KNIGHT-ERRANT
Of all the eventualities which might spring out of the affair which
was just then monopolizing all his thought, this was the last of which
Richard would ever have dreamed. He stood in the hall of the flat
staring at Kedgin as if the man had given him unbelievable news. It
was only with difficulty that he brought his mind round to an accurate
comprehension of what Kedgin meant.
“Here?” he said at last. “Here?”
Kedgin coughed behind an uplifted and trembling hand.
“Yes-es, sir--here,” he answered. “In the--the smaller bedroom, sir.
I--I haven’t seen the lady this morning. But--I know she’s there, sir.”
Richard continued to stare at his servant. He was not looking at
Kedgin, however--he was seeing probabilities and possibilities.
“If--if you would kindly step inside, sir,” suggested Kedgin,
diffidently, “I would tell you all about it, sir. The fact is, sir,
I am thoroughly upset--especially since I read the newspapers this
morning, sir, which I dare say you have seen?”
“I’ve seen them,” answered Richard. He walked into the dining-room,
motioning Kedgin to follow him. “Tell me all about it,” he said. “Sit
down, man--and help yourself to a drop of brandy first--why, you’re
trembling like a leaf! Here--I’ll give you some.”
“I’m very sorry, sir--it’s weak of me, no doubt,” said Kedgin, taking
the glass which Richard handed him, “but I’ve been that frightened.
You see, sir, I didn’t know what to do--and I couldn’t help thinking
that--that Mrs. Walsingham, sir, had gone--mad, sir!”
“Mad?” exclaimed Richard. “Why?”
“General behaviour, sir,” replied Kedgin. He sipped at the brandy,
and shook his head. “I never got a wink of sleep all night, sir,” he
continued. “You see, sir, my wife is away just now, as perhaps you
remember, so I’d nobody to talk to about--about this. And then, when I
got the newspapers this morning, of course, I was worse alarmed than
ever. It gave me quite a shock, sir, when I heard your key in the
latch.”
“Well, I’m here, now,” said Richard. “Tell me how Mrs. Walsingham came
here. When was it?”
“It was last night, sir,” answered Kedgin. “It must have been about
ten o’clock. It was dark, anyhow. As I said, my wife is away, so I was
getting a bit of supper alone. Most of the doors were open--I’d left
them open because it was a close night and I wanted to air the rooms.
I heard a latch-key in the outer door; then I heard somebody come in,
very light of foot, sir. I knew it wasn’t either you or the Captain,
sir, because of that. Whoever it was, walked into the drawing-room,
and, of course, I followed. And you could have knocked me down, sir,
when I saw a nun standing there--all black, sir--it gave me a real
turn!”
“Well?” said Richard.
“Then, sir, it spoke,” continued Kedgin, “and I recognized Mrs.
Walsingham’s voice. ‘Well, Kedgin,’ she says, ‘did you think I was
a ghost?’ ‘Well, ma’am,’ I says, ‘you gave me a fright.’ ‘Then you
can give me a brandy-and-soda, Kedgin,’ she says. ‘That’ll be a fair
exchange,’ and she laughed in a very queer way, sir. ‘It’ll look
odd to see a nun drinking brandy-and-soda,’ she says; ‘but never
mind--there’s nobody but you to see, Kedgin.’ ‘No, ma’am,’ I says,
and I went to get her what she wanted; but first, I turned the light
on. And then I was more frightened than ever, sir, for she was nearly
as white as the white thing about her face, and her eyes glowed like
coals, and she smiled at me--it makes me queer to think of it, sir!”
“Then don’t think of it. Go on with your story,” said Richard.
“Well, sir, I got her what she wanted,” said Kedgin, “and she sat
down there and drank it, but she didn’t say anything for some time,
though I waited about wondering what she was after. And at last she
says--‘Kedgin,’ she says, ‘Mr. Shrewsbury and Mr. Burgoyne are in
Paris, aren’t they?’ she says. ‘They are, Mrs. Walsingham,’ I says.
