A SUDDEN FLIGHT
One of the many things and people which I am sorry to say my new
occupation as Squire of Dames had caused me to neglect, was poor Madame
Argot. On leaving the Derwents, I determined to call on her at once. To
my surprise, I found Mrs. Atkins there before me. The poor Frenchwoman
was crying bitterly.
"Look here!" I said, after we had exchanged greetings; "this will never
do. My patient must not be allowed to excite herself in this way."
"Ah, mais monsieur," she cried, "what vill you? I mus' veep; zink only;
vone veek ago an' I 'appy voman; now all gone. My 'usban', 'e mad, and
zey zay 'e murderer too, but I zay, No, no."
Mrs. Atkins patted her hand gently.
"Monsieur Stuah, 'e tell me to go," she continued, "an' I don' know
vere; me not speak English vera good, an' I mus' go alone vid peoples
zat speak no French. Ah, I am a miserable, lonely woman," she sobbed.
Mrs. Atkins consoled her as best she could, and promised to get her a
congenial place. It was a pretty sight to see the dashing little woman
in that humble bed-room, and I had never admired her so much. When she
got up to leave, I rose also, and, not wishing to pass through Mr.
Stuart's apartments, we left the building by the back way. When we were
in the street, Mrs. Atkins started to walk up town.
"Are you going for a walk?" I asked.
"Yes; it is much cooler to-day, and I really must get a little
exercise."
"Do you mind my joining you?" I inquired.
"I'd be glad of your company," she answered, cordially.
"It's terribly sad about that poor woman, isn't it?" she said, as we
sauntered along.
"It is, indeed," I replied; "and the hospital authorities give no hope
of her husband's recovery."
"I suppose there is no doubt that he killed the man?"
Here we were again on this dangerous topic, and I glanced quickly at
her, fearing a repetition of last night's attack.
She noticed my hesitation, and laughed.
"Oh, you needn't be so afraid of what you say. I ain't going to faint
again. I want to know the truth, though, and I can't see why you
shouldn't tell me."
"Well, if you insist upon it," I said, "here it is: I really don't know
whether he is guilty or not; I have been convinced that he was till
very recently, but Merritt (the detective, you know) has always been
sceptical, and maintains that a woman committed the murder."
"A woman," she repeated, turning her eyes full on me. "But what woman?"
"Merritt refuses to tell me whom he suspects, but he promises to produce
the fair criminal before next Tuesday."
We walked on for about a block, when, struck by her silence, I looked at
her, and saw that she had grown alarmingly pale. I cursed myself for my
loquacity, but what could I have done? It is almost impossible to avoid
answering direct questions without being absolutely rude, and as I knew
the detective did not suspect her I really could not see why she should
be so agitated.
"I guess I'm not very strong," she said; "I'm tired already, and think
I'll go home."
I wondered if my society had been disagreeable or, at any rate,
inopportune, and had caused her to cut short her walk.
As we repassed my house, I caught Mrs. Atkins peering apprehensively at
it. I followed the direction of her eyes, but could see nothing unusual.
When I got back to my office, I found that Atkins had called during my
absence; I was very sorry to have missed him, as he no doubt came to
report what Dr. Hartley had said about his wife.
That night I was called out to see a patient, and returned home during
the small hours of the morning. I was still some distance from my house
when I distinctly saw the back door of the Rosemere open, and a muffled
figure steal out. I was too far away to be able to distinguish any
details. I could not even be sure whether the figure was that of a man
or a woman. I hastened my steps as I saw it cross the street, but before
I had come within reasonable distance of it, it had disappeared round
the corner.
The next morning I was aroused at a very early hour by a vigorous
ringing at my bell. Hurrying to the door, I was astonished to find
Atkins there. He was white and trembling. I pulled him into the room and
made him sit down.
"What is the matter?" I asked, as I went to the sideboard and poured out
a stiff glass of brandy, which I handed him. "Drink that, and you'll
feel better," I said.
He gulped it down at one swallow.
"My wife has disappeared."
"Disappeared!" I repeated.
He nodded.
"But when?--how?"
