WHAT DR. SCOTT SAW.
Dora made no reply. In spite of his asseverations of innocence, she
saw that he felt himself in a trap. His pallid face, his wild eyes,
his trembling hands--all these signs hinted at a realization of his
helpless position. Week by week since that fatal conversation he had
grown thinner and more haggard. He was the shadow of the comely lover
who had met her by the wayside when she had taken him to see Edermont.
He looked round the room, as though searching for some means of
escape. One would have thought that the officers of the law were
already at the door, and that he was guilty. Dora knew that this was
not the case, but could not be sure until she heard his explanation.
Suddenly he threw up his hands with a gesture of despair.
"I was mad on that night," he said in a hoarse tone.
Dora drew back with a gasp. Was he about to confess to the crime and
allege temporary insanity by way of excuse? A violent trembling seized
all her limbs, and she was obliged to lean against the table while
waiting for his next words.
"You say Joad saw me?" he asked, looking at her. "Joad can denounce
me?"
"No," she murmured, "he will not denounce you."
"But why should he show me such mercy?" cried Allen with haggard
surprise. "He admires you; he is jealous of me. To get rid of me he
would willingly place a noose round my neck."
"That is true, Allen. But--you are safe from him. He--he has asked me
to be his wife."
"Ah!" said he, jealously seizing her hands. "And you--you---- No!" He
abruptly tossed her hands away. "You could never bring yourself to
marry that wretch, even for fifty thousand pounds."
"He does not wish for that money," said Dora, with a calmness which
surprised herself; "he wants me."
"Like his insolence! Of course you told him that such a thing was
impossible!"
Dora raised her eyes to his with a look of pain.
"How could I?" she said slowly. "He saw you at the Red House on that
night."
"Dora"--Allen again seized her hands--"you are sacrificing yourself to
save me?"
"I can do no less, Allen. I love you. Ah!" she cried, with a burst of
tears, "you will never know how I love you. I have suffered from your
cruelty, your desertion, from your strange silence, but I still love
you, as I have always done. As I cannot be your wife and make you
happy, I can still marry this man and save you from the consequences
of your crime."
"Dora! You do not believe that I am guilty?"
"No, Allen, no; still, I cannot understand. You have refused me your
confidence; you say you were mad on that night. Morally speaking, you
are innocent, I am certain. But still, in a moment of anger----"
"I swear that I did not touch him!" cried Allen violently. "I admit
that I was at the Red House on that night. He asked me to come."
"I guessed that. Joad posted a letter to you."
"Yes, yes. Wait!" He ran into the next room, wherein his desk was
standing, and in two minutes he returned with a paper. "This is his
letter. You see, Edermont asked me to come at midnight to the Red
House--to enter by the postern gate, which he left open for my
admittance."
"He wished to add something to the conversation of the week before,"
said Dora, reading the letter. "But, my poor Allen, this letter rather
condemns than saves you. It shows conclusively that you had an
appointment at the Red House at midnight. And Mr. Edermont was killed
at one o'clock."
"I don't know at what hour he was killed," rejoined Allen, taking back
the letter with a gloomy air. "As I told you, I was mad on that night.
I lost all idea of time. Whether I was in his study at twelve or one I
cannot say, but when I did enter I saw him dead."
"Allen!" Dora uttered a cry of horror. "You saw him dead?"
"He was lying on the floor near the bureau," said Scott, speaking
rapidly. "I see him now in my mind's eye--a limp heap, with his white
hair dappled with blood. The Zulu club, torn from the savage weapons
which decorated the walls, lay near him; his pistol was on the other
side. He was dead--dead! Ah God, dead!"
During this recital Dora had sunk into a chair, overcome by the
vehemence of his words. Allen strode to and fro, swinging his long
arms, with a look of horror on his worn, white face. He pressed his
hands to his eyes, as if to shut out the scene which his too vivid
fancy had painted. Half swooning, Dora uttered a sob, and the next
moment Allen was on his knees beside her, covering her hands with
passionate and burning kisses.
