MR. AND MRS. ATKINS AT HOME
An urgent case necessitated my leaving Beverley at such an early hour
that the city was still half asleep when I reached it. After driving
from florist to florist in search of an early riser amongst them, I at
last found one. I selected the choicest of his flowers, and ordered them
to be sent to Miss Derwent by special messenger, hoping they would
arrive in time to greet her on her awakening, and cheerfully paid the
price demanded for them.
On reaching my office I was surprised to find a note from the
irrepressible Atkins. You may remember, patient reader, that I had
promised to dine with him on the previous evening. When I found that it
would be impossible for me to do so, I sent word that I regretted that
I could not keep my engagement with him. I naturally thought that that
ended the matter. Not at all! Here was an invitation even more urgent
than the last--an invitation for that very day, too. Unless I wished to
be positively rude and to hurt the feelings of these good people, I must
accept. There was no way out of it. So I scribbled a few lines to that
effect.
I confess that when I rang the Atkins's bell that evening I did so with
considerable trepidation, for I was not at all sure how the lady would
receive me. You see I had not forgotten the way she flounced out of the
room the last and only time I had seen her. And yet I had been quite
blameless on that occasion. It was the Coroner's questions which had
annoyed her, not mine. However, I was considerably reassured as to my
reception by receiving a smiling welcome from the same pretty maid
I had seen the week before. It is a queer fact that we unconsciously
measure the amount of regard people have for us by the manners of their
servants. That this theory is quite fallacious, I know; but I found it
very useful on this occasion, for it gave me the necessary courage to
enter the drawing-room with smiling composure.
The room was almost dark, and, coming from the brilliantly-lighted hall,
it was some seconds before I could distinguish from its surroundings
the small figure of my hostess, silhouetted against the crimson sky.
Her shimmering black gown and fluffy hair caught and reflected her
red background in such a way that for a moment I fancied I saw her
surrounded and bespattered with blood. The effect was so uncanny that
it quite startled me, but as she moved forward the illusion vanished,
and I was soon shaking a soft, warm hand, which was quite reassuring.
"I just hope you don't mind the dark," she exclaimed, leading me to a
chair and sinking into one herself, "but somehow the light has hurt my
eyes lately, and so I don't turn it on till it is so dark that I tumble
all over the furniture. Mr. Atkins says I'm crazy and ought to buy a
pair of blue goggles, and so I would, only they're so unbecoming."
"On the contrary," I assured her, as I let myself cautiously down into
one of those uncomfortable gilt abominations known to the trade as a
Louis XVI. armchair, "I think this dim light just the thing for a chat;
I always become quite confidential if I am caught between daylight and
dark. The day reveals too much; it offers no veil for one's blushes. The
darkness, on the other hand, having no visible limits, robs one of that
sense of seclusion which alone provokes confidences. But the twilight,
the tactful twilight, is so discreet that it lures one on to open one's
heart. Luckily, no designing person has yet found out how weak I am at
this hour, or else I should have no secrets left."
"Oh, go along," she giggled; "I guess you're not the kind to say more
than you mean to."
"I assure you I am--" but here I was interrupted by my host, who called
out from the threshold:
"Hello, sitting in the dark? This is really too absurd, Lulu."
A flood of light followed these words and revealed young Atkins's
stalwart figure, irreproachably clad in evening dress.
"Well, I _am_ glad to see you, Doctor," he cried, as he wrung my hand
vigorously. "Dinner's ready, too, and I hope you're ready for it."
The folding doors leading into the next room slid back and disclosed a
prettily appointed table, profusely decorated with flowers and silver.