"I don't know. At dinner yesterday she acted queerly. The tears kept
coming to her eyes without any reason----"
"Before you go any further," I interrupted him, "tell me if this was
after the doctor had seen her?"
"Yes, and he practically confirmed all you said. He laid great stress on
her being spared all agitation, and advised a course of baths at
Nauheim."
"Her tears, then, were probably caused by worrying over her condition,"
I said.
"I don't think so, for the doctor was very careful to reassure her, and
I had not even mentioned that we were to go abroad. No, it was something
else, I'm sure." He paused. I wondered if anything I had said during our
short walk had upset her.
"I suggested going to a roof garden," continued Atkins, "and she
acquiesced enthusiastically, and after that was over she insisted on a
supper at Rector's. It was pretty late when we got home, and we both
went immediately to bed. Now, I assure you that ever since she fainted
on Wednesday I have been most affectionate towards her. I had determined
to bury my suspicions, and my anxiety for her health helped me to do so.
She responded very tenderly to my caresses, but I could see that she
was still as depressed as before, although she tried her best to hide it
from me. I tell you all this so that you may know that nothing occurred
yesterday between us that could have caused her to leave me, and yet
that is what she has done."
He buried his head in his arms. I laid my hand on his shoulder.
"Tell me the rest, old man."
"The rest?--I woke up a short time ago and was surprised to find my wife
had already left the room. Wondering what could be the matter (for she
is usually a very late riser), I got up also. On the table beside my bed
lay a letter addressed to me in her handwriting. I tore it open. Here it
is," and he handed me a small pink note redolent of the peculiar scent
which I had noticed his wife affected. This is what I read:
MY DARLING HUSBAND:
I must leave you. It is best for both. Don't think I'm going
because I don't love you. It isn't that. I love you more than ever.
It breaks my heart to go. Oh, my darling, darling! We have been
happy, haven't we? And now it is all over. Don't look for me, I beg
you. I must hide. Don't tell any one, even the servants, that I
have gone, for two days. Oh, do oblige me in this. I have taken all
the money I could find, $46.00, and some of my jewelry; so I shall
not be destitute.
Forgive me, and forget me.
Your loving, heart-broken wife,
LULU.
After reading the note to the end, I stared at him in speechless
astonishment.
"What do you think of that?" he asked.
"Well, really, of all mysterious, incomprehensible----"
"Exactly," he interrupted, impatiently, "but what am I to do now? It is,
of course, nonsense her telling me not to look for her. I _will_ look
for her and find her, too. But how shall I go about it? O my God, to
think of that little girl sick, unhappy, alone; she will die--" he
cried, starting up.
"Atkins," I said, after a moment's reflection, "I think the best thing
for you to do is to lay this case before Mr. Merritt."
"What, the man who was mixed up in the murder? Never!"
"You can hardly speak of a detective as being mixed up in a murder," I
said. "Every celebrated detective has always several important cases
going at once, one of which is very likely to be a murder. The reason I
suggest Merritt is that I have seen a good deal of him lately, and have
been much impressed by his character as well as his ability. He is a
kindly, honourable, and discreet man, and that is more than can be said
for the majority of his fellows, and, professionally, he stands at
the very top of the ladder. You want to find your wife as quickly as
possible, and at the same time to avoid all publicity. You therefore
must consult a thoroughly reliable as well as competent person."
"But if I go to Merritt and tell him that my wife has disappeared, I
must also tell of the strange way she has been behaving lately. That
will lead to his discovering that the murdered man was a friend of hers,
and who knows but that he may end by suspecting her of complicity in
his death?--and I acknowledge that her flight lends some colour to that
theory."
"My dear fellow, he has been aware for some time--since Monday, in
fact--that the dead man visited your wife the very evening he was
killed, and yet, knowing all this, he told me that Mrs. Atkins could not
be connected in the remotest way with the tragedy."
"He said that!" exclaimed Atkins, with evident relief.
"He did," I assured him.
"All right, then; let's go to him at once."
As soon as I was dressed we got into a cab and drove rapidly to Mr.
Merritt's. We met the detective just going out, but he at once turned
back with us, and we were soon sitting in his little office. Atkins was
so overcome by the situation that I found it necessary to explain our
errand. The detective, on hearing of Mrs. Atkins's flight gave a slight
start.
