THE FACE AT THE WINDOW
While Harding sat talking to Brennan in the office, Bessie came to him
with a note.
"Mrs. Eustace asked me to give you this, sir," the girl said, as she
handed it to him at the door.
He tore open the envelope. A single sheet of paper was enclosed, on
which was written, "For the sake of the bygone days, come to me."
"Where is Mrs. Eustace?" he asked.
"She's in her room, Mr. Harding, in her little sitting-room."
It was one of the rooms where he had never been, a tiny chamber at the
far end of the passage which she had made into a boudoir. Once he had
seen into it through the open door, seen the daintiness with which it
was decorated, a daintiness redolent of her as he had known her in the
days when, for him, the world held no other woman.
And she had chosen this as the place where they should meet!
He knocked at the door, and heard her voice answer, bidding him to come
in. She was sitting in a cane lounge-chair, listless, pale, and
weary-eyed.
As he entered she gave him one swift glance and then looked away.
"Do you wish to see me, Mrs. Eustace?" he asked in a cold, formal voice.
She did not reply at once, but sat with her head bowed and her hands
loosely clasped in her lap.
"If you will say what you wish to as quickly as you can, I shall be
obliged," he said. "Brennan is in the office, and I have some matters to
arrange with him."
Her head was raised slowly, steadily, until her face was turned full
towards him.
"Will you please arrange them first?" she replied. "I want to say
something which may take some time, and I--I would not inconvenience the
bank."
"I would rather hear what you have to say first, Mrs. Eustace."
She shook her head.
"It is not a matter I can sum up in a few brief sentences," she replied.
"If you cannot arrange things with Brennan and then come to me here,
pray forget I mentioned anything about it."
He moved uneasily as she averted her face and sat back in her chair.
"I will see what I can do," he said shortly, and left the room.
When he returned to the office he found Brennan talking to Bessie, who
had brought him some supper and a couple of blankets with which to make
a bed on the floor. Brennan nodded towards them as Bessie disappeared.
"You know the idea of my being here at all, don't you?" he asked.
"To tell you the truth, I don't," Harding replied.
"The Sub-Inspector fancies someone may try to get back to learn what he
can about our doings. You know who will most likely be asked, and so you
see what it means when, as soon as I am here, and before I say a word
about staying, these things are brought in. As if there is likely to be
any sleep for me with the chance of the Sub-Inspector riding up any hour
and catching me off duty. But it shows what's in the wind, doesn't it?"
"Mrs. Eustace has asked me to discuss something with her," Harding said
quietly. "She knows you are here to-night."
"Oh, yes, Mr. Harding. She knows that, I've no doubt, but how did she or
the girl know I was to be on duty here all the night? Don't you see?
Supposing the Sub-Inspector is right, and a certain person we know wants
to hear all that had happened since he went away, is he likely to come
while I am here? It is not difficult to put a lighted lamp in a window,
or to leave a blind pulled up or drawn down, is it? Anything of the kind
is enough to give him a warning that the coast is clear or that there is
danger ahead."
"Oh, but we can easily stop that," Harding exclaimed. "We can easily
prevent any signal being used."
"If you know what the signal is," Brennan said. "But if you don't know,
what are you to do?"
"We shall have to watch."
"That's it, we shall have to watch and take care nobody knows it,"
Brennan replied in a low tone. "Have you a revolver?"
"No. The one we kept in the bank was stolen from the drawer with the
money."
"Then slip this into your pocket," Brennan said, as he passed a bright
nickel-plated "bull-dog" to Harding. "It's loaded in all the chambers
and has a snap trigger; but it's no good for a long shot, though it
makes as much noise as a service carbine. Don't hesitate to use it if
anything happens--the noise will let me know, and there's no danger of
hitting anyone with it unless you are a better shot than I am."
"But where are you going?"
Brennan jerked his head towards the door.
