HUGH MORICE EXPLAINS
So soon as Mrs Forrester had gone Mr Morice asked a question.
"What tale has that woman been telling you?"
"She actually says that people have seen me walking about the woods in
the middle of the night in my nightdress. That a postman, named Briggs,
saw me doing so last night. I believe I am supposed to have been
walking in my sleep. Of course it is only some nonsensical rigmarole. I
won't say the whole thing is an invention of Mrs Forrester's own brain,
but it's the sort of thing she's fond of."
"That's true enough. It is the sort of tale she's fond of; but, for
once in a way, she is justified by fact. Since we are on the subject I
may as well inform you that, four nights or rather mornings, ago I
myself saw you, at two o'clock in the morning, in Cooper's Spinney, in
some such costume as that which you describe."
"Mr Morice!"
"I do not know that I should have told you if it had not been for Mrs
Forrester; but, since she has intervened, I do so. In any case, it is
perhaps as well that you should be on your guard."
"Are you sure you saw me?"
"I am not likely to make a mistake in a matter of that sort."
"But are you sure it was me?"
"Certain."
"What was I doing?"
"You were under the beech tree--our beech tree. You appeared to me to
be looking for something on the ground--something which you could not
find."
"But four nights ago? I remember it quite well. I was reading and
writing till ever so late. Then I fell asleep directly I got into bed.
I certainly never woke again until Evans called me."
"The probability is that you got out of bed directly you were asleep.
It struck me that there was something singular about your whole
proceedings. A doubt crossed my mind at the time as to whether you
could possibly be in a somnambulistic condition. As I approached you
retreated so rapidly that I never caught sight of you again."
"Do you mean to say I was in my nightdress?"
"As to that I cannot be certain. You had on something white; but it
struck me that it was some sort of a dressing-gown."
"I have no white dressing-gown."
"On that point I cannot speak positively. You understand that I only
saw you for a few seconds, just long enough to make sure that it was
you."
She put her hands up to her face, shuddering.
"This is dreadful! that I should walk in my sleep--in the woods--and
everyone see me--and I know nothing! What shall I do?"
"There is one thing I should recommend. Have someone to sleep in your
room--someone who is quickly roused."
"That is what Mrs Forrester advised. I will certainly have that done. A
bed shall be put in my room, and Evans shall sleep in it to-night. Is
it to make this communication that you have favoured me with the very
unexpected honour of your presence here, Mr Morice?"
"No, Mrs--I beg your pardon, Miss Arnott--it is not." As she noticed
the slip she flushed. "The errand which has brought me here is of a
different nature, though not, I regret to say, of a more pleasant one."
"Nothing pleasant comes my way. Do not let unpleasantness deter you, Mr
Morice. As you are aware I am used to it."
There was a bitterness in her tone which hurt him. He turned aside,
searching for words to serve him as a coating of sugar, and failing to
find them.
"Why," he presently asked, "did you instruct Ernest Gilbert to defend
Jim Baker?"
She stared in amazement; evidently that was not what she expected.
"Why? Why shouldn't I?"
"For the simple but sufficient reason that he was the very last man
whose interference you should have invited in a matter of this
particular kind."
"Mr Stacey was of a different opinion. It was he who gave me his name.
He said he was the very man I wanted."
"Mr Stacey? Mr Stacey was not acquainted with all the circumstances of
the case, Miss Arnott. Had you consulted me--"
"I should not have dreamt of consulting you."
"Possibly not. Still, I happen to know something of Mr Gilbert
personally, and had you consulted me I should have warned you that, in
all human probability, the result would be exactly what it has turned
out to be."
"Result? Has anything resulted?"
"Something has--Mr Gilbert has withdrawn from the case."
"Withdrawn from the case! What do you mean?"
"Here is the L500 which you sent him. He has requested me to hand it
back to you."
"A cheque for L500? Mr Morice, I don't understand! Why has Mr Gilbert
returned me this?"
"I will tell you plainly. We are, both of us, in a position in which
plainness is the only possible course."
"Well, tell me--don't stand choosing your words--tell me plainly! Why
has Mr Gilbert sent me back my cheque through you?"
"Because Jim Baker conveyed the impression to his mind that
he--Jim--saw you commit the crime with which he stands charged."
"I don't understand."
"I think you do. Gilbert's position is that he finds himself unable to
retain your money when his duty to Baker may necessitate his putting
you in the dock on the capital charge."
"Mr Morice! It's--it's not true!"
"Unfortunately, it is true. Lest, however, you should think the
position worse than it actually is, part of my business here is to
reassure your mind on at least one point."
"Reassure my mind! Nothing will ever do that--ever! ever! And
reassurance from you!--from you!"
"If matters reach a certain point--before they go too far--it is my
intention to surrender myself--say, to Granger--our local
representative of law and order--as having been guilty of killing that
man in Cooper's Spinney."
"Mr Morice! Do you--do you mean it?"
"Certainly I mean it. Then you will have an opportunity of going into
the witness-box and giving that testimony of which you have spoken.
That in itself ought to be sufficient to hang me."
"Mr Morice!"
"What we have principally to do is to render it impossible that the
case against me shall fail. A very trifling accident may bring the
whole business to an end; especially if Ernest Gilbert puts ever such a
distant finger in the pie. Against the possibility of such an accident
we shall have to guard. For instance, by way of a beginning, where's
that knife?"
"Knife?"
"The knife."
"I've lost the key."
"Lost the key? of what?"
"I put it in a wardrobe drawer with my--my things, and locked it, and,
somehow, I lost the key."
"I don't quite follow. Do you mean that, having locked up my knife in a
drawer with some other articles, you have mislaid the key of the lock?"
"Yes, that's what I mean."
"Then in that case, you had better break that lock open at the earliest
possible moment."
"Why?"
"The answer's obvious, in order that you may hand me back my knife. If
I'm to be the criminal it will never do for my knife to be found in
your possession. It would involve all sorts of difficulties which we
might neither of us find it easy to get over. Give me the knife. I will
hide it somewhere on my own premises, where I'll take care that, at the
proper moment, it is found. Properly managed, that knife ought to make
my guilt as plain as the noonday sun; mismanaged, the affair might
assume quite a different complexion."
For the first time a doubt entered the girl's mind.
"Mr Morice, do you wish me to understand that you propose to surrender
merely to save me?"
"I wish you to understand nothing of the sort. The position is--in its
essence--melodrama; but do let us make it as little melodramatic as we
conveniently can. Someone must suffer for the--blunder. It may as well
be me. Why not?"
"Do you wish me--seriously--to believe that it was not you
who--blundered?"
"Of course I blundered--and I've kept on blundering ever since. One
blunder generally does lead to another, don't you know. Come--Miss
Arnott"--each time, as she noticed, there was a perceptible pause
before he pronounced the name to which she still adhered--"matters have
reached a stage when, at any moment, events may be expected to move
quickly. Your first business must be to get that drawer open--key or no
key--and let me have that knife. You may send it by parcel post if you
like. Anyhow, only let me have it. And, at latest, by tomorrow night.
Believe me, moments are becoming precious. By the way, I hope it hasn't
been--cleaned."