"My queen! my saint!" he said hurriedly; "and you would sacrifice
yourself for me. You would marry this drunkard, this parasite, this
vile reptile, to save me from danger! No, Dora. No, I have been weak
and foolish, but I am not guilty--I swear that I am not guilty. You
shall not shield me at the cost of your own ruin. Oh, if I could only
tell you all! But I dare not, I dare not!"
Carried away by his passion, angered at the sense of his weakness, he
could have kissed her feet. But Dora placed her hand on his forehead
and reasoned calmly with him. He was not to be saved by giving way to
such whirlwinds of passion and despair. The prospect was terrible, but
they must both face it boldly. Allen was innocent. He said so, and she
believed him. That was everything. If he were not guilty, they might
find a way out of the trap into which he had stumbled. To do so, she
must know exactly what took place on that fatal night, and to this end
she addressed her frenzied lover.
"Allen," she said gravely, "this is not the way to save yourself from
arrest, or me from a disgraceful marriage. I have obtained a week's
time from Joad to think matters over. In seven days we can do a great
deal, and we may see a way out of this terrible situation. Sit down
beside me, and tell me exactly what you did on that night."
"I shall not sit down beside you, Dora. I shall remain here at your
feet. Ah, Heaven! to think of that cruel bar which prevents our
marriage! You should know all, but I have not the courage to tell
you."
"Keep silent on that point," said Dora soothingly. "What I want to
know now is the story of that night. You returned from London on the
second, did you not?"
"Yes," he replied in a tired voice. "In that conversation I had with
Edermont he made certain statements which I could not believe. He said
I could verify them in London, and told me how and where I could do
so. I could not rest until I knew the truth, therefore I caught the
express at Selling and went to town. Alas, alas! I found that he had
spoken only too truly, and that you could never be my wife."
Repressing the curiosity which devoured her to learn the terrible
secret of which he spoke, Dora smoothed his hair gently, and asked him
to relate what had taken place on his return from this mysterious
errand. He obeyed her like a child.
"When I came home," he said with thoughtful deliberation, "I found
that letter I showed you awaiting me. Edermont asked me to see him in
his study at midnight on the second of the month. But how he knew that
I should return on that day I cannot guess."
"I can explain," said Dora quietly. "You wrote and told me when you
would return, and I showed the letter to my guardian."
"Why did you do that, Dora--especially when you knew about our
quarrel?"
"I wished to point out to Mr. Edermont that you had gone to London,"
replied Dora, "and, if possible, induce him to explain your reason for
going there."
"Ah, he knew my reason well enough," said Allen with a frown; "but I
suppose he refused to tell you what it was?"
"Naturally. He refused to tell me anything. But now you know how Mr.
Edermont learnt the date of your return, and appointed that midnight
meeting for the date. Go on, Allen."
"I was pleased to get his invitation," continued Allen, picking up the
thread of his story, "as I fancied he might confess something further,
likely to ameliorate the distressing situation in which I was placed
by his previous revelation. I determined, therefore, to obey the
summons, but as it yet wanted three hours till midnight the thought of
the delay worked me into a fever of anxiety. The hopes, the fears, the
vague terrors which beset me drove me nearly wild. I declare, Dora,
that I was like a madman. A hundred ideas came into my head as to how
I might do away with the effect of Edermont's secret and regain you.
But one and all were dismissed, and I felt more helpless than ever.
Only one man could put matters right, and that was the man who put
them wrong; so there was nothing left for it but to wait until I saw
him at midnight."
"Had you any idea that a third person might be present at your
meeting?"
"No. As you see, there is no mention of a third person in the letter,
nor did I see a third person in the study--only the dead man's corpse.
Ugh!"--Allen shuddered--"I shall never forget that horrible sight."
"It was gruesome enough in the morning," said Dora with a shiver, "so
it must have been doubly horrifying at night. Well, did you remain
indoors until you went to the Red House?"
