"Gone! What do you mean? How could she get away?"
"That's what we don't know, sir. We----"
"Who is we?" demanded Roger sharply.
"I mean Aline, sir; it was she who found it out. I've been about the
house the whole night, sir; I've never closed my eyes. No one could
have got past me without my knowing it."
Roger glanced at the bed. Esther still slept, the rings around her
eyes darker than ever in the cold morning light.
"Come outside," he said in a lower tone. "We mustn't disturb Miss
Rowe. Now tell me."
"It's just as I say, sir. It seems she had told Aline to bring her
some tea at six o'clock. I couldn't say what she had in mind to be
wanting it so early; it seems as if she was planning to go out before
anyone was up, but I don't know, sir. Anyhow, when Aline did bring the
tea a moment ago, the room was empty; the bed hadn't been touched."
"You've searched the house?"
"Only partly, sir."
"What about the back stairs?"
"I don't think she could have come out of her room at all, sir, without
my knowing; and in any case last night I locked the tradesmen's door
and put the key in my pocket."
Roger rapidly reconnoitred.
"Stay here till I call my aunt," he ordered. "Whatever you do, don't
stir from this spot. I am afraid to leave Miss Rowe alone for a single
moment."
In a few minutes he returned with Miss Clifford, whom he had found wide
awake, on the point of donning her dressing-gown to come and relieve
him. He told her nothing about Thérèse's disappearance, merely
cautioning her strongly against leaving Esther unguarded.
"You must grasp this fact, Dido," he said gravely, looking her straight
in the eyes. "Esther is no more out of her mind than you or I. There
is something very serious behind this, and that man Sartorius is a
terrible menace to her safety. I can't explain now, but you'll know it
all soon enough."
He left her bewildered and shaken, and rejoined the butler in the hall.
Outside the boudoir door stood Aline, her brows drawn together under
her ragged fringe of hair, her thin lips set in a line that betokened
anxiety.
"_Monsieur, monsieur,_" she exclaimed accusingly, "_dites moi,
qu'est-ce que vous avez fait?_"
"_Je n'ai rien fait, Aline,_" he replied coldly; "_je ne sais rien._"
She gazed at him in a puzzled fashion. For all her habitual crafty
appearance, he felt sure she had no knowledge of this dreadful
business. In her way she had a certain loyalty to her mistress which
might readily dispose her to regard him as an enemy.
"_Moi non plus, monsieur,_" she said with hesitation. "_Mais vous
savez, hier soir Madame a été tellement fachée contre Monsieur que je
croyais..._"
"_Ça ne fait rien,_" he interrupted, striding past her impatiently.
With the muddled feeling of sleep still upon him he unlocked his own
door and went through to the bathroom, where he hastily washed his face
in cold water. Then as he dried it with a bath-towel he took a quick
survey of the room. All was exactly as he had left it the night
before: the full-length casement window stood half open, as it usually
did; the bottle of Evian was on the shelf where he had placed it. That
at any rate was still safe, he reflected. Thérèse had not been able to
get at it, thanks to his precautions.
As he quitted the room, relocking the door, Chalmers approached him and
spoke in a whisper.
"Do you think it's all right, sir?" he inquired. "She's gone to ask
the doctor if he knows anything about her ladyship."
Following the direction of the old man's eyes, Roger saw the black-clad
figure of the maid at the first door along the passage. Her voice,
high-pitched with excitement, reached his ears, mingled with the
doctor's heavy tones.
"Let her alone; it can't do any harm. You are still sure he didn't
communicate with her ladyship at all?"
"Positive, sir. I'm sure he's never stirred from his room."
"We'd better make quite sure she's not in the house somewhere," said
Roger slowly. "And then if we don't find her----"
"What then, sir?"
"Then I think there is nothing for me to do but communicate with the
police."
"I see, sir. Then you've talked to Miss Rowe, sir?"
"Yes, Chalmers. I have heard more than enough."
As he spoke he realised suddenly that they were now plunged into the
midst of a revolting sensation. In a few hours the newspapers would
blazon it to the world, and all Cannes, all France, perhaps, would be
searching for the beautiful Lady Clifford, wanted on the charge of
murdering her husband.
"Aline," he said as the woman came towards him, "what was Madame
wearing? Have you thought to look?"
"_Ah, non, monsieur, mais tenez! Je vous dirai toute de suite._"
She hurried into Thérèse's room and returned almost at once with a face
still more perplexed. There was nothing missing from Madame's wearing
apparel, as far as she could see, except the black chiffon gown Madame
wore last evening. Madame had not undressed at eleven o'clock, when
she desired to be left alone.
