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diff --git a/78084-h/78084-h.htm b/78084-h/78084-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ab22d76 --- /dev/null +++ b/78084-h/78084-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,10803 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <title> + The Mysterious Mr. Quin | Project Gutenberg + </title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <style> + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + + h1,h2,h3 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; +} + +p { + margin-top: .51em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .49em; +} + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: 33.5%; + margin-right: 33.5%; + clear: both; +} + +hr.tb {width: 45%; margin-left: 27.5%; margin-right: 27.5%;} +hr.chap {width: 65%; margin-left: 17.5%; margin-right: 17.5%;} +@media print { hr.chap {display: none; visibility: hidden;} } +hr.full {width: 95%; margin-left: 2.5%; margin-right: 2.5%;} +div.chapter {page-break-before: always;} +h2.nobreak {page-break-before: avoid;} + +x-ebookmaker-drop {display: none;} + +.center {text-align: center;} + +.right {text-align: right;} + +.smcap { font-variant:small-caps; } + +/* Images */ +.figcenter { + margin: auto; + text-align: center; + page-break-inside: avoid; + max-width: 100%; +} + +div.titlepage { + text-align: center; + page-break-before: always; + page-break-after: always; +} + +div.titlepage p { + text-align: center; + text-indent: 0em; + font-weight: bold; + line-height: 1.5; + margin-top: 3em; +} + +/* Poetry */ +.poetry-container {display: flex; justify-content: center;} +.poetry-container {text-align: center;} +.poetry {text-align: left; margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%;} +.poetry .stanza {margin: 1em auto;} +.poetry .verse {text-indent: -3em; padding-left: 3em;} +.poetry .indent0 {text-indent: -3em;} +.poetry .indent4 {text-indent: -1em;} + +.blockquot { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +table { + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; +} + +table.autotable { border-collapse: collapse; } +table.autotable td, +table.autotable th { padding: 4px; } + +.tdl {text-align: left;} +.tdr {text-align: right;} +.tdc {text-align: center;} + +.ph1 { text-align: center; text-indent: 0em; } +.ph1 { font-size: x-large; margin: .83em auto; } + +.ph2 { text-align: right; text-indent: 0em; } +.ph2 { font-size: medium; margin: .83em auto; } + + </style> +</head> +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78084 ***</div> + +<div class="titlepage"> + +<h1>The Mysterious Mr. Quin</h1> + +<p class="ph1">Agatha Christie</p> + +<p><i>Copyright 1930 by Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc.</i><br> +<i>Copyright © renewed 1958 by Agatha Christie Mallowan.</i></p> + +</div> + +<hr class="chap"> + +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> + +<table> +<tr><td class="tdl"><a href="#The_Coming_of_Mr_Quin"><span class="smcap">The Coming of Mr. Quin</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><a href="#The_Shadow_on_the_Glass"><span class="smcap">The Shadow on the Glass</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><a href="#At_the_Bells_and_Motley"><span class="smcap">At the Bells and Motley</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><a href="#The_Sign_in_the_Sky"><span class="smcap">The Sign in the Sky</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><a href="#The_Soul_of_the_Croupier"><span class="smcap">The Soul of the Croupier</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><a href="#The_Worlds_End"><span class="smcap">The World's End</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><a href="#The_Voice_in_the_Dark"><span class="smcap">The Voice in the Dark</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><a href="#The_Face_of_Helen"><span class="smcap">The Face of Helen</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><a href="#The_Dead_Harlequin"><span class="smcap">The Dead Harlequin</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><a href="#The_Bird_With_the_Broken_Wing"><span class="smcap">The Bird With the Broken Wing</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><a href="#The_Man_From_the_Sea"><span class="smcap">The Man From the Sea</span></a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><a href="#Harlequins_Lane"><span class="smcap">Harlequin's Lane</span></a></td></tr> +</table> + +<hr class="chap"> + +<h2><span class="smcap">The Mysterious Mr. Quin</span></h2> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="The_Coming_of_Mr_Quin"><span class="smcap">The Coming of Mr. Quin</span></h2> +</div> + + +<p>It was New Year's Eve. The elder members of the house party at Royston +were assembled in the big hall.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite was glad that the young people had gone to bed. He +was not fond of young people in herds. He thought them uninteresting +and crude. They lacked subtlety and as life went on he had become +increasingly fond of subtleties.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite was sixty-two—a little bent, dried-up man with a +peering face oddly elflike, and an intense and inordinate interest in +other people's lives. All his life, so to speak, he had sat in the +front row of the stalls watching various dramas of human nature unfold +before him. His role had always been that of the onlooker. Only now, +with old age holding him in its clutch, he found himself increasingly +critical of the drama submitted to him. He demanded now something a +little out of the common.