"I wish I knew at what time she left home," he said.
"I think I can help you there,"--and I told him of the person I had seen
stealing from the building, and who I now believed to have been no other
than Mrs. Atkins.
"Half-past two," he murmured; "I wonder she left as early as that. Where
could she have gone to at that hour! It looks as if she had arranged
her flight beforehand and prepared some place of refuge. Do you know of
any friend in the city she would be likely to appeal to in such an
emergency?" he inquired, turning towards Atkins.
"No," he replied; "whatever friends she has here have all been
previously friends of mine, and as she has only known them since our
marriage they have not had time to become very intimate yet."
After asking a few more pertinent questions, Mr. Merritt rose.
"I think I have all the necessary facts now and will at once order the
search started. I hope soon to have good news for you."
We all three left the detective's house together, but separated
immediately afterwards. Atkins, haggard and wild-eyed, went off to look
for his wife himself. I had to go to the hospital, and Merritt offered
to accompany me there.
"Well, what do you think of this latest development?" I asked.
"I am not surprised."
"Not surprised!" I exclaimed; "what do you mean?"
"Just this: I have been expecting Mrs. Atkins to make an attempt to
escape, and have tried to prevent her doing so."
"How?" I inquired.
"One of my men has been watching her night and day. He is stationed in
your house, and I am extremely annoyed that he has allowed her to slip
through his fingers, although I must say he has some excuse, for she
certainly managed things very neatly."
"But Mr. Merritt," I exclaimed, "do you now think Mrs. Atkins guilty?"
He smiled enigmatically, but said nothing.
"This is a very serious matter for me," I continued. "After what you
repeatedly said to me, I thought you scouted the probability of her
being in any way implicated in this murder. It was on the strength of
this assurance that I induced Atkins to confide in you. Had I known that
you were having her shadowed I shouldn't, of course, have advised him to
put his case in your hands. I feel dreadfully about this. It is exactly
as if I had betrayed the poor fellow. I must warn him at once."
I stopped.
"Don't do anything rash," he urged, laying a detaining hand on my arm.
"But----"
"I quite understand your feelings," he continued, looking at me with his
kindly blue eyes. "When I first heard the nature of your errand I felt a
good deal embarrassed. But it was then too late. What I knew, I knew.
I assure you, Doctor, that what I have heard this morning, far from
assisting me to solve the Rosemere mystery, will prove a positive
hindrance to my doing so. I shall no longer feel at liberty to employ
ruse or strategy in my dealings with the lady, and if I find her shall
have to treat her with the utmost consideration."
"Do you think she murdered the man? Is she the woman whose name you
promised to reveal next Tuesday?"
"I must decline to answer that question."
I glanced at him for a minute in silence.
"If I am not mistaken, this flight will precipitate matters," he went
on, reflectively. "If the right party hears of it, I expect an explosion
will follow."
"Don't talk in enigmas, Mr. Merritt; either say what you mean or--" I
paused.
"Hold your tongue," he concluded, with a smile. "You are quite right.
And as I can't say any more at present, I will say nothing. By the way,
I hear Mrs. and Miss Derwent and Mr. Norman are in town."
"Yes," I curtly assented. "Well, Mr. Merritt," I went on, abruptly
changing the subject, "I must leave you now. I am very much upset by
your attitude towards Mrs. Atkins. I am not yet sure that I shall not
tell her husband. Together, we may perhaps prevent her falling into your
hands."
The detective smiled indulgently as we parted. I saw now all the harm
I had done. Poor Mrs. Atkins had feared from the first that she might
be suspected, and having discovered that she was being watched, had
naturally been unwilling to leave the protection of her own home. When
Argot was arrested she thought all danger was over, till I stupidly
blurted out that the detective was stalking a woman, not a man. Then she
fled. And she chose the middle of the night, reasoning, no doubt, that
at that hour the sleuth would most likely be off his guard. Since I had
known her and her husband better, I could no longer suspect her, and
I now tried to remember all the arguments Merritt had formerly used
to prove her innocence. Foolish she might have been, but criminal,
never,--I concluded. And it was I who had put her enemies on her track!