"Do you mean to say there is no coat gone? No wrap of any kind, nor a
hat?"
"_Monsieur peut regarder. C'est comme je dis._"
The three exchanged puzzled glances.
"She may be in the house," hazarded Roger at last. "We had better find
out."
In a few minutes they had made a tour of the entire villa. Roger
himself tried the fastenings of all the windows on the ground-floor,
and the doors leading onto the terrace from the salon. All was secure.
There remained only the doctor's room, and Aline, who had been inside
it a moment ago, was prepared to swear her ladyship was not there.
Roger shot a speculative glance at the maid. Was it possible she was
lying? Was this all part of some scheme on Thérèse's part to allow her
time to get away? Had Aline connived at her escape? The suspicion
took root. They were now at the top of the house, where there were
only servants' quarters and box-rooms. Two flights of stairs lay
between them and the front door. What if the woman had led them hither
in order to leave the lower regions unguarded?
"Listen, sir! Was that a car starting?"
All stood still, attentive to the sound below. Then with a sudden idea
Roger strode to the small oval window in the mansard roof, and tried to
see down into the garden. Far below an engine whirred, tires grated on
the drive. He caught sight of a car just disappearing out of the
gateway.
"By God, Chalmers, they've gone! They've made off together."
"Was it the doctor's car, sir? I thought I knew the sound."
There was no good being upset about it, Roger reflected; certainly he
could not detain the two unless he had a warrant for their arrest. Yet
he experienced a feeling of chagrin at being so easily outwitted. The
doctor's room, seen in disorder through the open door when they
descended the stairs, told a story of a hasty departure.
"She was probably hiding in his room all the time," Roger remarked
grimly as he eyed the untidy bed. "They've gone off somewhere
together, though I'm astonished that they'd be so stupid. It's a
damaging admission, or might be regarded in that light."
"For the life of me, I can't think how she got out of her room without
my seeing her, sir," the old man commented with a rueful shake of the
head.
"Well, there it is, and I believe this woman's been fooling us all
along."
"Do you think their idea is to try to escape, sir?"
"Oh, I hardly think so! It is far more likely they are on their way to
the police with some concocted story against Miss Rowe and against me.
They will arrange it together, thinking to have the advantage of
denouncing me before I can denounce them."
He became, aware that the sharp, black eyes of Aline were fixed on his
face curiously. He wondered how much English she understood.
"It would have been difficult to prevent their leaving the house in any
case," he added slowly. "But I believe I can circumvent them in
another way. I have a plan of action, Chalmers. I am going first to a
chemist Miss Rowe has told me about, and after that I intend to make a
statement at police headquarters. You might get me the telephone book
and a cup of coffee while I change my clothes."
As he spoke a subdued but pathetic whine reached their ears. It came
from Thérèse's little Aberdeen terrier, who stood in the boudoir door,
looking up with eyes of patient inquiry and uttering continuous plaints.
"_Il pleurs tout le temps,_" murmured Aline. "_Ah, Tony, Tony,
qu'est-ce que tu as? Ah, le pauvre!_"
"Come, Tony, old boy," called Roger, stooping to stroke the dog for a
moment. "What's the matter? Put him outdoors, Chalmers; perhaps he
only wants to go out."
The butler obeyed, and Roger entered his room to change his attire.
His mind was heavily oppressed with the ordeal that lay before him, yet
he was keyed up with a strange excitement. He felt there must now be
no delay in the matter of laying a formal charge against the woman who
for six years had been his father's wife and also against a highly
respected member of the medical profession. That he would encounter a
terrific opposition he did not question for a moment. He was not in
the least sure that his case would be plain sailing. He saw himself,
his aunt, Chalmers, and, last and hardest to contemplate, Esther in the
witness-box--Esther, whose nerves were temporarily shattered by her
frightful experience.... Had Thérèse been a party to the attempt on
her life? Whether she had or not, she must have known about it and
condoned it.
Outside in the garden the wretched dog continued to howl. What
possessed the poor little creature? In the stillness of the early
morning the long-drawn, disconsolate sounds rose and tell with a
dirge-like hint of desolation. He must be silenced somehow; he would
disturb Esther.
Presently the howling ceased, and a second later Chalmers came up
bringing rolls and coffee, the dog at his heels, shivering and whining.
"I can't make out what's wrong with him, sir; he's regularly upset. He
wanted to come in, yet when I opened the door he stood there looking as
if he had something on his mind. Try to eat a bit, sir; you've been a
long time without proper food, and you've a hard day ahead of you."
Roger forced himself to drink a cup of coffee. It was true he had
given no thought to himself for days. He gazed unseeingly out of the
window at the acacias, glistening with the wet of last night's steady
rain, gloomy under the still grey sky. Oppression lay heavy upon his
spirit.
