ISOBEL
Ten minutes later I was standing in a charming little boudoir which
too often figured in my daydreams. My own photograph was upon the
mantelpiece, and in Isobel's dark eyes when she greeted me there was a
light which I lacked the courage to try to understand. I had not at
that time learned what I learned later, and have already indicated,
that my own foolish silence had wounded Isobel as deeply as her
subsequent engagement to Eric Coverly had wounded me.
The psychology of a woman is intriguing in its very naïveté, and now
as she stood before me, slim and graceful in her well-cut walking
costume, a quick flicker of red flaming in her cheeks and her eyes
alight with that sweet tantalizing look in which expectation and a hot
pride were mingled, I wondered and felt sick at heart. Desirable she
was beyond any other woman I had known, and I called myself witling
coward, to have avoided putting my fortune to the test on that fatal
day of my departure for Mesopotamia. For just as she looked at me now
she had looked at me then. But to-day she was evidently on the point
of setting out--I did not doubt with the purpose of meeting Eric
Coverly; on that day of the irrevocable past she had been free and I
had been silent.
"You nearly missed me, Jack," she said gayly. "I was just going out."
By the very good-fellowship of her greeting she restored me to myself
and enabled me to stamp down--at least temporarily--the monster
through whose greedy eyes I had found myself considering the happiness
of Eric Coverly.
"I am afraid, Isobel," I replied, "that what I have to tell you is not
by any means pleasant--although--"
"Yes?" she prompted, noting how I hesitated.
"Although it means that you are now the future Lady Coverly."
The bright color left her cheeks. That some black tragedy underlay my
words she had intuitively perceived, but I could see that she failed
to grasp the whole meaning of my bald statement. She sank down slowly
into a cushioned chair, so that a beam of golden light pouring in
through the opened window set aglowing the russet tints in her dark
brown hair.
"Did you know Sir Marcus?" I asked, speaking as gently as I could.
With what intense, if hidden, emotion I awaited her answer it were
impossible to describe.
"Do you mean--"
She met my glance, and I nodded gravely.
"Oh, Jack! When did it happen?"
"Last night. But you have not told me if you knew him?" I persisted.
Isobel shook her head.
"Not in any way--intimately," she replied. "Eric"--she hesitated,
glancing up quickly and as quickly down again--"and he were not on
good terms."
"But you had met him?" I persisted; for I had detected in her manner a
reluctance to discuss Sir Marcus which I failed to understand.
"I used to meet him, Jack, when--when you were away. He came once or
twice with Eric. They were not good friends, even then. But I never
liked him. I quite lost sight of him from the time that he came into
the title--about four years ago, was it not?--until quite recently. He
had been in Russia, I think. Then he--" Again she hesitated. It was
odd how often people hesitated, as if seeking for words, when speaking
of the late baronet. "He called at the theater. Considering that he
knew of my engagement to Eric, his manner was not quite nice. But I
was anxious to prevent trouble, and did not mention the visit to Eric.
Sir Marcus was very persistent, however. One night Eric saw him
leaving the stage-door and I believe there was a dreadful scene at
Eric's rooms."
"And that is all you know of him, Isobel?"
"Practically all, except what I have heard, of course. I might add
that I instructed Marie to tell Sir Marcus I was engaged whenever he
might call in future."
"And did he call again?"
"Marie said that he sent his card up on several occasions, but she
knew how the affair worried me and did not tell me at the time. I saw
him in the stalls occasionally, and--oh!--"
The last word was a mere murmur. Isobel's expression grew more than
ever troubled.
"He was there last night," she whispered, and raising her eyes to me:
"Tell me how it happened, and where--"
But ere I had time to begin there was an interruption. Dimly, a
telephone bell rang. I could hear the voice of Marie, Isobel's maid,
answering the call then:
"Mr. Coverly to speak to you, madam," said Marie, entering the room.
"He must have only just heard the news!" cried Isobel, rising swiftly
and going out.
Consumed by impatience, I walked up and down the dainty apartment
listening to Isobel's muffled voice speaking in the lobby. Twice I
went to the window and peered down into the street, expecting to see
the thick-set figure of Inspector Gatton approaching. My frame of mind
was peculiar and troubled. Gatton's inquiries pointed unmistakably to
a suspicion that Sir Marcus's last hours had been spent, if not
actually with, at any rate near to Isobel. And since the man who would
most directly profit by the baronet's death happened also to be
Isobel's _fiancé_, I foresaw a dreadful ordeal for both if Eric
Coverly was not in a position to establish an alibi.
I had been about to ask her if Coverly had been in her company on the
previous night when the interruption had occurred. Now if Gatton
should arrive and find me in Isobel's flat, what construction would he
put upon my presence?
Yet again I went to the window and peered anxiously up and down the
street. Every cab that approached I expected to contain the inspector,
and I heaved a sigh of relief as one after another passed the door.
Pedestrians who turned the distant corner I scrutinized closely and
was so employed when Isobel came running back to the room.