</p> + +<p>There was no doubt that he had a flair for these things. He knew +instinctively when the elements of drama were at hand. Like a war +horse, he sniffed the scent. Since his arrival at Royston this +afternoon, that strange inner sense of his had stirred and bid him be +ready. Something interesting was happening or going to happen.</p> + +<p>The house party was not a large one. There was Tom Evesham, their +genial good-humored host, and his serious political wife, who had been +before her marriage Lady Laura Keene. There was Sir Richard Conway, +soldier, traveler, and sportsman, there were six or seven young people +whose names Mr. Satterthwaite had not grasped, and there were the +Portals.</p> + +<p>It was the Portals who interested Mr. Satterthwaite.</p> + +<p>He had never met Alec Portal before but he knew all about him, had +known his father and his grandfather. Alec Portal ran pretty true to +type. He was a man of close on forty, fair-haired, and blue-eyed like +all the Portals, fond of sport, good at games, devoid of imagination. +Nothing unusual about Alec Portal. The usual good, sound English stock.</p> + +<p>But his wife was different. She was, Mr. Satterthwaite knew, an +Australian. Portal had been out in Australia two years ago, had met her +out there, and had married her and brought her home. She had never been +to England previous to her marriage. All the same, she wasn't at all +like any other Australian woman Mr. Satterthwaite had met.</p> + +<p>He observed her now covertly. Interesting woman—very. So still, and +yet so—alive. Alive! That was just it! Not exactly beautiful—no, you +wouldn't call her beautiful, but there was a kind of calamitous magic +about her that you couldn't miss—that no man could miss. The masculine +side of Mr. Satterthwaite spoke there, but the feminine side (for Mr. +Satterthwaite had a large share of femininity), was equally interested +in another question: Why did Mrs. Portal dye her hair?</p> + +<p>No other man would probably have known that she dyed her hair, but Mr. +Satterthwaite knew. He knew all those things. And it puzzled him. Many +dark women dye their hair blond; he had never before come across a fair +woman who dyed her hair black.</p> + +<p>Everything about her intrigued him. In a queer intuitive way, he felt +certain that she was either very happy or very unhappy—but he didn't +know which, and it annoyed him not to know. Furthermore, there was the +curious effect she had upon her husband.</p> + +<p><i>He adores her</i>, said Mr. Satterthwaite to himself, <i>but sometimes +he's—yes, afraid of her! That's very interesting. That's uncommonly +interesting.</i></p> + +<p>Portal drank too much. That was certain. And he had a curious way of +watching his wife when she wasn't looking.</p> + +<p><i>Nerves</i>, said Mr. Satterthwaite. <i>The fellow's all nerves. She knows +it too, but she won't do anything about it.</i></p> + +<p>He felt very curious about the pair of them. Something was going on +that he couldn't fathom.</p> + +<p>He was roused from his meditations on the subject by the solemn chiming +of a big clock.</p> + +<p>"Twelve o'clock," said Evesham. "New Year's Day. Happy New +Year—everybody. As a matter of fact, that clock's five minutes fast. I +don't know why the children wouldn't wait up and see the New Year in."</p> + +<p>"I don't suppose for a minute they've really gone to bed," said his +wife placidly. "They're probably putting hairbrushes or something in +our beds. That sort of thing does so amuse them. I can't think why. We +should never have been allowed to do such a thing in my young day."</p> + +<p>"<i>Autre temps, autre moeurs</i>," said Conway, smiling.</p> + +<p>He was a tall soldierly-looking man. Both he and Evesham were much of +the same type—honest, upright, kindly men with no great pretensions to +brains.</p> + +<p>"In my young days we all joined hands in a circle and sang 'Auld Lang +Syne,'" continued Lady Laura. "'Should auld acquaintance be forgot'—so +touching, I always think the words are."</p> + +<p>Evesham moved uneasily. "Oh! drop it, Laura," he muttered. "<i>Not here!</i>"</p> + +<p>He strode across the wide hall where they were sitting, and switched on +an extra light.</p> + +<p>"Very stupid of me," said Lady Laura, <i>sotto voce</i>. "Reminds him of +poor Mr. Capel, of course. My dear, is the fire too hot for you?"</p> + +<p>Eleanor Portal had made a brusque movement. "Thank you. I'll move my +chair back a little."</p> + +<p>What a lovely voice she had—one of those low, murmuring, echoing +voices that stay in your memory, thought Mr. Satterthwaite. Her face +was in shadow now. What a pity.</p> + +<p>From her place in the shadow she spoke again. "Mr.—Capel?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. The man who originally owned this house. He shot himself, you +know. Oh! very well, Tom dear, I won't speak of it unless you like. +It was a great shock for Tom, of course, because he was here when it +happened. So were you, weren't you, Sir Richard?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, Lady Laura."</p> + +<p>An old grandfather clock in the corner groaned, wheezed, snorted +asthmatically, and then struck twelve.</p> + +<p>"Happy New Year," grunted Evesham perfunctorily.