"No, it hasn't been cleaned."
"That would have been to commit a cardinal error. In an affair of this
sort blood-stains are the things we want; the _pieces de conviction_
which judge and jury most desire. Give me the knife--my knife--that did
the deed, with the virginal blood-stains thick upon it. Let it be
properly discovered by a keen-nosed constable in an ostentatious
hiding-place, and the odds are a hundred to one as to what the verdict
will be. A hundred? a million! I assure you that I already feel the
cravat about my neck." Hugh Morice put his hand up to his throat with a
gesture which made Miss Arnott shiver. "Only, I do beg of you, lose no
time. Get that drawer open within the hour, and let me have my
hunting-knife before you have your dinner. Let me entreat you to grasp
this fact clearly. At any moment Jim Baker may be out of Winchester Gaol;
someone will have to take his place. That someone must be me."
CHAPTER XXV
THE TWO MAIDS
After Hugh Morice had left her, Miss Arnott had what was possibly the
worst of all her bad half hours. The conviction of his guilt had been
so deeply rooted in her mind that it required something like a
cataclysm to disturb its foundations. She had thought that nothing
could have shaken it; yet it had been shaken, and by the man himself.
As she had listened to what he had been saying, an impression had been
taking hold of her, more and more, that she had misjudged him. If so,
where was she herself standing? A dreadful feeling had been stealing on
her that he genuinely believed of her what she had believed of him. If
such was the case, what actually was her position.
Could she have done the thing which he believed her to have done? It
was not only, moreover, what he believed; there were others. An array
of witnesses was gathering round her, pointing with outstretched
fingers. There was Jim Baker--it seemed that he was honestly persuaded
that, with his own eyes, he had seen her kill her husband. So
transparent was his honesty that he had succeeded--whether
intentionally or not she did not clearly understand--in imparting his
faith to the indurated lawyer to such a degree, that he had actually
thrown her money back at her, as if it had been the price of blood. She
had little doubt that if her own retainers were polled, and forced to
vote in accordance with the dictates of their consciences, merely on
the strength of the evidence they believed themselves to be already in
possession of, they would bring her in as guilty. She had had this
feeling dimly for some time--she had it very clearly then.
And now she was walking in her sleep. That thing of which she had read
and heard, but never dreamt to be--a somnambulist. It seemed that her
conscience drove her out at dead of night to revisit--unwittingly--the
scene of the crime which stained her soul.
Could that be the interpretation of the stories which Mrs Forrester had
told her? and Hugh Morice? She had been seen, it would appear, by half
the countryside, clad--how? wandering--conscience-driven--on what
errand?
The more she thought, however, of the tale which Briggs the postman had
retailed to Mrs Forrester, not to speak of Hugh Morice's strange
narrative--the more she doubted--the more she had to doubt. They
might have the evidence of their own eyes, but it seemed to her that
she had evidence which was at least equally conclusive. It was
incredible--impossible that she could have tramped through the rain and
the mire, among the trees and the bushes, in the fashion described, and
yet have found no traces of her eccentric journeyings either on her
clothes or on her person. But in that matter measures could--and should--be
taken. She would soon learn if there was any truth in the tales so far as
they had reference to her. Evans should be installed in her room that night
as watchman. Then, if she attempted to get out of bed while fast
asleep, the question would be settled on the spot. The question of the
knife--Hugh Morice's knife--was a graver one. But as regards that also
steps should be promptly taken. Whether it should be returned to its
owner as he suggested, or retained in her possession, or disposed of
otherwise. These were problems which required consideration. In the
meanwhile, she would have it out of its hiding-place at once. She went
upstairs to force open that wardrobe drawer. So soon as she entered her
bedroom she perceived that she had been forestalled, and that, in
consequence, a lively argument was going on. The disputants were
two--her own maid, Evans, and Wilson, the housemaid, who had been
supposed to have been in part responsible for the disappearance of the
key. Miss Arnott was made immediately conscious--even before she opened
the door--that the pair were talking at the top of their voices. Evans's
was particularly audible. She was pouring forth on to her fellow-servant
a flood of language which was distinctly the reverse of complimentary.
So occupied, indeed, were they by the subject under discussion that, until
Miss Arnott announced her presence, they were not conscious that she
had come into the room.
Their young mistress paused on the threshold, listening, with feelings
which she would have found it difficult to analyse, to some of the
heated observations which the disputants thought proper to fling at
each other. She interrupted Evans in the middle of a very warmly
coloured harangue.
"Evans, what is the meaning of this disturbance? and of the
extraordinary language you are using?"
The maid, though evidently taken by surprise by the advent of her
mistress, showed very few of the signs of shame and confusion which
some might have considered would have become a person in her position.
Apparently she was much too warm to concern herself, at anyrate for the
moment, with matters of etiquette. She turned to Miss Arnott a flushed
and angry face, looking very unlike the staid and decorous servant with
whom that young lady was accustomed to deal. Hot words burst from her
lips,--
"That there Wilson had the key all the time. I knew she had."
To which Wilson rejoined with equal disregard of ceremonial usages,--
"I tell you I hadn't! Don't I tell you I hadn't! At least, I didn't
know that I had, not till five minutes ago."
Evans went on, wholly ignoring her colleague's somewhat singular
disclaimer,--
"Then if she didn't use it to unlock your drawer with--your private
drawer--and to take liberties with everything that was inside it. I
daresay if I hadn't come and caught her she'd have walked off with the
lot. And then to have the face to brazen it out!"
To which Wilson, in a flame of fury,--
"Don't you dare to say I'd have taken a single thing, because I won't
have it. I'm no more a thief than you are, nor perhaps half so much,
and so I'll have you know. You're a great deal too fond of calling
names, you are; but if you call me a thief I'll pay you for it. You
see!"
Evans turned again to her adversary, eager for a continuance of the
fray.
"If you weren't going to take them what did you go to the drawer for?"
"I tell you I went to the drawer to see if it was the key.
"Why didn't you bring the key to me?"
"I would have brought it, if you'd given me a chance."
"You would have brought it! Didn't I catch you--"
Miss Arnott thought she had heard enough; she interposed.
"Will you be so good as to be still, both of you, and let me understand
what is the cause of this disgraceful scene. Evans, has the key of the
drawer been found?"
"Yes, miss, it has. It was never lost; she had it all the time, as I
suspected."
"I didn't have it, miss--leastways, if I did, I didn't know it, not
till just now."
"Explain yourself, Wilson. Has or has not the key been in your
possession?"
"It's like this, miss; it must somehow have slipped inside my dress
that morning when I was making your bed."
"She'll explain anything!"
This was the resentful Evans.
"I'll tell the truth anyhow, which is more than you do."
Again their mistress interposed.
"Evans, will you allow Wilson to tell her story in her own way. Wilson,
you forget yourself. On the face of it, your story is a lame one. What
do you mean by saying that the key of my wardrobe drawer slipped into
your dress? Where was it that it was capable of such a singular
proceeding?"
"That's more than I can tell you, miss. I can only say that just now
when I was taking down a skirt which I haven't worn since I don't know
when, it felt heavy, and there in the hem on one side--it's a broad
hem, miss, and only tacked--there was a key, though how it got there I
haven't a notion."
