POISON
“Johnny! Johnny! Have you gone to sleep, dear? There is someone here to
see you.”
“Eh?” Johnny started into wakefulness, he huddled his untidy papers
together. “I must have been dozing off. I was thinking. Con, is Gipsy
back yet?”
“Not yet, and I am getting a little anxious about her; it is almost
dusk. But there is someone here asking for you.”
“Who?”
“A man, a—a—gentleman, I suppose. He looks as if he has been drinking,
though.”
“A nice sort of visitor for a Sunday evening. What is his name, Con?”
“Slotman.”
“Don’t know it. I suppose I’d better see him. Wait, I’ll light the
lamp. If Ellice isn’t back soon I shall go and hunt for her. Do you
know which direction she went in?”
“I—I think—” Connie hesitated; she was never any good at concealment.
“I think she went towards Starden.”
“Then when we’ve got rid of this fellow I’ll get out the car and go and
find her. Show him in, Con.”
Mr. Philip Slotman, looking shaken, bearing on his face several patches
of court plaster, which were visible, and in his breast a black fury
that was invisible, came in.
“Mr. Slotman?”
“Yes, you are Mr. Everard?”
Johnny nodded pleasantly. “If it is business, Sunday evening is hardly
the time—”
“It is personal and private business, Mr. Everard.”
The man, Johnny decided, was not, as Con had supposed, drunk, but he
had evidently been in the wars. It was surprising the number of places
in which he seemed to be wounded. He walked stiffly, he carried his
right arm stiffly. His face was decorated with plaster, and his
obviously very good clothes were torn; for what Hugh Alston had
commenced so ably last night, Rundle had completed this morning.
“It is private and personal, my business with you. I understand you are
engaged to be married to a lady in whom I have felt some interest.”
Johnny looked up and stiffened.
“Well?”
“I allude to Miss Joan Meredyth, for some time engaged by me as a
typist in my city office.”
“Well?”
“Miss Meredyth did not always hold the position in society that she
does now.”
“I am aware of that.”
“There may be a great deal that you are not aware of,” said Slotman;
and Slotman was quivering with rage at the indignities he had been
subjected to.
“You will forgive me,” said Johnny, “but I do not propose to discuss my
future wife with a stranger—with anyone at all, in fact, and certainly
not with a stranger.”
“And you will forgive me,” said Slotman, “but when you have heard what
I have to say, I very much doubt if you will regard Miss Joan Meredyth
in the light of your future wife.”
Johnny moved towards the door and opened it.
“I think it will be better if you go,” he said quietly.
“If you do, you will be sorry when it is too late. I come here as a
friend—”
“You will go!”
“In June, nineteen hundred and eighteen, when Joan Meredyth was a girl
at school—”
“I have told you that I will not listen.”
“She gave it out that she was leaving England for Australia. She never
went in reality, she—
“Once more I order you to go before I—”
“In reality she was living with Mr. Hugh Alston as his wife—”
Philip Slotman laughed nervously.
“Liar!”
“I had to tell you in spite of yourself, and it is true. It is true.
Ask Lady Linden of Cornbridge; she knows. She believes to this day that
Joan Meredyth and Alston were married, and they never were. I have
searched the registers at Marlbury and—”
“Will you go? You seem to have been hurt. You have probably carried
this lying story elsewhere and have received what you merited. I hardly
like to touch you now, but unless you go—”
“I am going.” Slotman moved stiffly towards the door. “Ask Lady Linden
of Cornbridge. She believes to this day that Joan Meredyth is Hugh
Alston’s wife.”
“By heavens! If you don’t go—”
Slotman glanced at him; he saw that he was over-stepping the
danger-line. Yes, he must go, and quickly, so he went. But he had
planted the venom; he had left it behind him. He had forced this man to
hear, even though he would not listen.
“First blow,” Slotman thought, “the first blow at her! And I ain’t done
yet! no, I ain’t done yet. I’ll make her writhe—”
He paused. He had not carried out his intention in full, this man had
not given him time. Of course, if it was only Joan’s money that this
fellow Everard was after, the story would make little or no difference.
The marriage would go on all the same, if it was a matter of money,
but—
Philip Slotman retraced his painful steps. Once again he tapped on the
door of Buddesby.
“There was something that I wished to say to Mr. Everard that I
entirely forgot—a small matter,” he said to the servant. “Don’t
trouble, I know the way.”
He pushed past the girl into the house. Johnny, staring before him into
vacancy, trying to realise this incredible, impossible thing that the
man had told him, started. He looked up. In the doorway stood Mr.
Slotman.
“By Heaven!” said Johnny, and sprang up. “If you don’t go—”
“Wait! You don’t think I should be such a fool as to come to you with a
lying story, a story that could not be substantiated? What I have told
you is the truth. You may not believe it, because you don’t want to.
You are marrying a young lady with ample possessions; that may weigh
with you. Now, rightly or wrongly, I hold that Miss Meredyth owes me a
certain sum of money. I want that money. It doesn’t matter to me
whether I get it from her or from you. If you like to pay her debt, I
will guarantee silence. I shall carry this true story no further if you
will undertake to pay me immediately following your marriage with her
the sum of ten thousand—”
In spite of his stiffness and his sores, Mr. Slotman turned; he fled,
he ran blindly down the hall, undid the hall door, and let himself out,
and then without a glance behind, he fled across the wide garden till
he reached the road, panting and shaking. And now for the first time he
looked back, and as he did so a blinding white glare seemed to strike
his eyes; he staggered, and tried to spring aside. Then something
struck him, and the black world about him seemed to vomit tongues of
red and yellow flame.
The occupants of the fast-travelling touring car felt the horrible jolt
the car gave. A woman shrieked. The chauffeur shouted an oath born of
fear and horror as he applied his brakes. He stood up, yet for a moment
scarcely dared to look back. The woman in the car was moaning with the
shock of it; and when he looked he saw something lying motionless, a
dark patch against the dim light on the road.