A STAB IN THE DARK.
"If there is one thing that is likely to come between you and Bruce,"
said Lawrence, as he struggled into his overcoat, "it is your devotion
to that child, Hetty. There is nothing the matter with her at all. She
is merely suffering from strawberries. I had an idea to work this
afternoon, contrary to my usual custom, and I soothed Mamie with
strawberries. Blame me as you like, but there it is."
Hetty laughed. It was past eleven, and Lawrence was going down to his
club for an hour. The little girl had been a bit more fretful than
usual.
"I'm so sorry for the poor child," she said.
"And so am I. You've done as much for her as if she were your own, but
all the same I should not be sorry if somebody claimed her. I've never
had the slightest doubt that she is no relation to the Countess at
all."
"Then why should a woman like that encumber herself----"
"My dear child, I don't look upon it in that light at all. The child
gave our picturesque friend a certain distinction--'My husband is
dead, and this is my only child,' and all that sort of thing. It pays
in society."
With which cynical remark Lawrence lighted a cigarette and departed.
From above the fretful voice of Mamie called to her dear Hetty. In
sooth, the child was running a great risk of being spoilt.
"What is it, darling?" Hetty said. "What can I do for you?"
Mamie was thirsty. She scornfully refused a suggestion of soda-water;
nothing would content her but a certain fruit salt that came from a
certain place some way off. She was quite sure that she could not do
without it, and that unless the salt was forthcoming she would have a
dreadful headache in the morning.
"All right," Hetty said cheerfully. "I'll go and get it for you."
There was the best part of a mile to go; it was getting very late, but
Hetty had not been out all day, so that she enjoyed the walk. She made
her way back along the darkness of Alton Square. Most of the houses
were dark, and nobody was to be seen.
From a little way off came the sound of rapid footsteps. The step grew
swifter, and there was the sound of another behind. As if by magic a
half score of people seemed to spring from under the trees against the
square yonder.
It all seemed like a dream to Hetty after, a confused mist out of
which came two struggling figures, there was the flash of a knife, and
Hetty, heedless of danger, darted forward with an idea of interfering.
The cry that rose to her lips was stifled, a firm hand grasped her
arm, another was laid tightly over her mouth.
"You must say and do nothing," a hoarse voice whispered. "It is a fair
quarrel and a fair punishment. Accept my deepest apologies for
handling a lady so roughly, but I am but the creature of
circumstance."
Hetty's heart was beating violently. The struggle seemed interminable,
but in reality it was a mere matter of seconds. Then one figure fell
to the ground and lay there rigid and motionless. It was too dark to
see more than the outline of the tragedy, and almost before it had
begun it had dissolved away, leaving only that ominously still figure
lying prone in the roadway.
Hetty's antagonist had vanished also. He had gone clean out of sight
before Hetty realised that she was free. Then she called loudly for
help. A policeman came from somewhere, and Hetty was pouring out her
tale.
"Seems pretty bad," said the policeman gruffly, as he flashed his
lantern down on the white still face. "This here's a job for the
ambulance."
He whistled again and again, and presently the ambulance came trotting
up. It was only when the body was raised that Hetty recognized the
white still face. With a thrill it came to her that she was looking at
Balmayne.
She was conscious of no feeling of astonishment. At every turn she
seemed to be brought into contact with the central figures of the
Corner House tragedy. A sudden inspiration came to her.
"As it happens, I know the gentleman," she said. "When I was governess
to the Countess Lalage's little girl he frequently came to the house.
I am a niece of Mr. Gilbert Lawrence, the novelist, who lives close
by. There is a room to spare in his house, and this looks like a bad
case. If you will follow me----"
The sergeant in charge of the ambulance had no objection to make. A
little later and Balmayne was stripped and in bed. A doctor who had
been summoned shook his head as he made his diagnosis of the wound.
"Critical," he said. "There has been a great loss of blood, too. It is
all a matter of constitution now. Till I can send a nurse in----"
Hetty nodded. She perfectly understood. And Bruce had often told her
that she was one of the best nurses he had ever met. There was nothing
to do for the moment beyond watching over the patient to see that no
change occurred.
Hetty sat there all alone for some time wondering. It looked as if
fate was playing into her hands. If the man lying at the point of
death could only speak, if he could only be induced to do so.
Balmayne opened his eyes and looked languidly about him. It was quite
evident that he had not the slightest idea what had happened.
"Where am I?" he murmured, faintly.
Hetty explained in a few words. The patient was not to talk. He was to
lie there and try to sleep again. If he did so and obeyed
instructions, before long he would be out and well again.
A queer smile played over the listener's face.
"Till next time," he said. "It's all over with me. The pitcher has
gone too often to the well, and it has got broken at last. And I
deserved all I got--there is no question whatever about that."
"You are not to say another word," Hetty said sternly.
"All right. Only that you are an angel of goodness. If I could only
tell you----"
He lay back exhausted and closed his eyes again.