"Of course not!"
This was Evans. Miss Arnott was in time to prevent a retort.
"Evans! Well, Wilson, what did you do then?"
"I came with it to Evans."
The lady's-maid was not to be denied.
"That's a falsehood, anyhow. You came with it to me! I do like that!"
The housemaid was equal to the requirements of the occasion.
"I did come with it to you. I came with it straight to this bedroom.
They told me you were here; it wasn't my fault if you weren't."
"Oh dear no! And, I suppose, it wasn't your fault if, finding I wasn't
here, you unlocked the drawer!"
"I only wanted to see if it was the lost key I had found; I meant no
harm."
Again Miss Arnott.
"Now, Evans, will you be silent! Well, Wilson, I don't see that, so
far, you have been guilty of anything very reprehensible. It's quite
possible that, somehow, the key may have slipped into the hem of your
skirt; such accidents have been known. When you had tried the key and
found that it was the one which had been mislaid; when you had opened
the drawer with it, what did you do then?"
Again the lady's-maid was not to be denied. Orders or no orders, she
refused to be silent.
"Yes, what did she do? I'll tell you what she did; don't you listen to
anything she says, miss. She took liberties with everything that was
inside that drawer, just as if the things was her own. She turned all
the things out that was in it; you can see for yourself that it's
empty! and she's got some of them now. Though I've asked her for them
she won't give them up; yet she has the face to say she didn't mean to
steal 'em!"
This time the housemaid was silent. Miss Arnott became conscious that
not only had she been all the time holding herself very upright, but,
also, that she was keeping her hands behind her back--in short, that
her attitude more than suggested defiance.
"Wilson, is this true?"
The answer was wholly unlooked for.
"My mother is Jim Baker's cousin, miss."
"Your mother--" Miss Arnott stopped short to stare. "And what has that
to do with your having in your possession property which is not your
own?"
Her next answer was equally unexpected.
"And Mr Granger, he's my uncle, miss."
"Mr Granger? What Mr Granger?"
"The policeman down in the village, miss."
"Apparently, Wilson, you are to be congratulated on your relations, but
I don't see what they have to do with what Evans was saying."
"I can't help that, miss."
"You can't help what? Your manner is very strange. What do you mean?"
The girl was silent. Miss Arnott turned to the lady's-maid. "Evans,
what does she mean?"
"Don't ask me, miss; she don't know herself. The girl's wrong in her
head, that's what's the matter with her. She'll get herself into hot
water, if she don't look out; and that before very long. Now, then, you
give me what you've got there!"
"Don't you lay your hands on me, Mrs Evans, or you'll be sorry."
"Evans!--Wilson!"
Kit had not been for Miss Arnott's presence it looked very much as if
the two would have indulged in a scrimmage then and there. The
lady's-maid showed a strong inclination to resort to physical force,
which the other evinced an equal willingness to resent.
"Wilson, what is it which you are holding behind your back? I insist
upon your showing me at once."
"This, miss--and this."
CHAPTER XXVII
A CONFIDANT
In her right hand Wilson held a knife--the knife. Miss Arnott needed no
second glance to convince her of its identity. In her left a dainty
feminine garment--a camisole, compact of lace and filmy lawn. The
instant she disclosed them Evans moved forward, as if to snatch from
her at least the knife. But Wilson was as quick as she was--quicker.
Whipping her hands behind her back again she retreated out of reach.
"No, you don't! hands off! you try to snatch, you do!"
The baffled lady's-maid turned to her mistress.
"You see, miss, what she's like! and yet she wants to make out that
she's no thief!"
Miss Arnott was endeavouring to see through the situation in her mind,
finding herself suddenly confronted by the unforeseen. It was
impossible that the girl could mean what she seemed to mean; a raw
country wench in her teens!
"Wilson, you seem to be behaving in a very strange manner, and to be
forgetting yourself altogether. It is not strange that Evans has her
doubts of you. Give me those things which you have in your hands at
once."
"Begging your pardon, miss, I can't."
"They're not yours."
"No, miss, I know they're not."
"Then, if you're an honest girl, as you pretend, what possible reason
can you have for refusing to give me my own property, which you have
taken out of my drawer in a manner which is at least suspicious?"
"Because Jim Baker, he's my mother's cousin; and Mr Granger he's my
uncle."
"What possible justification can that be for your trying to steal what
belongs to me?"
Then it came out.
"My uncle he says to me, 'I don't believe Jim Baker done it--I don't
believe he did anything to the chap beyond peppering him. Jim's no
liar. 'Twill be a shame if they hang him. No, my girl,' Mr Granger
says, 'it's my belief that they know more over at Exham Park than they
pretend, or, at least, someone does. You keep your eyes wide open. We
don't want to have no one hung in our family, specially for just
peppering a chap. If you come across anything suspicious, you let me
know and you let me have a look at it, if so be you can. Your mother
don't want to have Jim Baker hung, nor more don't I.' Miss Arnott, you
put them things in the drawer the time that you came home, the time
that chap was murdered, the time that you was out in the woods till all
hours. They haven't found the knife what did it yet, and this knife's
all covered with blood; so's the things. I'm going to let Mr Granger
see what I've got here, and tell him where I found them. If there's
nothing wrong about them I'll have to suffer, but show them to him I
will."
Miss Arnott, perceiving that here was an emergency in which prompt
action was the one thing needful, glanced at Evans, who was quick to
take the hint. She advanced towards Wilson with designs which that
young woman considered sufficiently obvious. To evade her, still
holding her booty behind her to secure it from Evans, she turned her
back to Miss Arnott who was not slow to avail herself of the
opportunity to grip her wrists and tear the knife and camisole away
from her. The wench, finding herself outwitted, sprang at her mistress,
screaming,--
"Give them to me! give them to me! You give them back to me!"
But Miss Arnott had already dropped them into the open wardrobe drawer,
shut the drawer and turned the key. While she kept the girl at arms'
length, to prevent her wresting from her the key, Miss Arnott issued
her instructions to the lady's-maid.
"Evans, ring the bell, keep on ringing."
There was a lively minute or so. Then Bevan, Mr Day's understudy,
appeared in the doorway, to stare at the proceedings open-eyed. Miss
Arnott had succeeded in retaining possession of the key, though she had
not found the excited girl easy to manage. Bevan, striding forward,
spun the housemaid round on her feet as if she were a teetotum.
"Now, then," he demanded, "what do you think you're doing? Are you
mad?"
"Bevan," exclaimed Miss Arnott, "Wilson has been misbehaving herself.
See that she is paid her wages and sent about her business at once."
Wilson, who by now was more than half hysterical, shrieked defiance.
"Mr Bevan, you make her give me that knife! you make her. I believe she
killed that chap in Cooper's Spinney. She's got the knife she killed
him with shut up in that drawer there! You make her give it me! I'm
going to show it to my uncle!"
Bevan was unsympathetic.
"Now, then, out you go!" was the only answer he made to her appeal.
