Mrs Spencer had plenty of money in her pocket. She was always
accustomed to carry a large sum about her. Her adventurous life had
taught her that it was always wiser to have a good amount of cash in her
possession. The time might come at any moment when you were in a tight
corner. She had promised a handsome reward to the taxi-cab driver if he
could get to a certain destination within the speed limit.
That destination was Kew Bridge, where it abuts on a little-known
neighbourhood called Strand-on-the-Green.
At the foot of Kew Bridge, the wretched and hunted woman halted, and
paid the driver his extravagant fare. What did it matter what she paid
to-night? To-morrow she might not be able to pay. She shuddered as she
thought of that to-morrow.
The taxi-driver drove slowly out of sight. She waited, from a sense of
habitual caution, till he was well out of the way. And then,
remembering everything, she smiled bitterly. Was there any need of
caution now?
She went down a narrow lane, halted at the door of a small cottage, and
rang the front-door bell. As she did so, she was aware of a man a few
yards away from her, who seemed to be strolling aimlessly about, a man
dressed in ill-fitting clothes, and heavy boots.
A detective certainly! This man had followed her from Eaton Place in a
taxi almost as swift as her own. Bryant knew his business, he was not
going to lose sight of her, or of her reputed cousin, George Dutton.
The door was opened cautiously by George Dutton, alias George Burton.
It was a small furnished cottage that he had rented for some months
past, at a rent commensurate with his means. He kept no servant; a
feeble old woman came in the morning to clean him up and prepare his
breakfast. When he came back at night from the not very prosperous
bucket-shop, he looked after himself, and cooked over a gas-stove his
evening meal.
The evenings were drawing in, and it was rather a dark night. He peered
for a moment at his visitor, before he recognised her.
"Stella, by all that is wonderful." He called her by the new name, not
the old one of Norah. "Come in, dear, but your arrival in this
unexpected fashion does not suggest good news."
She passed hastily through the open doorway. "Shut it quick," she said,
in a low, hoarse voice. "There is a man watching outside, I am sure he
is a detective."
As a matter of fact, there were two detectives within a few feet of each
other, but in her agitation she had not observed the second man, who was
deputed to keep watch on the movements of Mr George Dutton.
George Dutton was an old hand, and not to be lightly disturbed by small
incidents. But he recognised the significance of this visit. His ruddy
colour died away.
"You have bad news," he said quietly.
"The worst, George. Bryant, the detective, paid a visit to Guy this
evening. I came in just in the nick of time. The library door was
ajar, I heard what Bryant said. The Major has left a diary behind him,
and, of course, he had put it all down, up to the arranged meeting in
Cathcart Square. The game is up, you will recognise that."
Dutton's mentality was a little bit slower than her own. "Did you hear
any extracts read from the diary?"
"What a fool you are!" she cried indignantly. "Why should I wait to
hear? If the man kept a diary, is it not easy to guess that he would
have related every incident connected with me, from our first meeting at
the Southleigh dinner-party? Bryant is watching me, there is a
detective waiting outside. No doubt he is watching you, too. He is
just waiting to pounce."
"Then why has he gone to your husband?"
"Oh, you are too dense for worlds. Just to soften the blow. Can't you
understand that he wants to warn him beforehand of the shame that is
going to fall upon him, the discovery that his wife is a murderess?"
And then Mr Dutton understood. He stretched out appealing arms to her.
"My poor little girl, my ever faithful pal! And I have brought you to
this!"
"You have brought me to this," she said bitterly. "Did I not implore
you upon my knees to accept the Major's terms, and you were so
obstinate, so set. You would insist upon the other way because it
seemed better to you. And I, fool that I was, always yielding to your
sinister influence, gave way as I always have done."
Scoundrel and criminal as he was, hardened by years of evil-doing, the
man's self-control gave way at that accusation. He drew her to him,
and, strange to say, she did not shrink from his embrace.
"My poor Stella, I have tried to do my best for you always, even
sacrificed myself. But the end has come."
He recognised that, as she did.
"Yes," she said stoically, "as you say, the end has come. You have
always been very adept in falling into holes, and then digging yourself
out again. How are you going to dig yourself and me out of this hole,
in the face of that incriminating diary?"
Dutton walked up and down, his face working, his hands and his body
trembling. He was up against the gravest problem of his adventurous
career. The shadow of the prison had always hovered over him, but now
there was a more ghastly menace, the shadow of the gallows. From the
prison, he could return. There was no return from the other.
He paused in his restless pacing, and came to a halt before the stricken
woman. He had recovered himself to a certain extent. He had gambled
and lost, he was prepared to accept the fate of the unsuccessful
gambler.
"You are brave, old girl?" he asked briefly.
She looked up at him with a wan smile.
"Yes, I think I am brave. I can guess what you are about to suggest,
with the detectives watching us outside." She burst into a little sob.
"Oh, you always thought you were so clever, and yet, if I had had the
management of affairs, things might have been so different."
He spoke humbly. "I think you are right, Norah. I was always full of
arrogance and self-conceit. You were weaker in character than I was,
but you had always more brains. And I was a blind fool not to admit it.
Many a time you gave me your advice, and I rejected it."
"And what do you suggest now?" she asked, in a voice that had sunk to a
whisper.
He looked at her steadily. He had screwed up his courage to the
sticking point. Could he count upon an equal fortitude in her?
"It is the finish, old girl. You say the detectives are waiting
outside. Bryant has got a good case, and the diary will hang us. There
is no getting over that."
"You propose--" she said falteringly.
He spoke quite steadily. The end had come, he had made up his mind, so
far as regards himself.
"We neither of us want to hang for the murder of Hugh Murchison?"
She shuddered, and hid her face with her hands. "Oh, that awful
evening! It has been like a nightmare ever since."
"I know," said Dutton soothingly. "It was one of my fatal mistakes.
But it is no use crying over spilt milk. To-night we are face to face
with facts. We have gambled, and we have lost, and we have got to pay
the penalty."
The wretched woman rose up, and wrung her hands. "And to think I might
have been the Countess of Southleigh."
"I know; don't think I am not reckoning up all that," replied Dutton.
"But we have got to deal with facts to-night, with the detectives
waiting outside. The game is up, you know that as well as I do. We
have only a few hours before us, perhaps a few minutes, in which to make
the choice."
"I know," she answered. "You mean our only alternative is to cheat the
law."
He looked at her steadily. "That is the only way. If we suffer
ourselves to be taken, we have not got a dog's chance."
Weak woman as she was, she gathered something of his iron resolution.
Yes, they must die and die together, to cheat the law. Such was to be
the end of the brilliant adventuress who had inveigled two men into
marriage, Jack Pomfret and Guy Spencer, with her subtle and elusive
charm.
"And what do you suggest, George? You have thought of these things more
than I have."
"I have always thought of them," said Dutton gloomily. "Well, there are
various ways I can suggest to you. I can shoot you first, and myself
afterwards."