‘Then,’ says she, ‘I’m going to stay here all night. It’s no use
talking to me about it,’ she says, ‘nor asking me any questions about
it,’ she says. ‘I’m dead tired out,’ she says, ‘and I’m going to have
the small room.’ And she walked straight over to it, sir, and opened
the door, and looked in, and then she looked back at me and put her
hand in her bag, and brought out something and threw it on the table.
‘I don’t know whether your wife is in or not, Kedgin,’ she says, ‘but
if she is, there’s something for both of you. Only hold your tongues
until morning, and don’t disturb me for--anything,’ she says, giving
me a queer look. ‘I’m dead beat,’ she says. And with that, sir, she
went into that room, and locked the door, and out of it she hasn’t been
since. And, of course, sir,” concluded Kedgin, looking fearfully at the
closed door, “of course, I read the newspaper this morning, and then I
knew what had happened.”
“You’ve not seen nor heard of her since she went in there?” asked
Richard.
“Neither sight nor sound, sir,” replied Kedgin. “I was getting
uncommonly afraid when you came. You--you don’t think she’s--made away
with herself, sir, do you?”
Richard started at the suggestion. After all, it was possible. In spite
of the deception which she had practised on him, he believed that he
knew something of Sylvie, and he thought her not unlikely, if forced
into a tight corner, to end everything by ending her own life.
“I hope not, Kedgin!” he said anxiously. “You say you’ve heard nothing
of her this morning?”
“Nothing, sir. I’ve been in and out since--oh, since a very early hour,
and I’ve heard not a sound,” answered Kedgin. “I thought, sir, as how
she might have taken some of those sleeping things--there’s a good many
ladies does, nowadays.”
“Of course, nobody knows that she’s here?” said Richard.
“So far as I know, sir,” replied Kedgin. “It was dark when she came.
She may have slipped in unobserved. I’ve been down to the door twice
this morning, and the porter hasn’t mentioned it. About the time she
came in he goes off to get his supper, as a rule, so he probably wasn’t
there, sir.”
“Well, we’ll wait a little,” said Richard. Then he remembered that
Burgoyne had spoken of bringing Blair to the flat. “They mustn’t come
at present,” he thought, and he went to the telephone and rang Blair
up. Burgoyne, he found, had just arrived at Blair’s rooms--he invented
an excuse for putting them off coming round to Berkeley Square and made
an appointment to meet them at lunch later on. And this done, he went
back to Kedgin, and incidentally looking at his watch, saw that it was
ten o’clock.
“I’ll knock at the door, Kedgin,” he said. “I don’t like to think
there’s anything wrong, but surely she can’t be sleeping--at least,
naturally--all this time.”
There was no response to Richard’s first summons, and a second and
louder knock also produced no answer. And then, just as Richard was
beginning to be seriously concerned, and Kedgin was hinting at the
probable necessity of breaking into the room, the door suddenly opened
and Mrs. Walsingham confronted them.
She was still in the nun’s garments in which she had escaped from her
flat, and their sombre hue made her white face look all the whiter. But
Richard drew back from her not so much in surprise at her white face as
at the change which had come over her since he had last seen her. She
seemed to have been suddenly transformed into a worn and haggard woman
of uncertain age. There was no colour in her cheeks now; the sparkle
had gone out of her eyes; her lips were almost bloodless; about her
mouth were heavy wrinkles. She seemed altogether transformed, and, as
he gazed at her, Richard found himself wondering that a human being
could be so suddenly changed.
For a moment the three stared at each other in a painful silence; then
the woman pointed to Kedgin.
“Go away,” she said. “I want to speak to your master.”
Kedgin, at a nod from Richard, went out, and Mrs. Walsingham came
into the dining-room and sat down, with a weary gesture. She looked
at Richard out of dull eyes; never had he seen her so apathetic, so
listless, before. And when she spoke he was astonished at the altered
tone of her voice--she spoke as if she had no energy left in her.