</p> + +<p>Lady Laura wound up her knitting with some deliberation. "Well, we've +seen the New Year in," she observed, and added, looking toward Mrs. +Portal, "What do you think, my dear?"</p> + +<p>Eleanor Portal rose quickly to her feet. "Bed, by all means," she said +lightly.</p> + +<p><i>She's very pale</i>, thought Mr. Satterthwaite, as he too rose, and began +busying himself with candlesticks. <i>She's not usually as pale as that.</i></p> + +<p>He lighted her candle and handed it to her with a funny little +old-fashioned bow. She took it from him with a word of acknowledgment, +and went slowly up the stairs.</p> + +<p>Suddenly a very odd impulse swept over Mr. Satterthwaite. He wanted to +go after her—to reassure her—he had the strangest feeling that she +was in danger of some kind. The impulse died down, and he felt ashamed. +<i>He</i> was getting nervy too.</p> + +<p>She hadn't looked at her husband as she went up the stairs, but now she +turned her head over her shoulder and gave him a long, searching glance +which had a queer intensity in it. It affected Mr. Satterthwaite very +oddly.</p> + +<p>He found himself saying good night to his hostess in quite a flustered +manner.</p> + +<p>"I'm sure I hope it <i>will</i> be a happy New Year," Lady Laura was saying. +"But the political situation seems to me to be fraught with grave +uncertainty."</p> + +<p>"I'm sure it is," said Mr. Satterthwaite earnestly. "I'm sure it is."</p> + +<p>"I only hope," continued Lady Laura, without the least change of +manner, "that it will be a dark man who first crosses the threshold. +You know that superstition, I suppose, Mr. Satterthwaite? No? You +surprise me. To bring luck to the house it must be a dark man who first +steps over the door step on New Year's Day. Dear me, I hope I shan't +find anything <i>very</i> unpleasant in my bed. I never trust the children. +They have such very high spirits."</p> + +<p>Shaking her head in sad foreboding, Lady Laura moved majestically up +the staircase.</p> + +<p>With the departure of the women, chairs were pulled in closer round the +blazing logs on the big open hearth.</p> + +<p>"Say when," said Evesham, hospitably, as he held up the whisky decanter.</p> + +<p>When everybody had said when, the talk reverted to the subject which +had been tabooed before.</p> + +<p>"You knew Derek Capel, didn't you, Satterthwaite?" asked Conway.</p> + +<p>"Slightly—yes."</p> + +<p>"And you, Portal?"</p> + +<p>"No, I never met him."</p> + +<p>So fiercely and defensively did he say it that Mr. Satterthwaite looked +up in surprise.</p> + +<p>"I always hate it when Laura brings up the subject," said Evesham +slowly. "After the tragedy, you know, this place was sold to a big +manufacturer fellow. He cleared out after a year—didn't suit him or +something. A lot of tommyrot was talked about the place being haunted, +of course, and it gave the house a bad name. Then, when Laura got me to +stand for West Kidleby, of course it meant living up in these parts, +and it wasn't so easy to find a suitable house. Royston was going +cheap, and—well, in the end I bought it. Ghosts are all tommyrot, +but all the same one doesn't exactly care to be reminded that you're +living in a house where one of your own friends shot himself. Poor old +Derek—we shall never know why he did it."</p> + +<p>"He won't be the first or the last fellow who's shot himself without +being able to give a reason," said Alec Portal heavily.</p> + +<p>He rose and poured himself out another drink, splashing the whisky in +with a liberal hand.</p> + +<p><i>There's something very wrong with him</i>, said Mr. Satterthwaite, to +himself. <i>Very wrong indeed. I wish I knew what it was all about.</i></p> + +<p>"Gad!" said Conway. "Listen to the wind. It's a wild night."</p> + +<p>"A good night for ghosts to walk," said Portal with a reckless laugh. +"All the devils in hell are abroad tonight."</p> + +<p>"According to Lady Laura, even the blackest of them would bring us +luck," observed Conway, with a laugh. "Hark to that!"</p> + +<p>The wind rose in another terrific wail, and as it died away there came +three loud knocks on the big nailed doorway.</p> + +<p>Everyone started.</p> + +<p>"Who on earth can that be at this time of night?" cried Evesham.</p> + +<p>They stared at each other.</p> + +<p>"I will open it," said Evesham. "The servants have gone to bed."</p> + +<p>He strode across to the door, fumbled a little over the heavy bars, and +finally flung it open. An icy blast of wind came sweeping into the hall.</p> + +<p>Framed in the doorway stood a man's figure, tall and slender. To Mr. +Satterthwaite, watching, he appeared, by some curious effect of the +stained glass above the door, to be dressed in every color of the +rainbow. Then, as he stepped forward, he showed himself to be a thin +dark man.</p> + +<p>"I must really apologize for this intrusion," said the stranger, in +a pleasant, level voice. "But my car broke down. Nothing much, my +chauffeur is putting it to rights, but it will take half an hour or so, +and it is so confoundedly cold outside—"</p> + +<p>He broke off, and Evesham took up the thread quickly.</p> + +<p>"I should think it was. Come in and have a drink. We can't give you any +assistance about the car, can we?"</p> + +<p>"No, thanks. My man knows what to do. By the way, my name is +Quin—Harley Quin."</p> + +<p>"Sit down, Mr. Quin," said Evesham. "Sir Richard Conway, Mr. +Satterthwaite, Mr. Portal. My name is Evesham."