A PAINFUL INTERVIEW
Rowan sat still in his corner, and although the hotel could not be
called fashionable--perhaps, in these later days, scarcely
luxurious--the little ebb and flow of life upon which he looked seemed
tinged with a peculiar bitterness. His hollow eyes followed each group
of these men and women, so full of vivacity, of happiness, of affairs.
The envy in his heart was like a real and passionate thing. It was an
envy scarcely founded upon comparisons. For them was life,--for him was
none! In front of him always was that ghastly, unchanging verdict: a
month--two at the most--thirty days of ill-health, of suffering, of
weakness, and after that--what? He caught his breath with a little
shudder, and calling a passing waiter, ordered some brandy. He looked
around and longed to find someone to speak to, someone to occupy his
attention for a single moment, to stop the flow of gruesome fancies
which seemed always biting their way into his brain. He had faced death
readily enough in those old days, when Deane and he had ridden side by
side, and the bullets had whizzed around them like rain, and the dead
men lay in heaps. But this was different! The blood ran warm in their
veins then, their hearts were strong. He had no strength now to battle
with these fancies, no strength to do anything but cower before the
slowly coming, grisly shadow of his fate. He looked continually at the
door, longing always for the return of his sister and the coming of
Deane. Even the prison hospital was better than this.
A girl passed by, young and beautiful, carrying in her arms a little
dog. She threw a compassionate glance at Rowan, and he felt the sweat
break out upon his forehead. It was too awful, this! He was rising to
his feet even as Deane and his sister entered the lounge. He moved
toward them with uncertain footsteps.
"We must have a sitting-room," he said. "I cannot face these people. I
am beginning to feel a coward."
Deane went to the office, and very soon they found themselves upon the
third floor, in an apartment overlooking Northumberland Avenue, gorgeous
with plush and gilt mirrors, stiffly arranged chairs, an ornate
chiffonnier. Rowan, who had come up in the lift muttering to himself,
but obviously anxious for silence from his two companions, threw
himself, almost as the door closed, upon the hard couch.
"I am broken!" he cried out. "I am broken!"
Winifred sank on her knees by his side, her arms went round his neck.
Deane turned away and walked to the window a little awkwardly. Somehow
he felt that it would be taking a mean advantage if he should look into
her face, though all the time he was longing to see if her eyes had
really softened, if those lips were really trembling a little, lips that
were pressed to her brother's forehead.
"Basil," she whispered, "you mustn't! Bear up, please. Mr. Deane is
here. He has come with me. Sit up and talk to him."
Rowan pulled himself together. He sat up, and Deane, obeying a gesture
from her, crossed the room once more.
"Rowan," he said, "I am very sorry to see you like this."
"It's my first day out," Rowan answered. "It's a little trying, you
know, especially when the end is so near. I wanted just a few words with
you, Deane. It is good of you to come."
Deane nodded. "I only wish there was something I could do," he said.
"There is nothing," answered Rowan.
The girl turned away. "When you want me, Basil," she said softly, "I
shall be in the next room."
"You might have some brandy brought up," he said. "I must talk for a few
minutes, and I am not feeling very strong."
"I will ring the bell in the other room," she said, "and order it."
She disappeared through the connecting door. Deane, who had found
himself watching her slow, even progress, turned once more to the man
who sat by his side.
"I never thought I'd see you again," Rowan commenced. "I did my best,
Deane. I made friends with Sinclair all right--he was glad enough to
have anyone to drink with--and before long he began to tell me about his
claim to the Little Anna Mine."
"Did he believe in it?" asked Deane.
"Absolutely," Rowan answered. "I am quite sure of that. He absolutely
believed that directly he put it into the hands of any solicitor, you
would have to come to him and buy, even though it cost you half your
fortune. He was waiting those few days to see if you came."
Deane nodded. "Tell me how it happened," he said.
"It was like this," Rowan continued, speaking hoarsely, and with
difficulty, "that night he wasn't quite so drunk. I pressed him a little
too closely about his claim, and where he kept the paper. He was
suddenly suspicious and quarrelsome. He tried to turn me out, and when I
wanted to soothe him down, he struck me. He was a strong man and I was
weak. I think that he meant to murder me. I remember I was half on the
floor. My forehead was bleeding already, and he was coming towards me,
shrieking with rage. 'I am going to finish you!' he called out. Then I
struck, hoping only to stun him, and, as you know, the blow killed him.
I forgot for a moment about the paper. I thought only about making my
escape. I had bad luck, and I did not succeed. I am afraid it was a
bungling sort of job, Deane."
"I am very sorry indeed," Deane said, "that I ever suggested it to you."
"It wasn't your fault," Rowan answered. "Nothing of this sort would have
happened if he hadn't come for me. I meant to rob him if I could--I'll
admit that--but no more. You see it was useless for me to try and open
negotiations. He was too confident altogether. He spoke of a million
pounds as his price. Tell me," he went on, "how do things stand now? Who
has possession of the paper?"
Deane hesitated for a moment. "I do not know."
Rowan's face fell. He seemed disappointed. "I had an idea," he said
slowly, "that you might have made some attempt to recover it. Everything
was left in the room at the hotel for some time. It was easily done."
"I did make an attempt," Deane said slowly. "I have searched the room
for that paper, but failed to find it."
"You yourself?" Rowan asked eagerly.
"Yes! I heard that there was a claimant coming for Sinclair's effects,
and that they were going to be removed to Scotland Yard. I took a room
at the hotel, and I got hold of a key. I went through everything the man
had."
"It was in the breast pocket of his gray coat, underneath the lining,"
Rowan gasped.
"I found the place," Deane answered, "but it was empty."
Rowan wiped the sweat from his forehead. His breathing was becoming
difficult. Already the excitement was affecting him. "But it was there
on that night!" he exclaimed. "He took off his coat a few minutes
before, and I saw him feel it in the lining."
"All I can tell you," Deane answered, "is that the lining of the gray
coat was torn, as though something had been abstracted. The paper was
not there. It was not anywhere in the room. I ran a risk," he continued,
after a moment's pause, "which I dare not think of, even now, but it was
in vain. Someone had been before me."
"Was there anyone else upon the scent, then?" Rowan asked.
"Can you think of anyone?" Deane asked.
Rowan looked at him with distended eyes. "You don't mean to insinuate,"
he began, "that I--that I had given it away?"
"Not wilfully," answered Deane. "Is there anyone at all to whom you
spoke of this?"
Rowan shook his head. "Only to my sister," he said, "and she is as
silent as the grave."
"Nevertheless," Deane said, "the paper has gone. Someone has it--is
holding it now--for a purpose, I suppose. There can but be one purpose.
Perhaps," he added, "you had better ask your sister, to be quite sure
whether she ever mentioned its existence to anyone."
"We will ask her at once!" Rowan exclaimed. "I will ask her before you.
Let me get up. Help me. I will fetch her."
Deane stretched out his hand. "No!" he said. "You must not excite
yourself Rowan. I will knock at the door and call your sister."
Rowan lay back, gasping. Deane crossed the room and knocked at the door
which led to the inner apartment.
"Miss Rowan," he said.
She opened the door almost immediately. "Yes?"
Deane stood aside. "Your brother," he said, "has a question to ask you!"