But Mr Granger's niece was not disposed to go in compliance with his
mere request. When he essayed persuasion of a more active kind she
began to fight him tooth and nail. Reinforcements had to be brought
upon the scene. When, finally, she was borne from the room, she was
kicking and struggling like some wild cat. A pretty tumult she managed
to create as they conveyed her down the stairs.
Miss Arnott and her maid, left alone together, surveyed each other with
startled looks. The plumage of both had been something more than
ruffled; a tress of hair which was hanging down Miss Arnott's back was
proof of the housemaid's earnestness. Evans was the first to speak.
"I wish you'd let me do as I said, miss--break that drawer open, and
let me wash those things."
"But who would have thought she was such a creature! Is she mad?"
"Oh, she's sane enough after her own fashion; though, if she's one of
that Baker and Granger set, she's mad enough for anything. I can't
abide that village lot, and they know it. I wish you'd let me do as I
said!"
"I wish I had. As for my clothes, you can wash them now--if you don't
mind, that is."
"I'll wash them fast enough. I've done some washing in my time. Though,
after those stains have been in them all this time, they'll want some
soaking. What are you going to do about that knife, miss? If I had
known it was there I'd have broken open that drawer first and asked
your permission afterwards."
"I'll see to that."
"You'll see to it! But, miss, you'll never get these stains out, never!
not now! They're eaten into the steel! Nothing will get them out except
re-burnishing. If that Wilson gets down to that fool of a Granger it's
quite likely that we'll have him here with a search warrant, and then
Heaven help us! No, miss, you'll give me that knife, if you please.
I'll make it safe enough."
Miss Arnott was struck by the singularity of the woman's manner; she
yielded to a sudden impulse.
"Evans, I fancy you are under a misapprehension. If so, let me remove
it from your mind, if it can be removed. I believe you think that I am
responsible for what happened to that man in Cooper's Spinney. I'm not.
I had no hand in it whatever."
"You didn't kill him?"
"Emphatically, no. I had nothing to do with killing him; nothing."
"Miss, are you sure?"
"I am quite sure; quite."
"I believe you, miss, I believe you. But--I don't understand--the
stains upon your things; the knife? If you didn't kill him yourself you
know who did."
"I thought I did; that is why the knife is in my possession. Bringing
it home--inside my bodice--caused the stains."
"Whose knife is it? Did it belong to the--man who was killed?"
"No; it did not. I would rather not tell you to whom it did belong--at
least, not now."
"You know?"
"Oh, yes, I know. Evans, I believe you're disposed to be my friend, and
I'm in need of a friend."
"You are, miss, in more need than you have perhaps a notion of. I don't
want to use any big words, but there's nothing I wouldn't do for you,
and be glad to do it, as, maybe, before all's done, I'll prove. But I
wish you'd trust me, miss--trust me all the way. I wish you'd tell me
whose knife that is and how you came to have it."
"I'd rather not, and for this reason. I was convinced that the owner of
that knife was the murderer. That is why, when I found it, I brought it
home with me.
"To screen him?"
"You must not ask me that. Quite lately I have begun to think that I
was wrong, that the owner of that knife is as innocent as I am. It's a
tangle. I was quite close when it happened; I heard it all happening;
yet now I am conscious that I have no more real knowledge of who did it
than you have. You mustn't ask me any questions; I may tell you more
some other time--I may have to--not now! not now! I want to think! But,
Evans, there is one thing I wish to say to you--do you believe that I'm
a somnambulist?"
"A somnambulist? A sleep-walker do you mean? Whatever has put that idea
into your head?"
"Have you heard the tales they're telling--about my having been seen in
the woods at night in my nightdress?"
"I've heard some stuff; it's all a pack of nonsense! What next?"
"Do you know Briggs the postman? What sort of man is he?"
"He's got his head screwed on right enough for a countryman."
"Well, Mrs Forrester called this afternoon for the express purpose of
informing me that Briggs the postman saw me in the woods at two o'clock
this morning in my nightdress."
"But, miss, it's impossible! Did you ever walk in your sleep?"
"Never to my knowledge. Have you ever had occasion to suspect me of
anything of the kind?"
"That I certainly have not."
"This time it seems peculiarly incredible, because it was pouring cats
and dogs. If I had done anything of the sort there must have been
traces on my nightdress, or on something. This is a question I mean to
have settled one way or the other. I'm going to have a bed put up in
this room, and I'm going to ask you to sleep in it, if you conveniently
can, with one eye open. You'll soon find out what my habits are when
fast asleep. Between ourselves I believe that this is going to be an
opportunity for me to play that favourite character in fiction--the
detective--on lines of my own."
"I'll sleep here, miss, and be pleased to do it. But as for your
walking in your sleep, I should have found it out long ago if you'd
been given that way. I don't believe a word of it; that's all
nonsense."
Miss Arnott seemed to reflect before she spoke again.
"I'm not so sure of that--that it's all nonsense, Evans. I'm going to
tell you something; at present it's a secret, but I think I can trust
you to keep it. You're not the only person who has suspected me of
having killed that man."
"Lor' bless you, miss, as if I didn't know that! That's no secret! I
don't believe you've any idea yourself of what a dangerous place it is
in which you're standing."
"I'll be ready for the danger--when it comes. I'll not be afraid. What
I meant was that I have been actually supposed to have been seen
killing that man. Someone was seen to kill him, and that someone was a
woman."
"You're quite sure, miss, that it wasn't you? You're quite sure?"
"Quite, Evans; don't you be afraid."
"Then if that's so, miss, I don't mind. If you're innocent I don't care
what they do; let them do their worst."
"That's what I feel--exactly. But I wish you'd let me make my meaning
clear to you! If a woman did do it, then--though I confess I don't
understand how--we must all of us be on the wrong scent, and the woman
who has been seen wandering through the woods at dead of night--and
that such an one has been seen I have good reasons for knowing--is the
one we want. So what we have to do is to identify that somnambulist."
"But how are we going to do it?"
"That, as yet, I own is more than I can tell you. The first step is to
make sure it isn't me."
"Don't you fret about that, miss; I'm sure it isn't. I'll take these
things away and get 'em in soak at once." She gathered up the various
garments which her mistress had worn on that fateful night. "I wish
you'd let me take that knife; I'd feel safer if you would."
"Thank you, Evans; but at present I'd rather you left the knife with
me."
As Evans left the room Mrs Plummer came in, in the state of fluster
which, of late, was her chronic condition.
"My dear," she began, "what is this I hear about Wilson? What is this
shocking story?"
"Wilson has misbehaved herself and is therefore no longer in my
service. I imagine, Mrs Plummer, that that is what you hear. I am sorry
you should find it so shocking. It is not such a very unusual thing for
a servant to forget herself, is it?"
"I don't know, my dear, when it comes to fighting Bevan and positively
assaulting you. But everything seems to be at sixes and sevens; nothing
seems to go right, either indoors or out. It makes me most unhappy. And
now there's an extraordinary person downstairs who insists on seeing
you."
"An extraordinary person? What do you call an extraordinary person? Do
you know, Mrs Plummer, that a good deal of your language lately has
seemed to me to have had a flavour of exaggeration."