</p> + +<p>Mr. Quin acknowledged the introductions, and dropped into the chair +that Evesham had hospitably pulled forward. As he sat, some effect of +the firelight threw a bar of shadow across his face which gave almost +the impression of a mask.</p> + +<p>Evesham threw a couple more logs on the fire. "A drink?"</p> + +<p>"Thanks."</p> + +<p>Evesham brought it to him and asked as he did so, "Do you know this +part of the world well, Mr. Quin?"</p> + +<p>"I passed through it some years ago."</p> + +<p>"Really?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. This house belonged then to a man called Capel."</p> + +<p>"Ah! yes," said Evesham. "Poor Derek Capel. You knew him?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I knew him."</p> + +<p>Evesham's manner underwent a faint change, almost imperceptible to one +who had not studied the English character. Before, it had contained +a subtle reserve; now this was laid aside. Mr. Quin had known Derek +Capel. He was the friend of a friend, and as such, was vouched for and +fully accredited.</p> + +<p>"Astounding affair, that," he said confidentially. "We were just +talking about it. I can tell you, it went against the grain, buying +this place. If there had been anything else suitable, but there +wasn't. You see, I was in the house the night he shot himself—so was +Conway—and upon my word, I've always expected his ghost to walk."</p> + +<p>"A very inexplicable business," said Mr. Quin, slowly and deliberately, +and he paused with the air of an actor who has just spoken an important +cue.</p> + +<p>"You may well say inexplicable," burst in Conway. "The thing's a black +mystery—always will be."</p> + +<p>"I wonder," said Mr. Quin, noncommittally. "Yes, Sir Richard, you were +saying?"</p> + +<p>"Astounding—that's what it was. Here's a man in the prime of life, +gay, lighthearted, without a care in the world. Five or six old pals +staying with him. Top of his spirits at dinner, full of plans for the +future. And from the dinner table he goes straight upstairs to his +room, takes a revolver from a drawer, and shoots himself. Why? Nobody +ever knew. Nobody ever will know."</p> + +<p>"Isn't that rather a sweeping statement, Sir Richard?" asked Mr. Quin, +smiling.</p> + +<p>Conway stared at him. "What d'you mean? I don't understand."</p> + +<p>"A problem is not necessarily unsolvable because it has remained +unsolved."</p> + +<p>"Oh! Come, man, if nothing came out at the time, it's not likely to +come out now—ten years afterward?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Quin shook his head gently. "I disagree with you. The evidence of +history is against you. The contemporary historian never writes such a +true history as the historian of a later generation. It is a question +of getting the true perspective, of seeing things in proportion. If +you like to call it so, it is, like everything else, a question of +relativity."</p> + +<p>Alec Portal leaned forward, his face twitching painfully.</p> + +<p>"You are right, Mr. Quin," he cried, "you are right. Time does not +dispose of a question—it only presents it anew in a different guise."</p> + +<p>Evesham was smiling tolerantly. "Then you mean to say, Mr. Quin, that +if we were to hold, let us say, a court of inquiry, tonight, into the +circumstances of Derek Capel's death, we are as likely to arrive at the +truth as we should have been at the time?"</p> + +<p>"<i>More</i> likely, Mr. Evesham. The personal equation has largely dropped +out, and you will remember facts as facts without seeking to put your +own interpretation upon them."</p> + +<p>Evesham frowned doubtfully.</p> + +<p>"One must have a starting point, of course," said Mr. Quin in his quiet +level voice. "A starting point is usually a theory. One of you must +have a theory, I am sure. How about you, Sir Richard?"</p> + +<p>Conway frowned thoughtfully. "Well, of course," he said apologetically, +"we thought—naturally we all thought—that there must be a woman in +it somewhere. It's usually either that or money, isn't it? And it +certainly wasn't money. No trouble of that description. So—what else +could it have been?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite started. He had leaned forward to contribute a small +remark of his own and, in the act of doing so, he had caught sight of +a woman's figure crouched against the balustrade of the gallery above. +She was huddled down against it, invisible from everywhere but where he +himself sat, and she was evidently listening with strained attention to +what was going on below. So immovable was she that he hardly believed +the evidence of his own eyes.</p> + +<p>But he recognized the pattern of the dress easily enough—an old-world +brocade. It was Eleanor Portal.</p> + +<p>And suddenly all the events of the night seemed to fall into +pattern—Mr. Quin's arrival, no fortuitous chance, but the appearing of +an actor when his cue was given. There was a drama being played in the +big hall at Royston tonight—a drama none the less real in that one of +the actors was dead. Oh! yes, Derek Capel had a part in the play. Mr. +Satterthwaite was sure of that.</p> + +<p>And, again suddenly, a new illumination came to him. This was Mr. +Quin's doing. It was he who was staging the play—was giving the actors +their cues. He was at the heart of the mystery pulling the strings, +making the puppets work. He knew everything, even to the presence of +the woman crouched against the woodwork upstairs. Yes, he knew.