"No. I could not rest; I could not bear the confinement. I felt that I
must be up and doing, so, in sheer despair, I went out on my bicycle.
Where I went I do not know. The night was as bright as day with the
rays of the moon, and I had sufficient sense to guide the machine
rightly, while running blindly along, not knowing or caring whither I
was going. I went up hill and down dale along those weary roads, until
I wore myself out. Physically exhausted, for I must have been riding
at nearly top speed for hours, I turned in the direction of Chillum.
At what time I got there I do not know."
"You had your watch with you?"
"Yes; but in my then perturbed state of mind it never struck me to
look at it."
"Mr. Joad said he saw you pass his cottage shortly before twelve
o'clock."
"It might have been," said Allen indifferently; "but to my mind it was
nearer one o'clock. Indeed, it must have been, for, according to your
showing, the murder was committed about that time, and when I entered
the study I found Edermont dead."
"Dead! Poor soul!" cried Dora, clasping her hands.
"The postern-gate was open," continued Allen rapidly, "also the
side-door of that deserted drawing-room. This did not surprise me, as
I had been led to expect from the letter that the way would be clear
for me to enter. When I went into the study I was struck with horror
at the sight. A candle, wasted nearly to the socket, was burning on
the bureau. The desk itself was hacked and smashed, and the drawers
forced open, as you saw it in the morning. Hundreds of letters and
papers were scattered about, some on the bureau itself, others on the
floor, and in the midst of all this disorder lay the ghastly dead
body, terrible to look at in the pale glimmer of the expiring candle.
The pistol was on one side, the knobkerrie on the other, and the dead
man, with his face and head beaten and disfigured, lay between."
"Did you hear anyone, or see anyone?"
"I heard nothing, I saw nothing. The door leading to the hall was
closed, and there was no sign of the assassin. I saw in a flash the
terrible position in which I was placed. I had quarrelled with
Edermont, and here I was, in his private room at midnight, standing
beside his dead body. I might be accused of the murder, and
condemned on circumstantial evidence--for, on the face of it, I
could make no defence. As I looked with horror on the scene, with
these thoughts in my mind, the candle flamed up in one expiring
flash, then died out in a blue flicker. I was alone in the darkness
with the dead man; and, seized with a sudden panic--surely excusable
under the circumstances--I turned and fled rapidly. In two minutes I
was on my bicycle, running full speed for Canterbury. That is all I
know, Dora."
Dora considered for a few moments after he had finished.
"You are sure that there was nobody else in the Red House on that
night?" she asked, after a pause.
Allen hesitated.
"I did not intend to speak," he murmured; "but for my own sake I must
tell you all. When I was coming into Chillum I met a woman going
towards Canterbury on a bicycle."
"A woman, Allen! And at midnight--alone! Who was she?"
"At the time I passed her I did not know," said the doctor, rising;
"but on my return journey, when I had left the house after the murder,
I met her again, by the railway bridge. She was wheeling her machine
down the hill, and called out to me to help her. The tyre of her back
wheel was punctured. I got off at once, notwithstanding my anxiety to
get home, and, with the aid of guttapercha, I soon mended the tiny
hole. Then we rode on together until our roads parted."
"Do you know who she was?" asked Dora for a second time.
"Yes," said Allen quietly. "I recognised her at once." He produced a
brooch from his waistcoat pocket. "I found this in Edermont's study,
where it had no doubt been dropped by her."
"How do you know?"
"By putting two and two together. Look at the brooch."
Dora did so. It was a slender bar of pale gold, to which two letters
formed of small pearls were attached. She uttered an exclamation of
astonishment as she read them out. "L.B.," she said; "that stands
for----"
"For Laura Burville," finished Allen quickly. "Exactly. Laura Burville
was the woman I met coming from Chillum. And, by the evidence of the
brooch, Laura Burville was the woman who was in Edermont's study on
the midnight of the second of August."