"Exaggeration? You call it exaggeration? I should have thought it would
have been impossible to exaggerate some of the things which have
happened in this neighbourhood in the last few weeks. But there's no
accounting for people. I can only tell you that I should call the
person who is below an extraordinary person. Here is her card; she
herself thrust it into my hand."
"Mrs Darcy Sutherland? I don't know anyone of that name."
"She knows you, or she pretends she does. I met her on the steps as I
was coming in. When I told her you were out--because I thought you had
gone on your motor, you said you were going--she replied that she would
wait till you came back, if she had to wait a week. That I call an
extraordinary remark to make."
"It is rather an unusual one. I will go down and see Mrs Darcy
Sutherland."
CHAPTER XXVIII
MRS DARCY SUTHERLAND
As Miss Arnott went to her visitor she had premonitions that more
disagreeables were at hand. No one whom she was desirous of seeing
would have uttered such a speech as that which Mrs Plummer had
repeated. Her premonitions were realised to the full. As she entered
the sitting-room, into which the caller had been shown, a big, blowsy,
over-dressed woman rose from a chair, whom the girl instantly
acknowledged that Mrs Plummer had been perfectly justified in calling
an extraordinary person. She was painted, and powdered, and pencilled,
and generally got up in a style which made it only too plain what kind
of character she was. With a sinking heart Miss Arnott recognised Sarah
Stevens, her quondam associate as a model in that costume department of
that Regent Street draper's where, once upon a time--it seemed
centuries ago--she had earned her daily bread, the woman who had
introduced her to Robert Champion, who had urged her to marry him, to
whom she owed all the trouble which had come upon her, and whose real
character she had learned too late.
She had not expected, as she had asked herself what awaited her now,
that it was anything so bad as this.
"You!" she stammered.
"Yes, my dear, me! A nice little surprise for you, isn't it?" The woman
advanced towards her with the apparent intention of greeting her with a
kiss. Miss Arnott showed by her manner, as much as by the way in which
she drew back, that she did not intend to submit to anything of that
sort. The visitor was not at all abashed. She continued to smile the
hard, mechanical smile of the woman of her class. "You didn't expect to
see me, I'll be bound. Perhaps you'd forgotten me, and you thought,
perhaps, that I'd forgotten you, but you see I haven't. I've got a very
good memory, I have. Well, my love, and how are you? You're not looking
so well as I expected; quite peaked, you seem, nothing like so well
filled out as you used to be."
"What do you mean by coming here? And by calling yourself Mrs Darcy
Sutherland?"
"My dear Vi!"
"Have the goodness not to address me by my Christian name."
"It used to be Vi and Sally in the days gone by. But I suppose
circumstances are changed, that sometimes makes a difference. I don't
mind, it's all the same to me. I'll call you whatever you choose--Miss
Arnott if you like. I'm surprised to find that they all do seem to call
you that round here."
"You haven't answered my questions. Why have you come here? And why do
you call yourself Mrs Sutherland?"
"As to why I've come here, I'll tell you in half a minute, though
there's some who wouldn't ask such a thing of an old friend. Let me get
my breath, my love; that rotten old fly shook me all to pieces. As to
why I call myself Mrs Sutherland--that does seem an unpleasant remark
to make to a lady, let alone an old friend. But I'm not one that's
quick to take offence. I call myself Mrs Sutherland because I am Mrs
Sutherland. I've married since I saw you last."
"You've married?"
"Yes, why shouldn't I? And, unlike you, I'm not ashamed of my married
name, or of my husband's. By the way, my love, you must remember my
husband."
"Remember him?"
"Of course you must. He remembers you quite well. He was a friend of
your husband's."
"A friend of my husband?"
"Rather. They were pals--thick as thieves. Darcy knew Robert Champion
long before you did."
"Darcy?"
"That's my husband's Christian name. You can call him by it if you
like, though you don't want me to call you by yours. But then I'm more
open-minded, perhaps, than you are, and open-hearted too."
"Be so good as to tell me why you have come here."
The woman took a handkerchief from the bag made of steel beads which
was suspended from her waist; opening it out she twiddled it between
the white-gloved fingers of either hand. Miss Arnott immediately became
conscious of the odour of some strong perfume.
"Can't you guess?"
"I cannot."
"Sure?"
"I am quite sure that I am unable to think of any plausible excuse for
your presence in my house. You never were a friend of mine. Nor are you
a person whose acquaintance I desire to renew. You are perfectly well
aware that I know what kind of character you are. You did me all the
harm you could. It was only by the mercy of God that you did not do me
more. I do not intend to allow my house to be sullied by your presence
one moment longer than I can help."
The girl crossed the room.
"What are you going to do?"
"I am going to ring to have you shown to the door."
"You had better hear first what I've come for, unless you want me to
tell you in front of your servants."
"As to that, I am indifferent. If you have anything to say to me say it
at once."
"Oh, I'll tell you fast enough, don't you worry. It won't take me long
to say it. I can say it in just one sentence. Mrs Champion, I've come
to see your husband."
The girl started, perceiving that trouble was threatening from still
another quarter. She was conscious that her visitor noticed her start,
but in spite of it she could not prevent her pulses throbbing
unpleasantly.
"My husband? What do you mean?"
"Oh, you know what I mean well enough, don't try acting the stupid with
me. You're not so dull as all that, nor yet so simple; and I'm not if
you are. Mrs Champion, I've come to see your husband, Mr Robert
Champion, my old friend Bob."
"He's not here, you know he's not here."
"How do I know he's not here? I know he came here."
"How do you know he came here?"
"Because me and my husband met him outside the gate of Wandsworth
Prison the Saturday morning he came out of it from doing his sentence.
His wife ought to have been there--that's you! but you wasn't! I
suppose you were on your couch of rose-leaves and didn't want to be
disturbed. Nice idea of a wife's duties you seem to have, and a pretty
sort you are to want to look down on me. Poor fellow! he was in sad
trouble, without a penny in his pocket, or a chance of getting one, and
him with the richest woman in England for his wife. When we told him of
the luck you'd had--"
"So it was you who told him, was it?"
"Yes, it was, and I daresay you'd have rather we hadn't; you'd have
rather he'd starved and got into trouble again, and rotted out his life
in gaol. But Darcy and me were his true friends, if his own wife
wasn't. We weren't going to see him hungry in the gutter while you were
gorging yourself on the fat of the land. We gave him a good meal, he
wanted it, poor chap; nothing but skin and bone he was. We told him all
about you, and where you lived, put him inside a new suit of clothes,
clothed him in new things from head to foot, we did, so that you
shouldn't think he disgraced you by his appearance, and gave him the
money to come down here; and he came."
"Well?"
For Mrs Darcy Sutherland had paused.
"Well? You think it's well, do you? Then all I can say is, I don't. Mrs
Champion, I've come to see your husband."
"He's not here."
"He's not here? Then where is he?"
"It is sufficient for you to be informed that he's not here."
"Oh, no, it isn't; and don't you think it, my love. It's not sufficient
by a long way. He promised to let us hear from him directly he got down
here; we've heard nothing from that day to this, and that's some time
ago, you know."