</p> + +<p>Sitting well back in his chair, secure in his role of audience, Mr. +Satterthwaite watched the drama unfold before his eyes. Quietly and +naturally, Mr. Quin was pulling the strings, setting his puppets in +motion.</p> + +<p>"A woman—yes," he murmured thoughtfully. "There was no mention of any +woman at dinner?"</p> + +<p>"Why, of course," cried Evesham. "He announced his engagement. That's +just what made it seem so absolutely mad. Very bucked about it he was. +Said it wasn't to be announced just yet—but gave us the hint that he +was in the running for the Benedick stakes."</p> + +<p>"Of course we all guessed who the lady was," said Conway. "Marjorie +Dilke. Nice girl."</p> + +<p>It seemed to be Mr. Quin's turn to speak, but he did not do so, and +something about his silence seemed oddly provocative. It was as though +he challenged the last statement. It had the effect of putting Conway +in a defensive position.</p> + +<p>"Who else could it have been? Eh, Evesham?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know," said Tom Evesham slowly. "What did he say exactly now? +Something about being in the running for the Benedick stakes—that he +couldn't tell us the lady's name till he had her permission—it wasn't +to be announced yet. He said, I remember, that he was a damned lucky +fellow. That he wanted his two old friends to know that by that time +next year he'd be a happy married man. Of course, we assumed it was +Marjorie. They were great friends and he'd been about with her a lot."</p> + +<p>"The only thing—" began Conway and stopped.</p> + +<p>"What were you going to say, Dick?"</p> + +<p>"Well, I mean, it was odd in a way, if it was Marjorie, that the +engagement shouldn't be announced at once. I mean, why the secrecy? +Sounds more as though it were a married woman—you know, someone whose +husband had just died, or who was divorcing him."</p> + +<p>"That's true," said Evesham. "If that were the case, of course the +engagement couldn't be announced at once. And you know, thinking back +about it, I don't believe he had been seeing much of Marjorie. All that +was the year before. I remember thinking things seemed to have cooled +off between them."</p> + +<p>"Curious," said Mr. Quin.</p> + +<p>"Yes—looked almost as though someone had come between them."</p> + +<p>"Another woman," said Conway thoughtfully.</p> + +<p>"By Jove," said Evesham. "You know, there was something almost +indecently hilarious about old Derek that night. He looked almost drunk +with happiness. And yet—I can't quite explain what I mean—but he +looked oddly defiant too."</p> + +<p>"Like a man defying Fate," said Alec Portal heavily.</p> + +<p>Was it of Derek Capel he was speaking—or was it of himself? Mr. +Satterthwaite, looking at him, inclined to the latter view. Yes, that +was what Alec Portal represented—a man defying Fate. His imagination, +muddled by drink, responded suddenly to that note in the story which +recalled his own secret preoccupation.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite looked up. She was still there. Watching, +listening—still motionless, frozen—like a dead woman.</p> + +<p>"Perfectly true," said Conway. "Capel <i>was</i> excited—curiously so. I'd +describe him as a man who has staked heavily and won against well-nigh +overwhelming odds."</p> + +<p>"Getting up courage, perhaps, for what he's made up his mind to do?" +suggested Portal. And as though moved by an association of ideas, he +got up and helped himself to another drink.</p> + +<p>"Not a bit of it," said Evesham sharply. "I'd almost swear nothing of +that kind was in his mind. Conway's right. A successful gambler who +has brought off a long shot and can hardly believe in his own good +fortune. That was the attitude."</p> + +<p>Conway gave a gesture of discouragement. "And yet," he said, "ten +minutes later—"</p> + +<p>They sat in silence. Evesham brought his hand down with a bang on the +table. "Something must have happened in that ten minutes," he cried. +"It must! But what? Let's go over it carefully. We were all talking. In +the middle of it Capel got up suddenly and left the room—"</p> + +<p>"Why?" said Mr. Quin.</p> + +<p>The interruption seemed to disconcert Evesham. "I beg your pardon?"</p> + +<p>"I only said, 'Why?'" said Mr. Quin.</p> + +<p>Evesham frowned in an effort of memory. "It didn't seem vital—at the +time. Oh! of course—the post. Don't you remember that jangling bell, +and how excited we were? We'd been snowed up for three days, remember. +Biggest snowstorm for years and years. All the roads were impassable. +No newspapers, no letters. Capel went out to see if something had +come through at last, and got a great pile of things, newspapers and +letters. He opened the paper to see if there was any news, and then +went upstairs with his letters. Three minutes afterward, we heard a +shot. Inexplicable—absolutely inexplicable."</p> + +<p>"That's not inexplicable," said Portal. "Of course the fellow got some +unexpected news in a letter. Obvious, I should have said."</p> + +<p>"Oh! Don't think we missed anything so obvious as that. It was one +of the Coroner's first questions. <i>But Capel never opened one of his +letters.</i> The whole pile lay unopened on his dressing-table."</p> + +<p>Portal looked crestfallen. "You're sure he didn't open just one of +them? He might have destroyed it after reading it?"</p> + +<p>"No, I'm quite positive. Of course, that would have been the natural +solution. No, every one of the letters was unopened. Nothing +burned—nothing torn up. There was no fire in the room."