“There was a train from town reaching Ashdridge Station at nine
o’clock at night. I took it. I didn’t care to go to Inley Station,
where everybody would know me, and wonder what I was up to. I didn’t
take any luggage. My man asked if he should pack, and I said ‘No.’ I
didn’t dine. I was at Paddington three-quarters of an hour before the
train was due to start. At last it came in to the platform. Going down
I read the evening papers just like any man going home from business.
Soon after we got away from London I saw there was rain on the carriage
windows. That seemed to me right. We were a little late at Ashdridge.
It was still wet, and I had my coat collar turned up. I don’t believe
they recognised me there. I set out to walk to Inley.”
“What did you mean to do?”
“I told you before.”
I looked into his face, and believed him. Then I thought of Lady
Inley’s childish, delicate beauty, of her slightly affected manner, the
manner of a woman who has always been spoilt, whose paths have been
made very smooth. And here she was living, apparently happily, with a
man who had deliberately travelled down in the night to kill her. How
ignorant we are!
“You are condemning me,” Inley said, with a touch of hot anger.
“I was only thinking⸺”
“Yes?”
“That we don’t know each other much in the greatest intimacy.”
“That’s what I thought then.”
He said that in a way which suddenly put me on his side. He must
have seen the change in my feelings, for he went on, with his former
unreserve:
“I walked fast in the dark. I didn’t think very much, but I remember
that all the trees—there’s a lot of woodland, you know, between
Ashdridge and Inley—seemed alive. Everything seemed to me to be alive
that night. I’ve never had that sensation before or since.”
I realised what the condition of the man had been when he said that, as
if I were a doctor and a patient had told me the symptom which put me
in possession of his malady.
“When I reached Inley it was late, and the long village street was
deserted. There were lights in the inn and in the schoolmaster’s house,
but there were no people about. I got through without meeting a soul,
and came on towards the gates of the Abbey.”
“You meant to go into the house?”
“Yes. I was sure—somehow I was sure; but I intended to see before I
acted, merely for my own justification. But I was quite sure, as if
Vere herself had told me everything. Soon after I had got clear of the
village I heard a sound of wheels behind me. I stood up against the
hedge, and in a minute or two a fly passed me going slowly. I saw the
driver’s face. It wasn’t a man from Inley. Evidently the fly had come
from a distance. It was splashed with mud, and the horse looked tired.
I followed it till it came to the turning just below Miss Bassett’s
cottage, where there’s a narrow lane going to Charfield through the
woods. It went a little way down this lane, and stopped. I waited at
the turning. I could see the light from the lamps shining on the wet
road, and in the circle of light the driver’s breath. He bent down,
and I saw him looking at a big silver watch. Then he put it back. But
he didn’t drive on. I knew what he was waiting for. Vere was going
with—with Glynd. That was more than I had ever thought of, that she
would go. I put my hand into my pocket, took out my revolver, and went
on till I was close to the red cottage. By this time the rain had
stopped. I came up to within a few yards of the Abbey gates, stood for
a moment, and then returned till I was at the wicket of Miss Bassett’s
garden. It’s bounded by a yew hedge, beyond which there is a path
shaded by mulberry-trees. The hedge is low. The path is dark. It was a
blackguardly thing to do, but I thought of nothing except myself, my
wrong, and how I was to wipe it out. I opened the wicket, came into the
path, and stood there under the mulberry-trees behind the hedge. Here
I was in cover, and could see the road. I held my revolver in my hand,
and waited. It never struck me that Miss Bassett might be up. I saw
no light in the cottage, and I had a sort of idea that people like her
went to bed at about eight. While I was standing there listening I felt
something rub against my legs. It made me start. Then I heard a little
low noise. I looked down, and there was a great cat holding up its tail
and purring. Its pleasure was horrible to me. I pushed it away with my
foot, but it came back, bending down its head, arching its back, and
pressing against me. I was thinking what to do to get rid of it when I
heard a shrill, husky voice call out:
“‘Johnny—John-nee!’
“It was Miss Bassett. I held my breath, and pushed away the cat.
“‘Johnny, Johnny—John-nee!’ went the voice again.
“The cat wouldn’t leave me. God knows why it wished to stay. I was
determined to get rid of it, so I put the revolver down on the path,
picked the cat up in my arms, and dropped it over the hedge into the
road. Just as I had caught up the revolver again I was confronted by
Miss Bassett. She had come in slippers up the path in the dark to look
for her cat.”