"If that is all you have to say I'll ring the bell."
"But it's not all I've got to say. Still, you can ring the bell if you
like, it's not my bell. Though, if you take my advice, you'll hear me
out before you do."
"Go on."
"Oh, I'll go on, as I told you before, don't you worry, and don't you
try to bully me, because I'm not to be bullied, threatening me with
your bells! Mrs Champion," the woman repeated the name with a curious
gusto, enjoying the discomfort the sound of it occasioned the girl in
front of her, "Mr Sutherland and me, we're not rich. Your husband
promised to give us back that money we let him have, and since it seems
that I can't see him I should like to see the colour of the money."
"That's what you want, is it? I begin to understand. How much was it?"
"Well, we'll say a thousand pounds."
"A thousand pounds!"
"A thousand pounds."
"Do you dare to pretend that you gave him a thousand pounds?"
"I don't pretend anything of the kind. I pretend nothing. What I say is
this. If I can see Mr Robert Champion and enjoy the pleasure of a
little chat with him I shall be content to receive back the cash we
lent him. If I can't do that I want a thousand pounds. Don't you
understand, my love?"
Miss Arnott did understand at last. She realised that the purport of
this woman's errand was blackmail. When comprehension burst upon her
she was silent; she was trying to collect her thoughts, to think--a
process which the increasing pressure of "the slings and arrows of
outrageous fortune" made difficult. Mrs Darcy Sutherland observed her
obvious discomposure with smiling amusement, as the proverbial child
might observe the movements of the fly which it has impaled with a pin.
Miss Arnott was saying to herself, or rather, endeavouring to say to
herself--for her distress of mind was blurring her capacity for exact
expression--that a thousand pounds was but a trifling sum to her, and
that if by the expenditure of such an amount she could free herself
from this new peril it would be money well spent. She did not stop to
reflect, although, all the while, the idea was vaguely present in her
mind that, by yielding to this woman's demand, she would be delivering
herself to her body and soul. Her one feeling was the desire to get
this woman out of the house without a scene--another scene such as she
had had with Wilson, probably a much worse one than that. If she could
only be relieved of the odious oppression born of her near
neighbourhood, breathe purer air uncontaminated by this creature's
presence, if she could only do this for a time it would be something.
She would have a chance to look round her, to gather together her
forces, her scattered senses. If she could only do that she might be
more than a match for Mrs Darcy Sutherland yet. But she must have that
chance, she must not have exposure--in its worst form--thrust upon her
now, in her present state--she was becoming more and more conscious of
shaky nerves--that might be more than she was able to bear. The chance
was well worth a thousand pounds, which to her was nothing.
She was all at once seized with an overwhelming longing to take instant
advantage of the chance the woman offered her. She resolved to give her
what she asked.
"If I let you have what you want will you promise to go away
immediately--right away?"
"I'll walk out of this house without speaking a word to a creature in
it, or to anyone out of it for the matter of that, and I'll take the
next train back to town, if that's what you mean."
"That's what I do mean. If I give you a cheque for a thousand pounds
will that do?"
"If you leave it open, and make it payable to bearer, I don't know that
I'd mind taking it. I suppose there's money enough at the bank to meet
it; and that you won't try to stop its being paid."
"There's plenty of money to meet it, and I certainly shall not try to
stop its being paid."
"Then I'll tell you what; you give me all the ready money you have got
in the house, and an open cheque to bearer for the balance--that'll be
more satisfactory for both parties--then I'll take myself off as fast
as you like."
"Very well. I'll go and see what money I've got and I'll bring you a
cheque for the rest."
Miss Arnott moved towards the door, intending to perpetrate what was
perhaps the worst folly of which she had been guilty yet. Just as she
reached the door it opened. Mr Stacey entered, followed by a dark,
dapper gentleman--Ernest Gilbert.
CHAPTER XXIX
SOME PASSAGES OF ARMS
Mr Stacey held out both hands to her in the effusive fashion which,
when he chose, he could manage very well.
"My dear Miss Arnott, I think I'm unexpected." He was; so unexpected
that, in the first flush of her surprise, the girl was oblivious of his
outstretched hands. He went on, ignoring her confusion. "But I trust I
am not unwelcome because I happen to come unheralded." Looking about
him he noticed Mrs Sutherland. "But you are not alone. I hope that our
unannounced entrance has not been an intrusion. May I ask you to make
me known to your"--something caused him not to use the word which was
already on the tip of his tongue--"to this lady."
"This is Mrs Darcy Sutherland."
"Mrs Darcy Sutherland?" In spite of his mellifluous tones there was
something in the way in which he repeated the name which hardly
suggested a compliment. "And what might Mrs Darcy Sutherland want with
you?"
Mrs Sutherland took it upon herself to answer.
"Well, I never! the impudence of that! Who are you, pray? and what
business is it of yours?"
The lawyer was blandness itself.
"I beg your pardon. Were you speaking to me?"
"Yes, I was speaking to you, and you know I was." She turned to Miss
Arnott. "I think, my dear, it would be better if you were to ask these
two gentlemen to leave us alone together till you and I have finished
our little business."
"Business?" At the sound of the word Mr Stacey pricked up his ears. He
addressed Miss Arnott. "As in all matters of business I have the honour
to represent you, don't you think that, perhaps, you had better leave
me to deal with this--lady in a matter of business?"
The lady referred to resented the suggestion hotly.
"What next, I wonder? You'll do nothing of the kind, my dear, not if I
know it you won't. And as I'm in rather a hurry, perhaps you'll go and
do what you said you would."
Mr Stacey put to Miss Arnott a question.
"What was it you said that you would do for this lady?"
Again the lady showed signs of heat.
"I never saw the equal of you for meddling. Don't you go poking your
nose into other people's affairs, or you'll be sorry. If you take my
advice, my dear, you won't tell him a single thing. I sha'n't, if you
won't, you may trust me for that. You'll keep your own business to
yourself, especially when it's business of such a very particular
kind--interfering old party!"
"If you take my advice, Miss Arnott, and I think you have reason to
know that in general my advice is to be trusted, you will tell me in
the fewest, and also in the plainest, possible words what this person
wants with you. It is evidently something of which she is ashamed, or
she would not be so anxious for concealment."
"Don't you call me a person, because I won't have it; and don't you
interfere in what's my business, because I won't have that either." The
indignant Mrs Darcy Sutherland rose to her feet. "Now, look here, and
don't let there be any mistake about it, I'm not going to have this
impudent old man humbugging about with me, so don't let anyone think
it. So you'll please to understand, Miss Arnott, that if you're going
to get what you promised to get, you'd better be quick about it,
because I've had about as much as I care to put up with. I'm not going
to let any man trample on me, I don't care who he is, especially when I
don't know him from Adam."
"Surely there can be no objection to my putting a simple question. What
is it you promised to get for this--lady about which she betrays so
much anxiety?"
Miss Arnott replied.
"If you don't mind, I'd rather not have any bother. I've had some
trouble already."
"I know you have; it is because of that that we are here. Believe me,
my dear young lady, you will be quite safe if you trust yourself in my
hands."
