"I want you to tell me something about the beginning of your mother's
illness," I said, after a pause. "When I saw her two days ago, she
scarcely considered herself ill at all--in fact, you were supposed to
be the patient."
Gabrielle dropped into the nearest chair.
"There is a mystery somewhere," she said, "but I cannot make it
out. When I came back, after seeing you to-day, mother seemed very
restless and troubled. I thought she would have questioned me about
being so long away, and ask me at least what I had done with myself.
Instead of that, she asked me to tread softly. She said she had such
an intolerable headache that she could not endure the least sound. I
saw she had been out, for she had her walking boots on, and they were
covered with mud. I tried to coax her to eat something, but she would
not, and as I saw she really wished to be alone, I left her.
"At tea time, our parlour-maid, Peters, told me that mother had gone
to bed and had given directions that she was on no account to be
disturbed. I had tea alone, and then came in here and made the place
as bright and comfortable as I could. Once or twice before, since my
father's death, mother has suffered from acute headaches, and has gone
to bed; but when they got better, she has dressed and come downstairs
again. I thought she might like to do so to-night, and that she would
be pleased to see a bright room and everything cheerful about her.
"I got a story-book and tried to read, but my thoughts were with
mother, and I felt dreadfully puzzled and anxious. The time seemed
very long too, and I heartily wished that the night were over. I went
upstairs about eight o'clock, and listened outside mother's door. She
was moaning and talking to herself. It seemed to me that she was saying
dreadful things. I quite shuddered as I listened. I knocked at the
door, but there was no answer. Then I turned the handle and tried to
enter, but the door was locked. I went downstairs again, and Peters
came to ask me if I would like supper. She was still in the room, and
I had not made up my mind whether I could eat anything or not, when I
heard her give a short scream, and turning round, I saw mother standing
in the room in her nightdress. She had the carving-knife in her hand.
[Illustration: "IS THERE ANY BLOOD ON MY HANDS?"]
"'Gabrielle,' she said, in a quiet voice, but with an awful look in her
eyes, 'I want you to tell me the truth. Is there any blood on my hands?'
"'No, no, mother,' I answered.
"She gave a deep sigh, and looked at them as if she were Lady Macbeth.
"'Gabrielle,' she said again, 'I can't live any longer without your
father. I have made this knife sharp, and it won't take long.'
"Then she turned and left the room. Peters ran for cook, and they went
upstairs after her, and I rushed for Dr. Mackenzie."
"It was a fearful ordeal for you," I said, "and you behaved very
bravely; but you must not think too much about your mother's condition,
nor about any words which she happened to say. She is highly feverish
at present, and is not accountable for her actions. Sit down now,
please, and take a glass of wine yourself."
"No, thank you--I never take wine."
"I'm glad to hear you say so, for in that case a glass of this good
claret will do wonders for you. Here, I'm going to pour one out--now
drink it off at once."
She obeyed me with a patient sort of smile. She was very pale, but the
wine brought some colour into her cheeks.
"I am interested in your story," I said, after a pause. "Particularly
in what you told me about your poor father. He must have been an
interesting man, for you to treasure his memory so deeply. Do you mind
describing him to me?"
She flushed up when I spoke. I saw that tears were very near her eyes,
and she bit her lips to keep back emotion.
"My father was like no one else," she said. "It is impossible for me to
make a picture of him for one who has not seen him."
"But you can at least tell me if he were tall or short, dark or fair,
old or young?"
"No, I can't," she said, after another pause. "He was just father.
When you love your father, he has a kind of eternal youth to you, and
you don't discriminate his features. If you are his only child, his
is just the one face in all the world to you. I find it impossible
to describe the face, although it fills my mind's eye, waking and
sleeping. But, stay, I have a picture of him. I don't show it to many,
but you shall see it."
She rushed out of the room, returning in a moment with a morocco case.
She opened it, and brought over a candle at the same time so that the
light should fall on the picture within. It represented a tall, slight
man, with deep-set eyes and a very thin face. The eyes were somewhat
piercing in their glance; the lips were closely set and firm; the chin
was cleft. The face showed determination. I gave it a quick glance,
and, closing the case, returned it to Gabrielle.
The face was the face of the man I had seen in the garden.
* * * * *
My patient passed a dreadful night. She was no better the next morning.
Her temperature was rather higher, her pulse quicker, her respiration
more hurried. Her ravings had now become almost incoherent. Mackenzie
and I had an anxious consultation over her. When he left the house I
accompanied him.
"I am going to make a strange request of you," I said. "I wish for your
assistance, and am sure you will not refuse to give it to me. In short,
I want to take immediate steps to have Heathcote's coffin opened."
I am quite sure Mackenzie thought that I was mad. He looked at me,
opened his lips as if to speak, but then waited to hear my next words.
"I want to have Heathcote's body exhumed," I said. "If you will listen
to me, I will tell you why."