"You see me off the premises and then tell the girl to fetch those
blankets away again. After that, keep your eyes open and rest assured
that as soon as you let off the barker I've given you, I shall not be
far off. If there is any arrangement such as I have suggested, my going
now will put them off their guard and our gentleman will get the signal
to make his call as expected. Bringing in those blankets has given the
game away--to me it shows just what is in the wind."
When he had seen Brennan off the premises, Harding told Bessie to remove
the blankets from the office, and returned to the little room.
The door was ajar when he reached it, but there was no answer to his
rap. He pushed it open and entered. Mrs. Eustace was not there.
He turned, and came face to face with her as he stood in the doorway,
though he had not heard her approach.
"I did not hear you coming," he exclaimed.
"No, I am wearing light shoes," she answered. "But won't you sit down?
Have you made all your arrangements? I don't want to begin to say what I
wish if you will have to go away before I have finished."
"There is nothing to call me away now. Brennan has gone," he said, as he
took the chair she indicated.
"Before I begin, I must ask you to forgive me for mentioning the subject
at all," she said slowly.
She sat facing him and, up to that moment, had kept her eyes fixed on
him; but as she ceased speaking she glanced aside until her head was
bowed as it had been previously. He took advantage of the opportunity to
give one quick look round. The chair in which he sat was so placed that
the profile of the person occupying it was thrown by the light of the
lamp directly upon the window-blind. The window faced the bush at the
back of the bank.
He moved his chair until his shadow fell on the wall, but then the lamp
was between her and himself, and he could not watch her face.
"I will take this chair," he said shortly, as he stepped to the one
where she had been sitting when he first came to the room. From it he
commanded not only a complete view of her, but also out of the window,
for the blind, pulled down to the full extent, was slightly askew, and
left a space between it and the window-pane. Through that space he could
see across the yard to the fence running round the allotment, and beyond
it to the dark line of the bush, rendered the darker at the moment by
the soft sheen of the rising moon showing above it.
A silence followed his movement, a silence during which she fidgeted
uneasily and impatiently.
"You do not answer," she said presently. "Shall I go on?"
"I am waiting for you to do so," he replied.
"You will forgive me for mentioning this subject?"
"You have not mentioned any subject yet, Mrs. Eustace. I don't know what
it is you wish to talk about."
"I am afraid it is very distasteful to you. I am not surprised if it is,
but--if you knew everything in connection with it, you might think
differently. That is why I want to tell you."
"Yes," he said indifferently, as she paused.
"You do not want to speak of it," she said again. "But I must explain--I
ought to have done so directly you came up here. I want to explain my
conduct to you when I returned your----"
"There is no need," he interrupted her. "That matter was at an end at
once. There is no benefit to be gained by attempting to revive it."
"I do not seek to revive it," she retorted, colouring at his words.
"Surely if I wish to set straight what I know is not straight, I am not
seeking to revive it? I wish to make one thing clear to you. You have
not known Charlie as long as I have. Neither do you know him as well as
I do. In the face of the accusations made by that police inspector
anything may be said or suspected."
He did not reply, and she went on.
"You, hearing Charlie painted in the blackest colours, are not likely to
raise any protest either to yourself or to anyone else. You will rather
believe all ill of him and will most likely impute things to him he
never did. One thing I do not want blamed on to him. Those letters and
things which were sent back to you, I sent--I sent them entirely
myself--Charlie did not send them--I sent them."
She looked up at him quickly and then away as though she feared to meet
his eyes.
"Is that all you wished to tell me?" he asked.
"I wished to tell you--all about it. I do not want you to blame Charlie.
It was not his fault--nothing was his fault. I was a silly, flighty girl
and fancied myself in love with everyone, whereas, really, I never cared
at all, not until I met him. I don't want you to think he was to blame,
because, if you do, you may want to be revenged on him, and now you have
this opportunity you may take it. If you believe me and realise he had
nothing whatever to do with my changing my mind, more than to come into
my life, as he did, then you may sympathise with him in his present
trouble and save him all you can."