Soon after we had settled into our chairs, I seized a moment when I
was unobserved to steal a look at Mrs. Atkins. She was certainly paler
and thinner than when I had seen her last, but the change instead of
detracting from her looks only added to her charm. Dark violet lines
encircled her blue eyes and lent them a wistful, pathetic expression
that greatly enhanced their beauty. Otherwise, I thought her less
changed than her husband had led me to suspect and I could detect none
of that extreme nervousness of which he had spoken; only when she turned
towards him did her manner appear at all strained, and even this was so
slight as to be hardly noticeable. In fact, of the two, it was he who
seemed ill at ease, and I noticed that he kept watching her anxiously. I
saw that she was conscious of his constant scrutiny and that at times
she became quite restless under his prolonged gaze; then, tossing her
head defiantly, as if determined to cast off the spell of his eyes, she
would talk and laugh with renewed animation.
The dinner was delicious and well served; my hostess extremely pretty;
my host almost overpoweringly cordial, and the conversation agreeable,
if not highly intellectual. We had reached the fruit stage, and I was
leaning contentedly back in my chair, congratulating myself on my good
luck in having happened on such a pleasant evening, when Mrs. Atkins
exclaimed:
"I say, Doctor, you haven't told us a thing about your thrilling
adventure. What a blessing the madman didn't succeed in killing you. Do
tell us all about it."
After her husband's warning me that the bare mention of the tragedy
excited her I had naturally taken great pains to avoid all reference to
the subject. I was, consequently, a good deal surprised to hear her
broach it with such apparent calmness.
I glanced inquiringly at Atkins.
"Yes, do," he urged, still looking at his wife.
"I'm afraid there isn't much more to tell," I hesitatingly replied; "I
gave the newspapers a pretty straight account of the whole affair."
"Oh, but you were much too modest," she cried; "a little bird has told
us that you are a great detective, and suspected Argot from the first.
Say, how did you manage to hit on him? We want all the details, you
know."
It was her flattery, I am afraid, which loosened my tongue and made me
forget my former caution.
"Well, it was mostly luck," I assured her, and then proceeded to give a
long account of the whole affair.
"And now," I said, warming to my topic under their evident interest,
"I wonder if either of you, when you read over the description of the
murdered man, or when you saw him, for the matter of that, noticed
anything peculiar about him? I confess that it escaped me and my
attention had to be called to it by Mr. Merritt."
"Something peculiar," she repeated. "What kind of a peculiarity do you
mean?"
"Well, the lack of an important article of apparel," I replied.
"No; I didn't notice anything out of the way," she answered, after
considering the question for some minutes.
I turned towards her husband. He was leaning forward, so deeply absorbed
in watching his wife as to be entirely unconscious of my presence, and
on his ingenious countenance I was shocked to observe suspicion and love
struggling for mastery. Struck by his silence, she, too, looked at him,
and as her eyes encountered his I saw a look of fear creep into them,
and the faint color fade from her cheeks. When he saw how his behaviour
had affected her, he tried to pull himself together, and passed his hand
swiftly over his face as if anxious to obliterate whatever might be
written there.
"Well, what is this missing link?" he asked, with obviously enforced
gaiety. He looked squarely at me, and, as he did so, I became convinced
that he already knew the answer to that question. For a moment we stared
at each other in silence. Were my looks tell-tale, I wondered, and could
he see that I had discovered his secret?
"Say," broke in Mrs. Atkins, "don't go to sleep. What was this missing
thing?"
I would have given anything not to have had to answer.
"No hat was found with the body," I said. Atkins, I noticed, was again
looking fixedly at his wife, who had grown deathly white, and sat
staring at him, as if hypnotised. Both had, apparently, forgotten me,
but yet I felt deeply embarrassed at being present, and dropped my eyes
to my plate so as to give them a chance to regain their composure
unobserved.
"Has the hat been found?" I heard her inquire, and her high soprano
voice had again that peculiar grating quality I had noticed during her
interview with the Coroner.
"Yes," I answered, "it was found in Argot's possession. He actually wore
it, and laid it down under my nose. Insanity can go no further."
"But how did you know it was the missing hat?" demanded Atkins, without
taking his eyes off his wife.
What could I answer? I was appalled at the dilemma into which my vanity
and stupidity had led me.