All her color had fled and her eyes were wide and fear-stricken.
"Oh, Jack, Jack!" she cried, "it is horrible, horrible! Eric is at his
solicitors' and they tell him that suspicion is bound to fall on
_him_! It's preposterous--unthinkable. It must have been some fiend
who committed such a crime, not a human being--"
"Then," I interrupted excitedly, "Coverly was not with you last
night?"
"No! That is the crowning tragedy of it all. He 'phoned me early in
the evening saying that he had an unavoidable business appointment to
keep. From the tone of his voice--"
She ceased speaking abruptly, and stared at me rather wildly.
"Isobel," I said, "you should surely know that you can trust your life
to me--and the life of any one dear to you."
She quickly laid her hand on my arm and her face flushed sweetly. I
fear I had infused my words with an ardor which exhibited at an
earlier and more opportune moment might have changed the course of
both our lives.
"Of course I know, Jack," she said. "But I am so frightened that I
distrust my very self. Well, then, I thought that I noticed a change
in Eric's manner last night--in the tone of his voice. In fact I asked
him if I had done anything of which he had disapproved." She gave me a
quick little embarrassed glance. "He is somewhat exacting, you know.
He laughed at the idea, but in rather a forced way, it seemed. Then he
arranged to meet me for lunch at the Carlton to-day."
"But surely he can satisfactorily account for his movements? He must
have been seen by those who know him."
Isobel frowned in a troubled manner that awakened strange, wild
longings.
"I cannot make it out," she replied. "He appears to be keeping
something back."
"He is very ill-advised. He will certainly have to make up his mind to
speak out when Inspector Gatton examines him. I cannot disguise from
you, Isobel, that the police know that Sir Marcus was at the New
Avenue last night, and since his death occurred some hours later the
nature of their suspicion is obvious enough. Are you joining him at
the solicitors', Isobel?"
"Yes, he asked me to do so."
"Then come along at once. I expect a Scotland Yard man to arrive at
any moment and it would be advisable to see Coverly and to take a
legal opinion before you give your testimony."
"But, Jack!" Isobel confronted me. "You don't think that I or Eric
have anything to hide?"
"Certainly not. You must know that I do not think so. But on the other
hand, the legal mind being used to considering problems of evidence, a
solicitor will be able to advise you of the best course to adopt, and
that most likely to result in your being spared all association with
the inquiry. Meanwhile--let us hurry. I prefer to give Inspector
Gatton my own account of this visit rather than to be discovered here
by him. He will learn from Marie that I have called, of course, but
that doesn't matter."
We had now quitted the flat and were descending the stairs. On
reaching the street I glanced sharply to right and left. But Gatton
was not in sight.
I secured a taxi at the corner and Isobel set out for the office of
Coverly's solicitor. I stood looking after the cab until it was out of
sight and then I set out to walk to the _Planet_ office. By the time
that I had reached Fleet Street I had my ideas in some sort of order
and I sat down to write the first of my articles on the "_Oritoga_
mystery"--for under that title the murder of Sir Marcus Coverly was
destined to figure as the _cause célèbre_ of the moment. I had more
than one reason for reticence and indeed I experienced no little
difficulty in preparing the requisite amount of copy without involving
Isobel and Eric Coverly. Half-way through my task I paused, laid down
my pen, and was on the point of tearing up the pages already written
and declining the commission at the eleventh hour.
A few minutes' reflection, however, enabled me to see that the best
service I could offer to the suspected man (always assuming that he
had no alibi to offer) was that of representing the facts as I saw
them to the vast public reached by this influential journal. In my own
mind I had never entertained a shadow of suspicion that Coverly was
the culprit. Underlying the horrible case I thought I could perceive
even darker things--a mystery within a mystery; a horror overtopping
horror.
I had just resumed work, then, when a boy came in to inform me that
Gatton had rung up and wished to speak to me.
Half fearful of what I should hear, I went to the adjoining room and
took up the receiver. Presently:
"Hullo! Is that Mr. Addison?" came Gatton's voice.
"Yes, speaking. What developments, Gatton?"
"Several. I've got the report of the estate-agent and I've seen the
stage-doorkeeper of the New Avenue! You mustn't write anything until I
see you, but in order to regularize things a bit I've spoken to the
Chief and formally asked his permission to consult you on the
case--about the Egyptian figures, you know. He remembered you at once,
so it's all square. But I've got a bone to pick with you."
"What is that?"
"Never mind now. Can you meet me at the Red House at five o'clock?"
"Yes. I will be there."
"Good. I don't hope for much. It's the strangest case I ever touched.
We are dealing with unusual people, not ordinary criminals."
"I agree."
"If there is any man in London who can see daylight through the
mystery I believe you are the man. Do you know on what I think the
whole thing turns?"
"On some undiscovered incident in Sir Marcus's past, beyond a doubt.
Probably an amorous adventure."
"You're wrong," said Gatton grimly. "It turns on the figure of the
green cat. Good-by. Five o'clock."