"I don't want to have any more trouble, so, as it wasn't a sum which
was of much consequence to me, I was just going to get some money which
Mrs Sutherland wanted when you came in."
"Money?"
"Yes, money!--money she owes me!--so now you know!"
"Do you owe this--lady money?"
"Well, it isn't exactly that I owe it, but money is owing to her, I
believe."
"How much?"
"A thousand pounds."
"A thousand pounds! Is it possible that you were thinking of giving
this woman a thousand pounds?"
At this point Mrs Darcy Sutherland thought proper to give her passion
reins, with results which were hardly becoming.
"Look here, don't you call me a woman, you white-headed old rooster, as
if I wasn't a lady! I'm as much a lady as she is, and a good deal more.
The next time you give me any more of your sauce, I'll smack your face;
I've done it to better men than you before to-day, so don't you say
that I didn't warn you!" She turned to Miss Arnott. "As for you--how
much longer are you going to be tommy-rotting about? Are you going to
give me that thousand pounds, or aren't you? You know what the
consequences will be if you don't! Don't you think, in spite of his
smooth tongue, that he can save you from them, because he can't, as you
shall very soon see. Now, am I going to have that money or not?"
Mr Gilbert, asserting himself for the first time, interfered.
"Stacey, I should like to say a few words to Mrs Darcy Sutherland. Mrs
Darcy Sutherland, I believe my name is not unknown to you--Ernest
Gilbert."
"Ernest Gilbert?" The woman changed countenance. "Not the Ernest
Gilbert?"
"Yes, the Ernest Gilbert. And I see you are the Mrs Darcy Sutherland;
thank you very much. I have been favoured with instructions to proceed
against a gang of long firm swindlers, the ringleader of whom is a man
who calls himself Darcy Sutherland. There's a warrant out for his
arrest, but for the moment he's slipped through our fingers. There has
been some talk as to whether your name should be included in that
warrant; at present, it isn't. When you leave here I'll have you
followed. The probability is that you'll make for the man you call your
husband. If you do so, we'll have him; if you don't, we'll have
you--see?"
On hearing this the woman flung all remnants of decency from her.
"That's the time of day, is it? You think you've got me, do you? Fancy
you've only got to snap your fingers and I'm done for? That's where
you're wrong, as I'll soon show you. If I'm in a bit of a hole, what
about her? Who do you think she is? What do you think she's been doing?
I'll tell you if you don't know, and then we shall know where we
are!--and she'll know too!--by----! she will!"
Mr Ernest Gilbert glanced round towards Mr Stacey.
"Take Miss Arnott out of the room."
Inside thirty seconds Mr Stacey had whisked the girl out of the room
and vanished with her. Mrs Darcy Sutherland, realising the trick which
was being played, rushed to the door. But Mr Gilbert was there first;
with the key turned, he stood with his back to the door and faced her.
"You get away from in front of that door! What do you mean by turning
that key? You open that door and let me out this instant!"
The lawyer's reply did not breathe the spirit of conciliation.
"I'll see you hung first."
"Don't you speak to me like that! Who do you think you're talking to?"
"To you. Now, you foul-mouthed judy, I'm going to take off the gloves
to deal with you. I've not had the dregs of the criminal population
pass through my hands all these years without knowing how to deal with
a woman of your type, as I'm going to show you. What were you going to
say to Miss Arnott?--out with it!"
"Never mind what I was going to say to Miss Arnott; I'm going to say
nothing to you; don't you think it! Who do you think you're trying to
bounce?"
"You're going to say exactly what you would have said if that young
lady had remained in the room, or when you do go it will be in the
charge of a policeman."
"Oh, shall I? We'll see! Don't you make any mistake!"
"Don't you."
"You must think I'm a simple-minded innocent, to come trying to play
your confidence tricks off on me. What do you want me to think I'll be
in the charge of a policemen for, I'd like to know?"
"Blackmail."
"Blackmail! What do you mean?"
"You know perfectly well what I mean. You have just been trying to
blackmail that girl to the tune of a thousand pounds. No offence more
severely punished. I'll have you jugged on one charge, and the
blackguard you call your husband on another."
"I wasn't trying to do anything of the sort; don't fancy you can bluff
me! I was only telling the truth."
"Makes it worse. Suppose you believed her to have committed murder, and
said you'd out with what you knew if she didn't give you a thousand
pounds--that would be blackmail in its most heinous form; you'd get a
lifer as sure as you're alive. My time's valuable. Which is it going to
be--the policeman or what you call the truth?"
"If I do tell you what use will you make of it?"
"No questions answered. Which is it going to be?"
"If I tell you, will you let me go right straight off? No shadowing or
anything of that kind?"
"The only promise I'll make is that I won't let you go if you don't.
Out with it!"
"You're very hard on a girl! I don't know what I've done to you!"
"No snivelling; put away that evil-smelling rag; I'm going to have that
policeman."
He was standing by the bell.
"Don't! I'll tell you!"
"Then tell!"
"I don't know what it is you want me to tell you--I really don't!"
"I want you to tell me what's the pull you've got, or think you've got,
over Miss Arnott."
"It's about that chap who was killed in the woods here."
"What about him?"
"He was her husband."
"How do you know?"
"I ought to. He was an old friend of mine, and I was her bridesmaid
when she married him."
"Why did she keep him dark?"
"Well, he got into a bit of trouble."
"Go on! out with it all! and don't you stammer!"
"I'm not stammering, and I'm going on as fast as ever I can! I never
saw anyone like you. He got into prison, that's what he did, and of
course she wasn't proud of it. He only came out the morning of the day
he came down here; my husband and me lent him the money to come with,
and we want our money back again--we can't afford to lose it."
"I see. His object in coming was blackmail--like yours. Is that all the
pull?"
"All! I should think it's enough, considering. But, as it happens, it
isn't all."
"What else is there?"
"Why, she killed him."
"How do you know?"
"It stands to reason. Why didn't she let out he was her husband and
that she knew all about him? Isn't it plain enough why? Because they
met in the woods, and had a bit of a quarrel, and she knifed him,
that's why. And she'll swing for it in spite of all her money. And it's
because she knows it that she was so willing to give me that thousand
pounds. What do you think?"
"You evil-speaking, black-hearted cat! Now I'll have that policeman,
and for what you've said to me you shall have a lifer!"
He moved towards the bell.
"Don't! you promised you'd let me go!"
"I promised nothing of the kind, you---! I tell you what I will do.
I'll unlock that door and let you through it. You shall have six hours'
start, and then I'll have a warrant out for you, and if I catch you I
promise I'll do my best to get you penal servitude for life. As we've a
shrewd idea of your husband's whereabouts, if you take my advice you'll
keep away from him. Now, out you go!"
Unlocking the door he threw it open.
"Six hours mind, honest!"
"Six hours, by my watch. After that, if I can catch you I will, you can
bet on it. Take yourself outside this house before I change my mind.
You'd better!"
Apparently Mrs Darcy Sutherland was of his opinion; she was out of the
house with a swiftness which did credit to her agility. Almost as soon
as she had gone Mr Stacey appeared in the doorway of the room she had
just quitted.
