She knew it at once, knew it instinctively even before her eyes had
seen and noted the small shining pistol lying on the floor, the
little-singed hole just above the heart with the dark stain round it,
and the horrible dropped jaw.
She stood quite still, her hands pressed to her sides. In the silence
she heard Élise running down the stairs.
“Madame! Madame!”
“Well, what is it?”
She moved quickly to the door. Her whole instinct was to conceal what
had happened—for the moment anyway—from Élise. Élise would promptly
go into hysterics, she knew that well enough, and she felt a great need
for calm and quiet in which to think things out.
“Madame, would it not be better if I should draw the chain across the
door? These malefactors, at any minute they may arrive.”
“Yes, if you like. Anything you like.”
She heard the rattle of the chain, and then Élise running upstairs
again, and drew a long breath of relief.
She looked at the man in the chair and then at the telephone. Her
course was quite clear, she must ring up the police at once.
But still she did not do so. She stood quite still, paralysed with
horror and with a host of conflicting ideas rushing through her brain.
The bogus telegram. Had it something to do with this? Supposing
Élise had not stayed behind? She would have let herself in—that is,
presuming she had had her latchkey with her as usual, to find herself
alone in the house with a murdered man—a man whom she had permitted to
blackmail her on a former occasion. Of course she had an explanation of
that; but thinking of that explanation she was not quite easy in her
mind. She remembered how frankly incredible George had found it. Would
other people think the same. Those letters now—of course she hadn’t
written them, but would it be so easy to prove that?
She put her hands on her forehead, squeezing them tight together.
“I must think,” said Virginia. “I simply must think.”
Who had let the man in? Surely not Élise. If she had done so, she would
have been sure to have mentioned the fact at once. The whole thing
seemed more and more mysterious as she thought about it. There was
really only one thing to be done—ring up the police.
She stretched out her hand to the telephone, and suddenly she thought
of George. A man—that was what she wanted—an ordinary level-headed,
unemotional man who would see things in their proper proportion and
point out to her the best course to take.
Then she shook her head. Not George. The first thing George would think
of would be his own position. He would hate being mixed up in this
kind of business. George wouldn’t do at all.
Then her face softened. Bill, of course! Without more ado, she rang up
Bill.
She was informed that he had left half an hour ago for Chimneys.
“Oh, damn!” cried Virginia, jamming down the receiver. It was horrible
to be shut up with a dead body and to have no one to speak to.
And at that minute the front-door bell rang.
Virginia jumped. In a few minutes it rang again. Élise, she knew, was
upstairs packing and wouldn’t hear it.
Virginia went out in the hall, drew back the chain, and undid all the
bolts that Élise had fastened in her zeal. Then, with a long breath,
she threw open the door. On the steps was the unemployed young man.
Virginia plunged headlong with a relief born of overstrung nerves.
“Come in,” she said. “I think that perhaps I’ve got a job for you.”
She took him into the dining-room, pulled toward a chair for him, sat
down herself facing him, and stared at him very attentively.
“Excuse me,” she said, “but are you—I mean——”
“Eton and Oxford,” said the young man. “That’s what you wanted to ask
me, wasn’t it?”
“Something of the kind,” admitted Virginia.
“Come down in the world entirely through my own incapacity to stick to
regular work. This isn’t regular work you’re offering me, I hope?”
A smile hovered for a moment on her lips.
“It’s very irregular.”
“Good,” said the young man in a tone of satisfaction.
Virginia noted his bronzed face and long lean body with approval.
“You see,” she explained, “I’m in rather a hole, and most of my friends
are—well, rather high up. They’ve all got something to lose.”
“I’ve nothing whatever to lose. So go ahead. What’s the trouble?”
“There’s a dead man in the next room,” said Virginia. “He’s been
murdered, and I don’t know what to do about it.”
She blurted out the words as simply as a child might have done.
The young man went up enormously in her estimation by the way he
accepted her statement. He might have been used to hearing a similar
announcement made every day of his life.
“Excellent,” he said, with a trace of enthusiasm. “I’ve always wanted
to do a bit of amateur detective work. Shall we go and view the body,
or will you give me the facts first?”
“I think I’d better give you the facts.” She paused for a moment to
consider how best to condense her story, and then began, speaking
quietly and concisely.
“This man came to the house for the first time yesterday and asked to
see me. He had certain letters with him—love letters, signed with my
name——”
“But which weren’t written by you,” put in the young man quietly.