SECOND SIGHT.
Hetty clung to Bruce's arm as if fearful for her safety. Of course, he
was absolutely innocent, but how far the world would believe it was
quite another matter. For the girl was quick and clear-sighted, and it
needed no explanation to show her Bruce's terrible position.
Her nimble wit pointed to conspiracy.
But it was only a vague idea at present. She forced a brave smile to
her lips.
"We won't discuss it, dearest," she said. "The mere idea of your guilt
is absurd to any one who knows you. I cannot realize it yet, the whole
thing is so terribly mixed up and involved. The one man to get to the
bottom of things is Gilbert Lawrence. The police will see nothing here
beyond a mere vulgar crime. My uncle Gilbert will bring a novelist's
imagination to work on it, And, whatever happens, there will be one
person who believes implicitly in you."
Bruce pressed the little hand under his arm silently. He did not feel
equal to speaking just for the moment. Despite the pain and trouble at
her heart Hetty spoke bravely. She forced a smile to her face. Bruce
felt that he had never loved the girl by his side so much as he did at
that moment.
Lawrence was fortunately at home. He had just finished a story, so
that his frame of mind was complaisant. But as he listened to the
dramatic events of the afternoon he grew deeply interested.
"We thought you would help us," Hetty said.
"I am probably the only man in the world who can help you," Lawrence
replied. "To a certain extent I seem to have got you into this mess,
and I must get you out of it. My dear young people, I am going to
astonish you presently. Now, all I know up to now is that these notes
have been traced to Bruce, and that, by a dreadful coincidence, he
actually was one of the last people to see the murdered man before the
tragedy. His little part Bruce has already told me, but I purposely
asked no details. He has not yet informed me how the notes really
reached his pocket, because the assumption that he stole them is
ridiculous."
"Thank you for that," Bruce said gratefully.
"Nonsense, my dear fellow. Now let me open your eyes. Behold the great
force of a man who is gifted with second sight. Where did you get
those notes? Was it not on the same evening as the murder?"
Bruce nodded. He was beginning to have some feeling of hope.
"Score one to me. Recently you bought some article of value. Say it
was a piece of Battersea china or a Chippendale chair, an engraving
after Reynolds, or a picture. On the whole I am inclined to suggest a
picture of the Dutch school with a history."
Lawrence's eyes fairly beamed as he spoke.
"Another one to you," said Bruce. "I did buy an old Dutch picture
recently. But how on earth you managed----"
"Never mind that yet. I didn't get this information from you. Behold
the picture! You are sitting in your room on the night previous to the
murder--a few hours before it in fact. Enter to you a more or less
picturesque individual who tells you a story of a picture. It is an
heirloom in his family. The family have had to part with it in their
dark days. Now the same picturesque individual has become rich.
Imagine his delight when he sees this family treasure in a shop
window."
"Amazing," Bruce cried. "That is exactly what did happen. But how
could you possibly have known that considering that until an hour ago
not a soul knew of it, not even Hetty!"
Lawrence puffed his cigarette in huge enjoyment.
"So far the oracle has spoken correctly," he went on. "The picture was
in the shop window. The old man had no cheque book. He hurried home to
get it, and by the time he returned the picture was gone. There's a
pathetic little incident for you, quite in the fashion of a lady's
novelette. The picturesque old man wants the picture and he offers you
£200 for it, which you accept. He pays you in bank notes and you place
these notes in your inner coat pocket."
"I shall wake up presently and find it a dream," said Bruce. "If you
had been present at the interview you could not have described it
better."
"End of the first act," Lawrence said with pardonable triumph. "You
are just going into your rooms when a motor comes up. It looks like a
coincidence, but the driver has been lurking about waiting for you. Do
you suppose it was chance that you were picked out of all the doctors
in London?"
"I thought, perhaps," Bruce began, "that my name----"
"Fiddlesticks! You are the victim of a vile conspiracy, my dear
fellow, if ever there was one. Now let me go on with my visions. The
motor is an unusually silent one, and it was painted a dull,
lustreless black."
"Correct to a fault," Bruce cried.
"Well, we shall hear more of that lustreless black motor later on when
I come to go closely into the mystery and show the police what asses
they are. You address a question to the driver and he turns out to be
dumb. He takes you to the corner house, where you are received by a
fair woman with a mantilla over her head so that you have the very
vaguest idea of her features. If you were asked to swear to her
identity you couldn't do it I suppose?"
"At the present moment I could not swear to my own," Bruce said
helplessly.
"Well, you can leave other people to do that. You find your patient
half dead between drink and drugs, and after a time you pull him
round. As you go away you sign to the Spanish woman that you are
coming again. She says no, and by means of a Bradshaw and some
labelled luggage--say to Dover--leads you to believe that the people
of the house are going abroad at once."
"Marvellous!" Bruce cried. "It is exactly as you have said."
"Of course it is," Lawrence replied. "One question more. How many
times did the hall gas go out when you were there?"
Bruce looked at the speaker absolutely too astounded to say a word.