"I suspected it was the hat which was wanted," I blundered on, "because
Mr. Merritt had told me he was looking for an ordinary white straw
containing the name of a Chicago hatter. Argot's hat answered to this
description, and, as the Frenchman had never been West, I concluded that
he had not got it by fair means."
"So the dead man hailed from Chicago, did he?" inquired Atkins.
"The detective thinks so," I answered.
"Have the police discovered his name yet?"
"I--I am not sure!"
"You are discreet, I see."
"Indeed, no," I assured him. "The last time I saw Mr. Merritt he was
still in doubt as to the man's real name."
"He only knew that the initials were A. B.," said Atkins, quickly.
I glanced, rapidly, from the husband to the wife. They sat, facing each
other, unflinchingly, like two antagonists of mettle, their faces drawn
and set. But the strain proved too much for the woman, and, in another
moment, she would have fallen to the floor if I had not managed to catch
her. Instead of assisting me, her husband sat quite still, wiping great
beads of perspiration from his forehead.
"Come here," I said, "and help me to carry your wife to the window."
He got up, as if dazed, and came slowly toward me, and, together, we
carried her to a lounge in the drawing-room.
"Look here, you told me yourself that all mention of the murder made
your wife extremely nervous, and yet you distinctly encouraged us to
talk about it this evening. Do you think that right?"
He stared at me with unseeing eyes, and appeared not to understand what
I was saying.
"I had to find out the truth," he muttered.
"Look here, man," I cried, shaking him by the arm, "pull yourself
together. Don't let your wife see that expression on your face when she
comes to. This is not a simple faint; your wife's heart is affected, and
if you excite her still further you may kill her."
That roused him, and he now joined to the best of his ability in my
endeavors to restore her. She soon opened her eyes, and glanced timidly
at her husband. He managed to smile affectionately at her, which seemed
to reassure her.
"How stupid of me to faint!" she exclaimed, "but it was so very hot."
"Yes, the heat is dreadful; you really should not overtax yourself
during this weather," said her husband, gently, laying his hand on hers.
She beamed at him, while a lovely pink overspread her pale face.
"As a doctor, may I urge Mrs. Atkins to go to bed immediately?" I said.
"Oh, no, no," she cried petulantly; "I'm all right." But as she tried to
stand up she staggered helplessly.
"I insist on your going to bed, Lulu; I shall carry you up-stairs at
once." And the big man picked her up without more ado. She smiled at me
over his shoulder, dimpling like a pleased child.
"You see, Doctor, what a tyrant he is," she cried, waving her small hand
as she disappeared.
When Atkins returned, I rose to say good night, but he motioned me to
return to my seat, and handing me a box of cigars, insisted on my taking
one. Then, dragging a chair forward, he sat down facing me. We puffed
away for several minutes, in silence. I was sure, from his manner, that
he was trying to get up his courage to tell me something.
"You said just now that Mrs. Atkins has something the matter with her
heart?"
"I'm afraid so; but I do not fancy it is anything very serious, and if
it is taken in time, and she leads a quiet, happy life, there is no
reason that she should not recover completely."
He got up and paced the room.
"I love her," he murmured.
I watched him with increasing perplexity.
"Well, if that is so, treat her differently. You sit and watch her
in a way that is enough to make anyone nervous, let alone a delicate
woman. Forgive my speaking so plainly, but I consider it my duty as a
physician. I am convinced that the extreme nervousness you spoke of (and
which, by the way, I have failed to observe) is not to be attributed to
the murder at all, but to your behaviour. I don't think you have any
idea how strange that is."
"Oh, but my wife has not been nervous since the Frenchman was arrested.
We watched him being taken away from your house, and last night she
slept quietly for the first time since the tragedy." He paused and
looked at me as if he longed to say more.