“I had a sort of notion that it might be you,” she said, gazing at him
as she might have gazed at some inanimate object. “I suppose you were
surprised to hear that I was in the place. But I’d nowhere to go--I
couldn’t get out of London last night. Perhaps I shan’t be able to get
out this morning. I don’t know what may be known. And I’m forgetting--I
don’t know whether you know anything.”
There was a copy of a morning newspaper lying on the table by which
she was sitting, and Richard silently pointed her to it. She drew it
towards her and looked at the big letters which ran across the top of
half a page. Even then her listlessness and apathy never seemed to
leave her; she read without seeming interest, and Richard, watching her
narrowly, looked in vain for any sign of excitement or fear or, indeed,
of any emotion.
“Yes,” she said presently, as if in comment on what she read, “but
Carsdale hadn’t anything to do with it. I didn’t know Carsdale was
coming. I expect you’ve read all that?--it seems to have been found out
very soon,” she continued, turning to Richard.
“I have read it,” he answered.
“It’s quite true I shot Werrick,” she said. “I shot him on the spur of
the moment--I fired at him as soon as I saw his face. Well--and I don’t
wonder that I did. Last night I felt keen about getting away--I thought
I could from here. But this morning I feel--I don’t know. I suppose
I had better give myself up. I’m beaten. I’m tired. I had to take a
sleeping-draught last night. Perhaps it hasn’t worn off. Will you give
me some tea?”
Richard hastily gave Kedgin an order and went back to the dining-room.
She was bending over the newspaper again--it was that in which he had
seen the later news of the discovery of the securities and the tickets
for Buenos Aires on Carsdale. She looked up, tapping the paragraph.
“What’s this mean?” she said. “I don’t know anything about that.
Carsdale must have been on his way to ask me to go with him. What a
muddle! But I didn’t know. Two hundred thousand! That would be your
money. I’ve got a lot of that, too. Never mind--you’ll get it back,
because I don’t think I shall get away, now.”
“What are you going to do--what am I to do for you?” asked Richard. “We
must do something. Tell me--what were you going to do?”
She looked at him out of dull eyes for a few seconds as if she did not
comprehend his question. He repeated it.
“Yes,” she answered suddenly. “I was going to Vienna. Now I remember.
I made arrangements about transferring money to Vienna at the
Anglo-Austrian Bank. Yes--Vienna. I should have got on there.”
Kedgin came in with the tea. She glanced at him sharply.
“Give me some brandy in it,” she said.
Richard moved uneasily, but Kedgin, with a meaning glance at his
master, poured a liberal dose of brandy into the cup before he handed
it to her. And at the first sip Richard saw her eyes brighten and more
intelligence come into her face. She looked at him with a strange,
doubtful glance.
“You see, I hadn’t anywhere to turn to but--this,” she said. “I knew
I should be safe here for the night--I managed to slip in unobserved.
I--I suppose I shall have to give myself up now, though.”
“I wish I knew what to do!” groaned Richard. “Can’t--can’t we think of
some way of getting you out of the country?”
She looked down at her clinging garments.
“What--in these?” she said. “Not very likely.”
“But--in some other way?” he suggested. “Come--think!”
She looked at him dully, and shook her head.
“I can’t,” she said. “I’m tired out. You don’t understand--nobody could
understand. It’s the--the strain. I feel as if I didn’t want anything
but--to sleep.”
Then she suddenly drank off the tea and, with another strange look at
Richard, went into the room in which she had passed the night. And
Richard sorely disturbed and perplexed, sought Kedgin. For something
would have to be done, some help sought. Neither Burgoyne nor Blair,
seemed to be the right sort of persons to turn to.
Richard, turning things over in his mind, received an inspiration.
Bidding Kedgin to keep strict guard over the flat and its inmate, he
hurried out, hailed a passing taxi-cab, and drove off to Maida Vale to
seek the help of Frances Leverton.