"Yes, Chalmers, there's a bad time ahead of us. If we don't look sharp
those two will find a way out."
"You think there's a chance of them escaping, sir?"
"Not that. I mean they may manage to be acquitted."
He put his hand absently on the rough black head of the Aberdeen, who
had cowered close to his leg, still faintly whimpering.
"Will they exhume Sir Charles's body, sir, do you think?"
"What would be the use? There would be nothing gained by that. My
father died of a well-known disease; as far as anyone could tell it was
a perfectly natural death. So would I have died a so-called natural
death if the doctor had succeeded in his plan against me. That was the
infernal cleverness of his scheme. Of course in the case of Miss
Rowe's detention it is a different matter, but even there we may not be
able to prove anything conclusive. We are up against an
extraordinarily clever man. Still, I don't yet know the extent of our
evidence against him; it may be very strong indeed. That's what I've
got to find out."
"And all for the sake of your poor father's money, sir--which she'd
have got in a few years' time anyhow!"
Roger was silent, knowing better than Chalmers, perhaps, the reason why
Thérèse was not willing to wait for his father to die. He put on the
light overcoat the butler held ready for him, thinking he would take
one look at Esther before setting out. It was still very early; the
life of the house had not yet begun. He knew that he would not find
the chemist's shop open, and it might be several hours before he could
accomplish much, but his restless state would not permit him to remain
inactive.
As he left his room followed by Chalmers, a loud ringing and knocking
at the front door caused them both to start and look at each other,
recalling the dramatic entry of the police the night before. What
could it be this time, and at this early hour?
"That will be a telegram, sir, I should say, though they don't
generally make such a row, especially this time of day. I'll just see."
The clamour continued without ceasing. Roger let the old servant
precede him down the stairs and saw him draw back the bolts of the
door, muttering, "All right, all right--what's all the fuss about?"
On the threshold stood the excited figure of a telegraphic messenger,
holding in his hand a _dépêche_ which he did not trouble to deliver.
Instead he burst out at once in a harsh, strained voice:
"_Monsieur! Monsieur! On n'a pas su--on n'a pas regardé
dehors--là-bas----_"
"_Comment?_" demanded Roger, frowning. "_Qu'est-ce qu'il y a?_"
"_Un accident, monsieur. Regardez donc!_"
With a tense forefinger he pointed over the low stone balustrade at the
right-hand side of the steps. Both men leaned over to look. What at
first appeared to be a sodden, black rag, beaten by the rain, lay upon
the ground close to the wall of the house. What was it? It was
half-hidden by a rose-bush.... Someone pushed rudely past Roger,
thrusting him aside. It was Aline.
"Chalmers, what is it? It can't be---- My God it is; it's ..."
An ear-splitting shriek rent the air as Aline made the same discovery.
Scream followed scream as the woman beat her hands together, crying:
"_Ah, nom d'un nom! C'est Madame, c'est Madame!_"
It was indeed Lady Clifford. The body, clad in the black chiffon frock
soaked by the rain, lay crumpled up in the angle of the steps. The
face was hidden under the bush, but the hands were visible, flecked
with mud, their short fingers curved rigidly inward like talons,
grasping, clutching at the air. All around lay glittering fragments of
broken glass. What did it mean?
"Quiet that woman, someone--Chalmers, see to her," Roger cried,
vaulting over the balustrade.
He knelt and pushed aside the sheltering branches of the rose-bush so
as to reveal the head and face, the messenger bending close to him,
breathing heavily. The grey eyes were stretched wide with a stare of
terror, the mouth hung open. On the temple over the right eyebrow
gaped a deep wound from which a vast quantity of blood had poured, down
the side of the face and neck and shoulder, where it now stuck clotted
and dark. There was no doubt whatever that life was extinct. She had
probably been dead for several hours. All the clothing was sopping
with water and beaten into the soil.
"Do you think it's suicide, sir?" asked Chalmers in a low voice.
Roger shook his head without replying. Certain odd details now became
apparent. Tiny red scratches marred the skin in two or three places,
giving a scarred appearance. Broken twigs on the rose-bush told their
story also, but it was not at these that Roger looked so fixedly.
"_Qu'est-ce qu'elle porte autour de son cou?_" whispered the messenger
in a curious but awed voice.
Carefully Roger lifted a mauve, mudstained wet scarf, the two ends of
which were knotted about the throat. Some object was fastened securely
to the middle of the strip of silk, tied by a ribbon. He examined it
wonderingly. It was the broken, jagged neck of a bottle.