"Well, that is quite natural, I think. I can imagine nothing more
alarming than to know that you are living under the same roof with an
undetected criminal, who might at any time make use of his freedom
to commit another murder. Till she knew who was guilty, she must have
suspected and feared everybody. Now that she knows the fellow to be
under lock and key, she can again sleep in peace."
Atkins sat down.
"Doctor, men of your calling are the same as confessors, are they not?"
"If you mean as regards the sanctity of professional communications,
yes."
"Then I should like to confide a few things to you under the seal of
that professional secrecy."
"All right; go ahead."
"Do you know that my wife is from Chicago?"
"Yes."
"I have never been there myself, and consequently know none of her
friends. You may have heard that my father was very much opposed to my
marriage. He collected a lot of cock-and-bull stories about my wife,
which, needless to say, I did not believe. So the wedding took place,
and, until a week ago, I can truthfully say that I have been perfectly
happy."
"What happened then?"
"I had to go out of town for two days on business, and got back very
late on Wednesday night, having been delayed by an accident on the line.
I was careful to be very quiet as I let myself in, anxious not to wake
up my wife, who, I expected, would be fast asleep at that hour. I was
therefore surprised and pleased to find the hall still ablaze with
light. So, she had sat up for me after all, I thought. Taking off my hat
I turned to hang it on the rack when I noticed a strange hat among my
own. I took it down and examined it. It contained the name of a Chicago
hatter and the initials A. B. were stamped on the inside band. At first
I was simply puzzled, then it occurred to me that its owner must be
still on the premises. That thought roused all my latent jealousy, so,
putting the hat quietly back, I stole on tiptoe to the parlor. Peeping
through the portières, I saw my wife lying asleep on the sofa. She was
quite alone. To whom then did the hat belong? What man had left in such
hurry or agitation as to forget so essential a thing? All the stories
my father had told me came back to me with an overwhelming rush. Then I
blushed at my want of confidence. All I had to do, I assured myself, was
to wake up my wife and she would explain everything at once. I should
not need to ask a question even; she would of her own accord tell me
about her visitor. Full of these hopes I entered the room. She opened
her eyes almost immediately and greeted me with even greater warmth than
usual. I responded as best I could, but my impatience to hear what she
had to say was so great as to render me insensible to everything else. I
soon led our talk round to what she had been doing during my absence.
She told me in a general way, but, Doctor, she made no mention of a
gentleman visitor! I think I was patient. Again and again I gave her
the chance to confide in me. At last, I asked her right out if she had
happened to see any of her Chicago friends. She hesitated a minute, then
answered, deliberately, No! To doubt was no longer possible. She was
concealing something from me; therefore, there was something to conceal.
And yet she dared to hang around my neck and nestle close to me. It made
me sick to feel the false creature so near. I don't know what came over
me. The room swam before my eyes, and starting to my feet I flung her
from me. She fell in a heap by the window and lay quite still, staring
at me with speechless terror. I had had no intention of hurting her and
was horrified at my brutality. I went to her and tried to raise her up,
but at my approach she shrieked aloud and shrank away from me. I was
thoroughly ashamed now and begged her to forgive my behaviour. But
for some time she only shook her head, till at last, overcome by her
emotions, she burst into hysterical sobs. This was too much for me. I
forgot everything except that I loved her, and, kneeling down, gathered
her into my arms. She no longer resisted me, but like a tired child let
me do with her what I would. I carried her upstairs and soon had the
satisfaction of seeing her fall asleep. From that day to this neither
of us has ever referred to this occurrence! I didn't, because--well,
my motives were very mixed. In the first place, I couldn't apologize
for my behaviour without telling her the reason first, and that I was
unwilling to do unasked. I was ashamed of my suspicions, and wanted
the explanation to be offered by her and not solicited by me. And then,
underlying everything, was an unacknowledged dread of what I might
discover, and terror that I might again forget myself. But what were her
reasons for never asking for the meaning of my conduct? Why did she not
make me sue on my knees for pardon? She has always made a great fuss
whenever I have offended her before; why did she pass over this outrage
in silence? Did she fear what questions I might ask? Did she suspect the
cause of my anger? That night, before going to bed, I took that accursed
hat and flung it out of the dining-room window. It fell to the court
below, and there Argot must have picked it up."
