A POLICY OF SILENCE.
Gilbert Lawrence lighted a cigarette and waited for Bruce to speak. It
wanted some little time to luncheon. The doctor's statement was likely
to add piquancy to the meal.
"Well, one hears some queer things," the novelist said at length.
"I've been fascinated with that corner house for years. As I told you
before, I built up a romance round it. Some day I mean to take the
papers out of my pigeonhole and work it up."
"Did you ever put me in it?" Bruce asked gravely.
"Well, upon my word, I fancy it was something like it," said Lawrence.
"There was a hero like yourself, only he wasn't a doctor, and a girl
like Hetty. Also there was a mysterious assignation in the corner
house after midnight, and, as a matter of course, a body. None of
these stories are complete without a body."
Bruce chafed under the flippancy. He was quite undecided what to do.
Beyond all question the patient whom he had attended under such
mysterious circumstances was the murdered man. Was it his duty at once
to go to the police and tell them all he knew? On the other hand he
had no desire to violate professional confidence. Certainly the lovely
Spaniard and the people of the house could have nothing to do with the
murder. If they had, they would never have called in a doctor's aid
and paid him a handsome fee to save the life of that poor dissipated
wretch. It must have happened after they had gone.
"Tell us all about it," Lawrence asked eagerly.
Bruce related his story without going into details. Rarely had a
raconteur a more flattering audience. Most men would have laughed the
whole thing to scorn. But the novelist knows the vast possibilities of
life, and Lawrence paid his companion the compliment of believing
every word that he said.
"Upon my word, a most remarkable thing," he exclaimed.
"You have said that before." Bruce replied irritably. "What I am
thinking about at present is my own awkward position. Shall I go to
the police and tell them everything or shall I respect confidence?"
"Pursue a policy of masterly inactivity," Lawrence suggested after a
thoughtful pause. "Say nothing for the present. The matter has not
been brought before you officially yet. There will be an inquest,
which will only last a few minutes, for the simple reason that the
police will ask for an adjournment. Meanwhile I will go and have a
chat with the man who has the case in hand. If the time comes when you
must speak, why speak, of course."
Bruce fell in with this suggestion, and sat down to lunch with what
appetite he could. He was terribly disturbed and uneasy. He was dining
that night with Countess Lalage, who was giving one of her brilliant
little parties. There would be a chance of a cosy little chat with
Hetty afterwards, but all the same as Bruce dressed he wished that he
was not going.
Even the great beauty and the refinement of his surroundings failed to
soothe him this evening. Usually this kind of thing pleased him. He
noticed vaguely that the Countess was dressed in some cloudy lace, all
like sea foam, and that the dark eyes were unusually brilliant and
glittering.
There was a score of guests in the drawing-room, all laughing and
chatting together. Hetty was there also, looking, to Bruce's eyes, the
sweetest and prettiest of them all. She owed nothing to artificial
beauty.
"I owe you a deep apology," the Countess whispered, as she held
Bruce's hand. "I was exceedingly rude to you the other night. I ought
to have waited for your ice, and more especially, I ought to have
waited to congratulate you. I am very glad for Hetty's sake. She is a
good girl, and I shall miss her."
The voice ran true and clear; there was deep sincerity in the eyes of
the speaker. Bruce was melting, despite himself. Hetty must be wrong.
A brilliant woman like that would never throw herself at the feet of a
mere doctor. Nobody could look in her eyes and doubt her goodness and
truth.
"It is very good of you to say so," Bruce murmured feebly.
The Countess pushed him from her with a merry smile.
"You are distant tonight," she said. "Go and talk to Hetty. Not that I
am going to let her monopolise you all the evening. I am too jealous
of your reputation for that. Now go and make the most of your time."
Hetty looked up shyly. There was a faint little smile on her face. She
wore a single stone diamond heart on her breast. But for this Bruce
would not have known how quickly she was breathing.
"What is it?" he asked. "What is the matter, sweetheart?"
Hetty smiled up into her lover's face. From under her long lashes she
could see that Leona Lalage was regarding her intently.
"Talk in an ordinary manner," she whispered; "say anything
foolish--the sort of bald nonsense young men chatter in drawing-rooms.
And don't forget that the Countess is watching every gesture
intently."
"She struck me as being rather nice," Bruce replied. "And I am quite
sure that she was sincere in her congratulations."
Hetty said nothing further on that head. The Countess was a wonderful
actress. She would have deceived the strongest, coolest head in the
world. But even that magnificent actress could not blind a woman's
instinct.
"Perhaps," Hetty said, after a long pause. "Perhaps. And yet something
tells me that you are in great danger. Smile and say something
foolish--I feel those eyes going through me. That woman loved you, and
you never gave her a thought. You passed her by for me. And who would
look at me when she was about?"
"I would for one," Bruce laughed. "I am not fond of your tempestuous
woman. Have there been any other signs and manifestations?"
"Don't laugh at me, Gordon," Hetty whispered. "I knew there was
something wrong with that dreadful corner house. You have heard of the
tragedy?"
Bruce nodded. He would keep his secret for the present even from
Hetty. In any case this was not the place to discuss the great
adventure.
"Well, I fancy I can tell you more about it," Hetty went on. "Only you
must not look so interested. Try and assume the idiotic expression of
a lover on the stage. Last night I could not sleep. I have been
terribly restless lately. I got up to fetch a book from the
schoolroom, which is in the front at the top of the house. The blind
was up, the window was not closed, so I looked out. The air was so
cool that it did my head good. I was there about a quarter of an hour.
I heard the noise of a door being closed and whispers on the pavement.
Those people had come out of the corner house, two of them--a man and
a woman."
"What time would that be?" Bruce asked as casually as possible.
"About half-past-four. It must have been about that time, because just
after I got back to my room the clock struck five. A motor car came
up, one of the quietest I have ever heard. As the woman got in she
stumbled, and the man swore at her. Then there was the strangest
thing, the dull side of the motor car gleamed in places like silver,
as if something had been rubbed off it by the woman as she fell. What
do I think it was? Well, so far as I could make out, the car was all
hung with black crape."