</p> + +<p>Portal shook his head. "Extraordinary."</p> + +<p>"It was a ghastly business altogether," said Evesham in a low voice. +"Conway and I went up when we heard the shot, and found him. It gave me +a shock, I can tell you."</p> + +<p>"Nothing to be done but telephone for the police, I suppose?" said Mr. +Quin.</p> + +<p>"No, luckily enough, the local constable happened to be in the kitchen +at the time. One of the dogs—you remember poor old Rover, Conway?—had +strayed the day before. A passing carter had found it half-buried in a +snowdrift and had taken it to the police station. They recognized it as +Capel's, and a dog he was particularly fond of, and the constable came +up with it. He'd just arrived a minute before the shot was fired. It +saved us some trouble."</p> + +<p>"Gad, that was a snowstorm," said Conway reminiscently. "About this +time of year, wasn't it? Early January."</p> + +<p>"February, I think. Let me see, we went abroad soon afterward."</p> + +<p>"I'm pretty sure it was January. My hunter Ned—you remember +Ned?—lamed himself the end of January. That was just after this +business."</p> + +<p>"It must have been quite the end of January then. Funny how difficult +it is to recall dates after a lapse of years."</p> + +<p>"One of the most difficult things in the world," said Mr. Quin, +conversationally. "Unless you can find a landmark in some big public +event—an assassination of a crowned head, or a big murder trial."</p> + +<p>"Why, of course," cried Conway, "it was just before the Appleton case."</p> + +<p>"Just after, wasn't it?"</p> + +<p>"No, no, don't you remember? Capel knew the Appletons—he'd stayed with +the old man the previous spring—just a week before he died. He was +talking of him one night—what an old curmudgeon he was, and how awful +it must have been for a young and beautiful woman like Mrs. Appleton to +be tied to him. There was no suspicion then that she had done away with +him."</p> + +<p>"By Jove, you're right. I remember reading the paragraph in the paper +saying an exhumation order had been granted. It would have been that +same day—I remember only seeing it with half my mind, you know, the +other half wondering about poor old Derek lying dead upstairs."</p> + +<p>"A common, but very curious phenomenon, that," observed Mr. Quin. "In +moments of great stress, the mind focuses itself upon some quite +unimportant matter which is remembered long afterward with the utmost +fidelity, driven in, as it were, by the mental stress of the moment. It +may be some quite irrelevant detail, like the pattern of a wallpaper, +but it will never be forgotten."</p> + +<p>"Rather extraordinary, your saying that, Mr. Quin," said Conway. "Just +as you were speaking, I suddenly felt myself back in Derek Capel's +room—with Derek lying dead on the floor. I saw as plainly as possible +the big tree outside the window, and the shadow it threw upon the snow +outside. Yes, the moonlight, the snow, and the shadow of the tree—I +can see them again this minute. By Gad, I believe I could draw them, +and yet I never realized I was looking at them at the time."</p> + +<p>"His room was the big one over the porch, was it not?" asked Mr. Quin.</p> + +<p>"Yes, and the tree was the big beech, just at the angle of the drive."</p> + +<p>Mr. Quin nodded, as though satisfied. Mr. Satterthwaite was curiously +thrilled. He was convinced that every word, every reflection of +Mr. Quin's voice was pregnant with purpose. He was driving at +something—exactly what Mr. Satterthwaite did not know, but he was +quite convinced as to whose was the master hand.</p> + +<p>There was a momentary pause, and then Evesham reverted to the +preceding topic. "That Appleton case, I remember it very well now. +What a sensation it made. She got off, didn't she? Pretty woman, very +fair—remarkably fair."</p> + +<p>Almost against his will, Mr. Satterthwaite's eyes sought the kneeling +figure up above. Was it his fancy, or did he see it shrink a little, as +though at a blow? Did he see a hand slide upward to the tablecloth—and +then pause?</p> + +<p>There was a crash of falling glass. Alec Portal, helping himself to +whisky, had let the decanter slip. "I say—damn' sorry. Can't think +what came over me."</p> + +<p>Evesham cut short his apologies. "Quite all right. Quite all right, +my dear fellow. Curious—that smash reminded me. That's what she did, +didn't she? Mrs. Appleton? Smashed the port decanter?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. Old Appleton had his glass of port—only one—each night. The +day after his death, one of the servants saw her take the decanter out +and smash it deliberately. That set them talking, of course. They all +knew she had been perfectly wretched with him. Rumor grew and grew, +and in the end, months later, some of his relatives applied for an +exhumation order. And sure enough, the old fellow had been poisoned. +Arsenic, wasn't it?"</p> + +<p>"No—strychnine, I think. It doesn't much matter. Well, of course, +there it was. Only one person was likely to have done it. Mrs. Appleton +stood her trial. She was acquitted more through the lack of evidence +against her than from any overwhelming proof of innocence. In other +words, she was lucky. Yes, I don't suppose there's much doubt she did +it right enough. What happened to her afterward?"</p> + +<p>"Went out to Canada, I believe. Or was it Australia? She had an uncle +or something of the sort out there who offered her a home. Best thing +she could do under the circumstances."