She did not attempt to look at him again as she spoke. He leaned back in
his chair and turned his glance away from her, away to the space between
the window and the blind. The first glint of the moon was stealing over
the dark line of the bush and spreading over the open country between it
and the line of fence. He could see, indistinctly, what seemed to be a
heavy shadow moving slowly away from the trees.
"It is a subject on which I would rather say nothing, Mrs. Eustace," he
said presently, without removing his eyes from the window. "If you wish
to speak about it, and you think it will ease your mind in any way, I
will listen to all you wish to say. But do not expect me to reply to
you. Do not expect me to express any opinion. I do not wish to appear
harsh, but I must tell you that so far as I am concerned, the curtain
was rung down upon the last act of my romance when my letters were
returned--was rung down to remain down for ever."
"I was afraid it would be a distasteful subject to you," she said; "but
I must talk about it--I must. I have wanted to tell you for so long--I
wanted to write to you and explain after the things were sent off,
but--but it was so difficult. I felt how horrible it was of me, how
horrible and how mean, never to say one word, but just throw everything
in your face after--after all you had done for me. I deserve to suffer
what I am going through now--I deserve everything. It was so
contemptible of me to allow myself to be--to do what I did," she added
quickly, and he felt rather than saw the way she glanced at him, for he
was still staring out through the narrow opening between the window and
the blind, away at the curious dark shadowy patch which was slowly
moving further and further away from the line of thickly growing trees.
"Won't you say one word? Not even that you forgive me?"
Her voice was soft and gentle--the voice he remembered having heard so
often in the bygone days--the days for whose sake she had appealed to
him to come to her. He leaned forward in his chair, staring through the
little slit of space between the blind and the window, intent upon
distinguishing what it was he saw, resenting what he believed to be her
efforts to beguile him.
"Do you hate me so much?"
Scarcely above a whisper the words reached him, a whisper with tears in
it, and his heart shrank at the sound. He turned quickly towards her.
She started impulsively to her feet and held out her hands to him.
"Fred!" she exclaimed.
He sat unmoved, for the shadow in the distance was growing more and more
distinct, and the suspicion with which he regarded her drove away every
particle of commiseration, and made him blind to the emotion welling up
in her eyes, hostile to the pathos in her voice.
She clasped her hands and let them drop limply in front of her as she
sank into her chair again.
"Oh, I am so lonely, so lonely," she murmured, "I don't know what to do.
If you would only help me. I know I behaved horribly to you, vilely; but
surely--surely you have some pity for me in my misfortune. I have no one
to turn to--no one--no one. If you would only help me to understand--if
you would only talk the matter over with me, it would be some relief."
"There can be no benefit in talking over what has passed--the best thing
is to forget it ever happened. That is what I have striven to do. If you
returned my letters of your own free will, you were merely exercising a
right to which you were perfectly entitled. You preferred Eustace to
me, that is all."
"All?" she echoed in a tone of amazement. "All? Is that what you
thought? Is that what you think?"
"What else can I think?" he retorted. "If you chose for yourself----"
She sprang up and faced him with widely opened, gleaming eyes.
"I did not," she cried. "I did not. There! Now you know. It was a----"
She stopped abruptly, staring with eyes so full of entreaty that he
looked away from her lest the emotion roused by her words, by her
attitude and her eyes, carried him away at a moment when he required
above all things complete self-control. To avoid her eyes he turned once
more to the window--the moving shadow had grown clearer--it had split in
twain, and he could distinctly see the forms of two horsemen riding
swiftly towards the bank.
The sight sent a chill through him; he recoiled from the woman whose
pleading a moment before had thrilled him, recoiled from her as from
some reptile. While she was appealing to him, pleading with him, the man
she was expecting--whom she was even ready to vilify in order to throw
dust in the eyes of the one who was a menace to him--was coming in
response, probably, to a signal given by the clear, lamp-lit
window-blind.
He faced her where she stood, his eyes hard and cold, his mouth set
stern.
