting to hear the rest of what I was telling you
when we were interrupted. I know what happened with the police, sir,
for I took the liberty of remaining in the hall while they were here."
"What do you think of it all, Chalmers?"
The old man narrowed his lips into a cautious line.
"Well, sir, her ladyship may be as innocent as the babe unborn, in
which case I've a deal to answer for. But I believe, sir, that her
sending for the police was just a part of her game--to pull the wool
over our eyes, sir."
Roger shook his head slowly and drank his whisky before replying.
"I don't know, Chalmers, I'm completely at sea. Go on, though, let me
hear all that Miss Rowe said to you."
"Well, sir, it was very little, but I caught something about a plot
she'd got wind of, a plan between her ladyship and the doctor to kill
Sir Charles by giving him typhoid fever, and you too, sir. She said
something about germs, and--mind this, sir--_Evian water_. That's what
made me act as I did, sir, in regard to her ladyship. There was no
mistake about it; she was just going to pour that water away, sir, when
it came over me what she was up to, and quick as a flash I grabbed her
arm and wrenched the bottle out of her hands. If I were to go to
prison for it, sir, I'd still swear I did right."
Roger nodded slowly, his face hardening.
"If this should be true, Chalmers, and not, as they want us to believe,
a fabrication of Miss Rowe's brain, then----"
He broke off and for a second his eyes met those of the old servant.
Then the latter bent forward and finished the sentence for him.
"Then it's murder, sir, no other name for it. Those two killed Sir
Charles just as surely as if they'd put a bullet into him, and they
meant to get you, sir, one way or another. I'd take my oath on it.
It's my opinion the nurse got here just in time to save you."
"And yet, Chalmers, it's quite possible that business of the mineral
water has some other, simple explanation. One must admit the
possibility."
"Very good, sir, there's those who can examine into that bottle and say
if there's anything amiss with it. I consider that bottle as evidence,
sir, and I'm glad we've got it safely under lock and key."
"Yes, we can have it analysed. Perhaps I ought to have handed it over
to the police.... I didn't do it because while the thing's in doubt
one can't bring a horrible accusation, particularly against a member of
one's family. My father's own wife----!"
The butler nodded understandingly.
"I suppose I'll have to be leaving here in the morning, sir: I sha'n't
be wanted after what has happened. But I don't like leaving you alone
to handle things, sir."
"We'll all go too, Chalmers, my aunt and I and Miss Rowe, if she's fit
to be moved. You will come with us to an hotel for the present. I'm
not going to bed at all to-night, I'm going to keep watch over Miss
Rowe. If her story is true, Sartorius may try to get at her again; she
mustn't be left."
"I shall keep about, too, sir, to know what goes on in this house."
"Right, Chalmers, it's a good idea. By the way, we'll keep as much as
we can from my aunt, there's no good alarming her. I'll go now and
inquire about Miss Rowe."
"_Je demands pardon, monsieur!_"
He jumped as the sardonic voice of Aline sounded in his ear, and the
woman, with a covert glance of mock-servility, hurried past him with
the empty tray. There were both malice and triumph in her bearing.
Whether she knew anything or not--and it seemed impossible that she
could surmise their suspicions--her manner conveyed unmistakably that
she knew her mistress had scored a victory. A sudden misgiving swept
over Roger. Supposing the hideous affair to be true, was it not
extremely doubtful that they would ever be able to prove it? Might
they not go on to the end of their days not knowing?
He crossed the hall and went along the passage to Esther's room. As he
gently opened the door an odour of drugs or disinfectants met his
nostrils, giving him a sinking feeling he had often experienced as a
small boy on entering a dentist's room.
The little doctor was bending over the bed. From the other side Miss
Clifford raised a white and tired face. Roger felt suddenly oppressed
by fear. What were they going to tell him? He motioned to his aunt,
who came towards him and answered the question he was afraid to utter.
"The doctor hasn't been able to bring her around, Roger, though he's
done all he can. It's nearly an hour and a half, now, and she is still
unconscious."