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite was fascinated by Alec Portal's right hand as it +clasped his glass. How tightly he was gripping it.</p> + +<p><i>You'll smash that in a minute or two, if you're not careful</i>, thought +Mr. Satterthwaite. <i>Dear me, how interesting all this is.</i></p> + +<p>Evesham rose and helped himself to a drink. "Well, we're not much +nearer to knowing why poor Derek Capel shot himself," he remarked. "The +court of inquiry hasn't been a great success, has it, Mr. Quin?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Quin laughed. It was a strange laugh, mocking—yet sad. It made +everyone jump.</p> + +<p>"I beg your pardon," he said. "You are still living in the past, Mr. +Evesham. You are still hampered by your preconceived notion. But I, the +man from outside, the stranger passing by, see only—facts!"</p> + +<p>"Facts?"</p> + +<p>"Yes—facts."</p> + +<p>"What do you mean?" said Evesham.</p> + +<p>"I see a clear sequence of facts, outlined by yourselves, but of which +you have not seen the significance. Let us go back ten years and look +at what we see—untrammeled by ideas or sentiment."</p> + +<p>Mr. Quin had risen. He looked very tall. The fire leaped fitfully +behind him. He spoke in a low compelling voice. "You are at dinner. +Derek Capel announces his engagement. You think then it was to Marjorie +Dilke. You are not so sure now. He has the restlessly excited manner +of a man who has successfully defied Fate—who, in your own words, +has pulled off a big coup against overwhelming odds. Then comes the +clanging of the bell. He goes out to get the long overdue mail. He +doesn't open his letters, but you mention yourselves that <i>he opened +the paper to glance at the news</i>. It is ten years ago—so we cannot +know what the news was that day—a far-off earthquake, a near-at-hand +political crisis? The only thing we do know about the contents of that +paper is that it contained one small paragraph—<i>a paragraph stating +that the Home Office had given permission to exhume the body of Mr. +Appleton three days ago</i>."</p> + +<p>"What?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Quin went on: "Derek Capel goes up to his room, and there he sees +something out of the window. Sir Richard Conway has told us that the +curtain was not drawn across it and further that it gave on the drive. +What did he see? What could he have seen that forced him to take his +life?"</p> + +<p>"What do you mean? What did he see?"</p> + +<p>"I think," said Mr. Quin, "that he saw a policeman. A policeman who +had come about a dog. But Derek Capel didn't know that—he just saw—a +policeman."</p> + +<p>There was a long silence—as though it took some time to drive the +inference home.</p> + +<p>"My God!" whispered Evesham at last. "You can't mean that? Appleton? +But he wasn't there at the time Appleton died. The old man was alone +with his wife—"</p> + +<p>"But he may have been there a week earlier. Strychnine is not very +soluble unless it is in the form of the hydrochloride. The greater part +of it, put into the port, would be taken in the last glass, perhaps a +week after he left."</p> + +<p>Portal sprang forward. His voice was hoarse and his eyes bloodshot. +"Why did she break the decanter?" he cried. "Why did she break the +decanter? Tell me that."</p> + +<p>For the first time that evening, Mr. Quin addressed himself to Mr. +Satterthwaite. "You have a wide experience of life, Mr. Satterthwaite. +Perhaps you can tell us that."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite's voice trembled a little. His cue had come at last. +He was to speak some of the most important lines in the play. He was an +actor now—not a looker-on.</p> + +<p>"As I see it," he murmured modestly, "she—cared for Derek Capel. +She was, I think, a good woman—and she had sent him away. When her +husband—died, she suspected the truth. And so, to save the man she +loved, she tried to destroy the evidence against him. Later, I think, +he persuaded her that her suspicions were unfounded, and she consented +to marry him. But even then, she hung back—women, I fancy, have a lot +of instinct."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite had spoken his part.</p> + +<p>Suddenly a long trembling sigh filled the air.</p> + +<p>"My God!" cried Evesham, starting, "what was that?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite could have told him that it was Eleanor Portal in the +gallery above, but he was too artistic to spoil a good effect.</p> + +<p>Mr. Quin was smiling. "My car will be ready by now. Thank you for your +hospitality, Mr. Evesham. I have, I hope, done something for my friend."</p> + +<p>They stared at him in blank amazement.</p> + +<p>"That aspect of the matter has not struck you? He loved this woman, you +know. Loved her enough to commit murder for her sake. When retribution +overtook him, as he mistakenly thought, he took his own life. But, +unwittingly, he left her to face the music."</p> + +<p>"She was acquitted," muttered Evesham.</p> + +<p>"Because the case against her could not be proved. I fancy—it may be +only a fancy—that she is still—facing the music."</p> + +<p>Portal had sunk into a chair, his face buried in his hands.</p> + +<p>Quin turned to Satterthwaite. "Good-by, Mr. Satterthwaite. You are +interested in the drama, are you not?