There now remained for Helen the task of awaiting the arrival of Saul
Hartz. Four o’clock was the hour that he was due.
The rather tiny drawing room in which she intended to receive him was
quite a delight to the eye. It was choice, seductive, trim. Much care
and taste had been lavished on the decorations, the hangings, the
general scheme. A bright fire burned on a cosy hearth of blue and white
Dutch tiles. Everything was a harmony of delicate blues and greens. No
room could have been more civilized. It was really fantastic that a
creature like herself, one whose mind was humane, creative, essentially
modern, essentially sane, should have invited a man to such a room in
order to murder him.
That aspect of the case didn’t bear thinking about. And with a courage
that showed no sign of failing now the crisis was at hand she put
it away from her. She went to the safe in the other room to procure
the phial. But as she was in the act of unlocking its heavy door, a
paralyzing thought flashed along her nerves.
Suppose ... suppose ... the phial was not there!
It was more than likely that John had now reached a state of mind when
he could carry this deadly thing about with him for use upon himself.
It was such a simple, convenient mode of exit from the world. As the
door of the safe yielded to the key, she had a thrill of pure fright.
This new hypothesis had a touch of inevitability that appalled her. But
the fear instantly passed. There, in the place in which she had last
seen it, was the gun-metal case.
A careful examination told her that as far as she could learn the
apparatus was in working order. She took it accordingly to the drawing
room and set it on the chimneypiece in a place easily accessible,
behind a charming Wedgwood vase. Next it was a pretty little French
clock which soon chimed half past three.
She then took up a piece of needlework and began with skilful fingers
to weave a mosaic of colored silks. All too soon, however, she
discovered that she was not quite superhuman. After five minutes or
so she was compelled to put it down. Every nerve in her body was in a
state of mutiny.
Several books from the circulating library were on a small table near
her hand. The first she took up was entitled _New Uses for the Will: a
translation from the Chinese of Lien Weng_. Involuntarily her glance
strayed towards the chimneypiece and the Wedgwood vase. The coincidence
made her shiver.
She set the book down as if it had been a live coal. Then she got up
and began feverishly to pace the room. For one horrid moment she had
the illusion again that its four walls were closing in upon her. But
it was dispelled for the time being by the entrance of the parlor maid
with a silver tray containing tea things.
The clock on the chimneypiece began melodiously to chime four.
“Is that clock right, Ferris?” The high thin voice, as heard by
herself, sounded to Helen quite unlike her own.
“Yes, m’m, I believe so.”
“You needn’t draw the curtains. I’ll attend to those myself.”
“Thank you, m’m.”
The parlor maid went out of the room.