I
Anthony Keller, white and dazed, came stumbling out into the small hall
and closed the door of his study noiselessly behind him. Only half an
hour ago he had entered the room with Henry Martle, and now Martle
would never leave it again until he was carried out of it.
He took out his watch and put it back again without looking at it. He
sank into a chair and, trying to still his quivering legs, strove to
think. The clock behind the closed door struck nine. He had ten hours;
ten hours before the woman who attended to his small house came to
start the next day’s work.
Ten hours! His mind refused to act. There was so much to be done, so
much to be thought of. God! If only he could have the last ten minutes
over again and live it differently. If Martle only had not happened to
say that it was a sudden visit and that nobody knew of it.
He went into the back room and, going to the sideboard, gulped down
half a tumbler of raw whisky. It seemed to him inconceivable that the
room should look the same. This pleasant room, with etchings on the
walls, and his book, face downwards, just as he had left it to answer
Martle’s knock. He could hear the knock now, and----
The empty tumbler smashed in his hand, and he caught his breath in a
sob. Somebody else was knocking. He stood for a moment quivering, and
then, wiping some of the blood from his hand, kicked the pieces of
glass aside and stood irresolute. The knocking came again, so loud and
insistent that for one horrible moment he fancied it might arouse the
thing in the next room. Then he walked to the door and opened it. A
short sturdy man, greeting him noisily, stepped into the hall.
“Thought you were dead,” he said breezily. “Hallo!”
“Cut myself with a broken glass,” said Keller, in a constrained voice.
“Look here, that wants binding up,” said his friend. “Got a clean
handkerchief?”
He moved towards the door, and was about to turn the handle when Keller
flung himself upon him and dragged him back. “Not there,” he said
thickly. “Not there.”
“What the devil’s the matter?” inquired the visitor staring.
Keller’s mouth worked. “Somebody in there. Come here.”
He pushed him into the back room and in a dazed fashion motioned him to
a chair.
“Thanks, rather not,” said the other stiffly. “I just came in to smoke
a pipe. I didn’t know you had visitors. Anyway, I shouldn’t eat them.
Good night.”
Keller stood staring at him. His friend stared back, then suddenly his
eyes twinkled and he smiled roguishly.
“What have you got in there?” he demanded, jerking his thumb towards
the study.
Keller shrank back. “Nothing,” he stammered. “Nothing--no----”
“Ho, ho!” said the other. “All right. Don’t worry. Mum’s the word. You
quiet ones are always the worst. Be good.”
[Illustration: “HO, HO,” SAID THE OTHER. “ALL RIGHT--DON’T WORRY--MUM’S
THE WORD.”]
He gave him a playful dig in the ribs and went out chuckling. Keller,
hardly breathing, watched him to the gate and, closing the door softly,
bolted it and returned to the back room.
He steadied his nerves with some more whisky, and strove to steel
himself to the task before him. He had got to conquer his horror and
remorse, to overcome his dread of the thing in the next room, and
put it where no man should ever see it. He, Anthony Keller, a quiet,
ordinary citizen, had got to do this thing.
The little clock in the next room struck ten. Nine hours left.
With a soft tread he went out at the back door and, unlocking the
bicycle-shed, peered in. Plenty of room.
He left the door open and, returning to the house, went to the door
of the study. Twice he turned the handle--and softly closed the door
again. Suppose when he looked in at Martle, Martle should turn and look
at him? He turned the handle suddenly and threw the door open.
Martle was quiet enough. Quiet and peaceful, and, perhaps, a little
pitiful. Keller’s fear passed, but envy took its place. Martle had got
the best of it after all. No horror-haunted life for him; no unavailing
despair and fear of the unknown. Keller, looking down at the white face
and battered head, thought of the years before himself. Or would it
be weeks? With a gasp he came back to the need for action, and taking
Martle by the shoulders drew him, with heels dragging and scraping, to
the shed.
He locked the door and put the key in his pocket. Then he drew a bucket
of water from the scullery-tap and found some towels. His injured
hand was still bleeding, but he regarded it with a sort of cunning
satisfaction. It would account for much.
It was a long job, but it was finished at last. He sat down and
thought, and then searched round and round the room for the overlooked
thing which might be his undoing.
It was nearly midnight, and necessary, unless he wanted to attract
the attention of any passing constable, to extinguish or lower the
companionable lights. He turned them out swiftly, and, with trembling
haste, passed upstairs to his room.
The thought of bed was impossible. He lowered the gas and, dropping
into a chair, sat down to wait for day. Erect in the chair, his hands
gripping the arms, he sat tense and listening. The quiet house was full
of faint sounds, odd creakings, and stealthy rustlings. Suppose the
suddenly released spirit of Martle was wandering around the house!
He rose and paced up and down the room, pausing every now and then to
listen. He could have sworn that there was something fumbling blindly
at the other side of the door, and once, turning sharply, thought that
he saw the handle move. Sometimes sitting and sometimes walking, the
hours passed until in the distance a cock smelt the dawn, and a little
later the occasional note of a bird announced the approach of day.