"I prefer not to hear anything further on the subject," he said in a
measured tone. "It is a subject which does not now concern me."
"Fred!"
Despite his anger, despite the resentment the spectacle of those two
riders had roused within him, the anguish in her voice cut him. Her
eyes, fixed on his, were filled with intense sorrow, her face went
ashen.
"Oh, Fred! I----"
She swayed as she stood, staggered, and sank into the chair between the
lamp and the window, flinging her arms out over the table and burying
her head upon them as she gave vent to a fit of sobbing. But as she
moved, her shadow swept across the blind.
He looked out again upon the moonlit scene--the horsemen had passed from
the field of vision. He leaned forward to get a wider view, but there
was no further sign of them--it was as though the shadow passing across
the blind had been a danger signal on which they had acted immediately
it was given.
He wondered whether Brennan had seen them, whether he was also on the
look out or was waiting hidden somewhere until he heard the warning
shot. Harding was to fire in the event of anything happening. Ought he
to fire now? Ought he to give the alarm or wait, lest the sound of the
shot warned the two horsemen as well as alarmed Brennan?
Leaning forward, with his attention riveted as he gazed through the
narrow slit, he scarcely noticed that Mrs. Eustace had ceased to
sob--the sudden appearance of her head, in shadow, upon the blind, made
him start to his feet.
"Put out that lamp," he exclaimed, but before she could move he was past
her and had blown out the flame.
"Fred! What is it?" she asked in an agitated whisper.
"Silence," he said fiercely, as he crept back to the window and stooped
to peer into the night.
Along the fence which formed the boundary of the bank's ground, the
fence Durham had pointed out as the one over which Eustace must have
made his escape, he saw the figure of a man stealthily creeping.
He thrust his hand into the pocket where he had slipped the revolver
Brennan had given him.
"Fred! Fred! What do you see?" he heard Mrs. Eustace whisper, and in the
dim obscurity he saw her come to his side.
"Quiet," he said harshly.
Both her hands, trembling, touched his arm.
"Tell me," she whispered; "I will be brave. Who is it you see?"
The thin streak of moonlight falling through the narrow space between
the blind and the window glinted on the bright barrel of the revolver,
as he drew it from his pocket.
She fell on her knees beside him, her arms flung round him, her voice in
his ear.
"Oh, Fred--no, not that! Is it Charlie? Oh, don't--don't----"
He pushed her back roughly, his eyes straining to catch another glimpse
of the creeping figure which had gone out of sight as he raised his
revolver ready to fire.
"Oh, no, no! Don't shoot him! Don't, Fred, don't! He----"
Her words ended in a shriek, for even as she spoke there appeared
outside the window, showing clear with the moonlight falling full upon
it, the face of a yellow-bearded man. Harding wrested himself free from
her clinging arms, leapt to the window, and tore the blind away.
The form of the man, running swiftly, was disappearing amongst the
bushes.
Heedless of the glass in front of him, of the terrified woman at his
knees, Harding raised his revolver and fired.
As the shivered glass crashed to the ground, the report of other shots,
fired in rapid succession, came from outside, and across the patch of
grass, firing as he ran, Brennan dashed after the runaway.
Harding scrambled through the broken window and ran after him.
From behind the clustering shrubs which formed a screen in front of the
chicken-run, there came the sound of horses galloping. Brennan stopped
as he heard it. When Harding caught up to him, he was rapidly reloading
his revolver.
"He's slipped us," he cried. "The sub-inspector has my horse, and
ordered me not to leave the bank till he came back. And there's that
scoundrel riding away from under our noses!"
"Did you see him?" Harding exclaimed.
"See him? Wasn't I crawling on him round the house when she screamed
out to him, and you fired? Another two minutes and I had him, yellow
beard and all. Now we know who the man was who called at the bank to
cash a cheque after hours. Anyhow, I'll have the woman safe before she
can do any more mischief. I'll arrest her right away, and the girl as
well. They're both in the game, if you ask me."