CHAPTER XXX
MISS ARNOTT IS EXAMINED
Mr Stacey put a question to Mr Gilbert.
"Have you got rid of her?"
"Very much so. Stacey, I must see Miss Arnott at once, the sooner the
safer. I'm afraid she did it."
"Do you mean that she killed that fellow in Cooper's Spinney? I don't
believe a word of it. What's that woman been saying?"
"It's not a question of belief but of fact. I'll tell you afterwards
what she's been saying. What we want to do is to get at the truth. I
fancy we shall do it if you let me have a few minutes' conversation
with your young friend. If she didn't do it I'll do my level best to
prevent a hair of her head from being injured, and if she did I may be
able to save her. This is one of those cases in which, before I'm able
to move, I must know just where I am standing."
"You seem to have an ethical standard of your own."
"A man in my line of business must have. Where's Miss Arnott?"
"I'll take you to her. She's expecting you. I told her you'd like to
have a little talk with her. But, mind this, she's anything but well,
poor girl! I believe she's been worried half out of her mind."
"I shouldn't wonder."
"I didn't bring you down here to subject her to a hostile
cross-examination. I won't let you do it--especially in her present
condition."
"When you've finished perhaps you'll take me to her; you don't want her
to hang."
"Hang! Gilbert! God forbid! Whatever she may have done she's only a
child, and I'm persuaded that at heart she's as innocent as you or me."
"If she isn't more innocent than I am I'm sorry for her. Will you take
me to see this paragon of all the feminine virtues?"
"You wear your cynicism like a cloak; it's not such an essential part
as you choose to imagine."
Ernest Gilbert smiled as if he would show his teeth.
Mr Stacey led the way to an apartment which was called the red
drawing-room, where already that afternoon Miss Arnott had interviewed
Hugh Morice and Mrs Forrester. It was a pleasant, well-lighted room,
three windows ran up one side of it almost from floor to ceiling. The
girl was standing in front of one of these as the two men entered,
looking out on to the Italian garden, which was a blaze of sunshine and
of flowers. Mr Stacey crossed to her with his somewhat exuberant,
old-fashioned courtesy.
"Permit me, my dear young lady, to offer you a chair. I think you will
find this a comfortable one. There, how is that?" She had seated
herself, at his invitation, in a large, straight-backed armchair
covered with a fine brocade, gold on a crimson background, whose age
only enhanced its beauty. "As I was telling you just now, I have heard,
to my great distress, that several things have happened recently,
hereabouts, which could hardly tend to an increase of your comfort."
"No, indeed."
"Part of my information came from my very good friend here, and he will
be your very good friend also if you will let him. Let me introduce you
to Mr Ernest Gilbert."
In acknowledgment of the introduction the girl inclined her head. Mr
Gilbert gave his a perfunctory little shake, as if he had a stiff neck.
"I am glad to meet you, Mr Gilbert. I was sorry to learn from Mr Morice
that you have sent me back my money and refused to defend Jim Baker."
Mr Stacey interposed before the other had a chance to answer.
"Quite so, my dear young lady, quite so; we will come to that
presently. Mr Gilbert came to see me this morning on that very subject.
It is in consequence of certain communications which he then made to me
that we are here. You instructed him, from what I understand, to defend
this unfortunate man."
"Which he at first consented, and then declined to do."
This time it was Mr Gilbert who interposed, before Mr Stacey was ready
with his reply.
"Stacey, if you don't mind, I'll speak. I think it's possible that Miss
Arnott and I may understand each other in half a dozen sentences."
Mr Gilbert was leaning over the back of a chair, right in front of her.
The girl eyed him steadily. There was a perceptible interval, during
which neither spoke, as if each was taking the other's measure. Then
the girl smiled, naturally, easily, as if amused by some quality which
she discerned either in the lawyer's terrier-like countenance or in the
keenness of his scrutiny. It was she who was the first to speak, still
with an air of amusement.
"I will try to understand you, and I should like you to understand me.
At present I'm afraid you don't."
"I'm beginning to."
"Are you? That's good news."
"Your nerves are strong."
"I've always flattered myself that they weren't weak."
"You like plain speaking."
"I do--that is, when occasion requires."
"This is such an occasion."
"I think it is."
"Then you won't mind my asking you a plain question."
"Not at all."
"Who killed that man in Cooper's Spinney?"
"I don't know."
"You are sure?"
"Quite."
"Are you aware that Jim Baker thinks you killed him?"
"I am."
"And that Hugh Morice thinks so also?"
"I know he did think so; I fancy that now he has his doubts--at least,
I hope he has."
"How do you explain the fact of two such very different men being under
the same erroneous impression?"
"I can't explain it; I can explain nothing. I don't know if you are
aware that until quite recently I thought it was Mr Morice himself who
killed that man."
"What made you think that?"
"Two or three things, but as I am now of a different opinion it doesn't
matter what they were."
"But it does matter--it matters very much. What made you think that
Hugh Morice killed that man?"
The girl turned to Mr Stacey.
"Shall I answer him? It's like this. I don't know where Mr Gilbert's
questions may be landing me, and I don't want to have more trouble than
I have had already--especially on this particular point."
"My dear young lady, if your own conscience acquits you--and I am sure
it does--my strongest advice to you is, tell all you have to tell. The
more light we have thrown on the matter the better. I grieve to learn
that the finger of scandal has been pointed at you, and that, if we are
not very careful, very serious and disagreeable consequences may
presently ensue. I implore you to hide nothing from us which may enable
us to afford you more than adequate protection from any danger which
may threaten. This may prove to be a very grave business."
"I'm not afraid of what may happen to me, not one bit. Pray don't
either of you be under any delusion on that point. What I don't want is
to have something happen to anyone else because of me." She addressed
Mr Gilbert. "What use will you make of any information which I may give
you with regard to Mr Morice?"
"If it will relieve your mind, Miss Arnott, and enable you to answer my
question, let me inform you that I am sure--whatever you may suppose to
the contrary--that Hugh Morice is not the guilty person."
"Why are you sure?"
"First, because I know him; and he's not that kind of man. And second,
because in the course of a lengthy interview I had with him I should
have perceived something to cause me to suspect his guilt, instead of
which I was struck by his conviction of yours."
"Now I also believe he is innocent--but I had reasons for my doubts;
better ones than he had for his doubts of me."
"May I ask what those reasons were?"
"I was within a very short distance of where the murder was committed,
and though I was not an actual witness, I heard. A moment afterwards I
saw Mr Morice come running from--the place where it was done, as if for
his life. Then--by the dead man I found the knife with which he had
been killed. It was Mr Morice's knife; a few minutes before I had seen
him with it in his hand."
"You found Hugh Morice's knife? What did you do with it?"
"It is still in my possession. You see, I thought that he was guilty,
and--for reasons of my own--I did not wish to have the fact made
public."
"This is a curious tangle into which you have managed to get things
between you. Have you any idea of what it is Mrs Darcy Sutherland has
just been telling me?"
"I can guess. She has probably told you that the dead man was my
husband--Robert Champion."
"Your husband! My dear young lady!"
This was Mr Stacey.