"When did you first become convinced that that hat had belonged to the
murdered man?"
"Not for several days. In fact, I have never been perfectly sure till
this evening."
"Really?"
"Yes; you see it did not occur to me for some time that there was any
connection between my wife's visitor and the--the victim." Here the poor
fellow shuddered. "Her manner was slightly constrained, and I saw she
was depressed, but I thought that a natural result of the coolness that
had arisen between us. I soon found out, however, that although our
strained relations might weigh on her somewhat, the chief cause of her
trouble was the murder. She hardly ever spoke of it, but I could see
that it was never out of her mind. She used to send out for all the
papers and pore over them by the hour, and was so nervous that it was
positively painful to be in the room with her. She would start and
scream with or without provocation. Another peculiarity she developed
was an extreme disinclination to leaving the house. She went out on
Thursday afternoon, I believe, but from that day to the time of Argot's
arrest I don't think she ever left the building unless I insisted on it.
And another queer thing she did, was to stand behind the curtains and
peer at your house. I would catch her doing this at all hours of the day
and night. Then I began to wonder more and more why this murder had such
an effect on her. I read and re-read all that was printed about it,
and suddenly it came to me that no hat had been found with the body. I
searched the papers again feverishly. I had not been mistaken. Every
article of clothing was carefully enumerated, but no hat was mentioned.
It was then I first suspected that the dead man and my wife's visitor
were one and the same person. It was an awful moment, Doctor."
He paused a while to control his emotions. "After that I kept
continually puzzling as to how the fellow could have come by his death.
Thank God, I was quite sure my little wife had no hand in that! You say
Argot killed him; perhaps he did, though I can't imagine why or how. As
soon as Mrs. Atkins heard that the Frenchman had been arrested her whole
manner changed. Her nervousness disappeared as if by magic, and to-day
she resumed her usual mode of life. She has even talked about the murder
occasionally. But the barrier between us has not diminished. I can not
forget that she concealed that man's visit from me. I have longed, yet
dreaded, to have the police discover his identity, fearing that if they
did his connection with my wife would also come out; and yet so anxious
am I to know the nature of that connection as to be willing to run
almost any risk to discover the truth. But things have come to a crisis
to-night. We can no longer go on living side by side with this secret
between us. She must tell me what there was between them. And now, when
I can bear the suspense no longer, you insist that she must not be
excited."
I felt terribly sorry for the poor fellow, and hesitated what to advise.
"Get a good doctor," I said at last, "and have Mrs. Atkins's heart
examined. Her trouble may not be as serious as I think it is, and in
that case there would be no further need of caution."
"Won't you undertake the case?"
"Have you no family physician?"
"Yes; Dr. Hartley."
"He is an excellent man, and I think it would be much less agitating
to Mrs. Atkins to be treated by her own doctor. You see it is very
important that she should be kept quiet. I should like to ask you one
thing, however: Don't you think you ought to tell the police that it was
you who first found the hat and who threw it into the yard?"
"I don't think it the least necessary," he answered, in great alarm;
"what harm can this additional suspicion do Argot? There is no doubt
that he tried to murder you, and is quite irresponsible. Why should he
not be guilty of the other crime? You suspected him before you knew that
the hat was in his possession."
"That is all very true. And the man is hopelessly insane, I hear, and,
guilty or not guilty, will probably spend the rest of his life in a
lunatic asylum. Well, I must be off. Let me know what Dr. Hartley's
verdict is. I am especially anxious that my fears may prove groundless,
because I am sure that if you and Mrs. Atkins could have a frank talk
everything would soon be satisfactorily explained."
"Do you think so?" he exclaimed, eagerly.
"I'm sure of it," and, with a hearty handshake, I left him.