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite nodded—surprised.</p> + +<p>"I must recommend the harlequinade to your attention. It is dying out +nowadays—but it repays attention, I assure you. Its symbolism is a +little difficult to follow—but the immortals are always immortal, you +know. I wish you all good night."</p> + +<p>They saw him stride out into the dark. As before, the colored glass +gave the effect of motley.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite went upstairs. He went to draw down his window, for +the air was cold. The figure of Mr. Quin moved down the drive, and from +a side door came a woman's figure, running. For a moment they spoke +together, then she retraced her steps to the house. She passed just +below the window, and Mr. Satterthwaite was struck anew by the vitality +of her face. She moved now like a woman in a happy dream.</p> + +<p>"Eleanor!"</p> + +<p>Alec Portal had joined her.</p> + +<p>"Eleanor, forgive me—forgive me. You told me the truth, but God +forgive me—I did not quite believe—"</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite was intensely interested in other people's affairs, +but he was also a gentleman. It was borne in upon him that he must shut +the window. He did so.</p> + +<p>But he shut it very slowly.</p> + +<p>He heard her voice, exquisite and indescribable. "I know—I know. You +have been in hell. So was I once. Loving—yet alternately believing +and suspecting—thrusting aside one's doubts and having them spring +up again with leering faces. I know, Alec, I know. But there is a +worse hell than that, the hell I have lived in with you. I have seen +your doubt—your fear of me—poisoning all our love. That man, that +chance passer-by, saved me. I could bear it no longer, you understand. +Tonight—tonight I was going to kill myself—Alec—Alec!"</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="The_Shadow_on_the_Glass"><span class="smcap">The Shadow on the Glass</span></h2> +</div> + + +<p>"Listen to this," said Lady Cynthia Drage.</p> + +<p>She read aloud from the journal she held in her hand. "'Mr. and Mrs. +Unkerton are entertaining a party at Greenways House this week. +Among the guests are Lady Cynthia Drage, Mr. and Mrs. Richard Scott, +Major Porter, D.S.O., Mrs. Staverton, Captain Allenson, and Mr. +Satterthwaite.'"</p> + +<p>"It's as well," remarked Lady Cynthia, casting away the paper, "to know +what we're in for. But they <i>have</i> made a mess of things!"</p> + +<p>Her companion, that same Mr. Satterthwaite whose name figured at the +end of the list of guests, looked at her interrogatively. It had +been said that if Mr. Satterthwaite was found at the houses of those +rich who had newly arrived, it was a sign either that the cooking +was unusually good, or that a drama of human life was to be enacted +there. Mr. Satterthwaite was abnormally interested in the comedies and +tragedies of his fellow men.</p> + +<p>Lady Cynthia, who was a middle-aged woman, with a hard face and a +liberal allowance of makeup, tapped him smartly with the newest thing +in parasols which lay rakishly across her knee.</p> + +<p>"Don't pretend you don't understand me. You do perfectly. What's more, +I believe you're here on purpose to see the fur fly!"</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite protested vigorously. He didn't know what she was +talking about.</p> + +<p>"I'm talking about Richard Scott. Do you pretend you've never heard of +him?"</p> + +<p>"No, of course not. He's the big-game man, isn't he?"</p> + +<p>"That's it—'Great big bears and tigers, etc.,' as the song says. +Of course, he's a great lion himself just now—the Unkertons would +naturally be mad to get hold of him—<i>and</i> the bride! A charming +child—oh! quite a charming child—but so naïve, only twenty, you know, +and he must be at least forty-five."</p> + +<p>"Mrs. Scott seems to me very charming," said Mr. Satterthwaite sedately.</p> + +<p>"Yes, poor child."</p> + +<p>"Why poor child?"</p> + +<p>Lady Cynthia cast him a look of reproach, and went on, approaching the +point at issue in her own manner. "Porter's all right—a dull dog, +though—another of these African hunters, all sunburn and silence. +Second fiddle to Richard Scott and always has been—lifelong friends +and all that sort of thing. When I come to think of it, I believe they +were together on that trip—"</p> + +<p>"Which trip?"</p> + +<p>"<i>The</i> trip. The Mrs. Staverton trip. You'll be saying next you've +never heard of Mrs. Staverton."</p> + +<p>"I <i>have</i> heard of Mrs. Staverton," said Mr. Satterthwaite, almost with +unwillingness.</p> + +<p>And he and Lady Cynthia exchanged glances.</p> + +<p>"It's so exactly like the Unkertons," wailed the latter; "they are +absolutely hopeless—socially, I mean. The idea of asking those two +together! Of course they'd heard that Mrs. Staverton was a sportswoman +and a traveler and all that, and about her book. People like the +Unkertons don't even begin to realize what pitfalls there are! I've +been running them, myself, for the last year, and what I've gone +through nobody knows. One has to be constantly at their elbow. 'Don't +do that! You can't do this!' Thank goodness, I'm through with it now. +Not that we've quarreled—oh! no, I never quarrel—but somebody else +can take on the job. As I've always said, I can put up with vulgarity, +but I can't stand meanness!"</p> + +<p>After this somewhat cryptic utterance, Lady Cynthia was silent for a +moment, ruminating on the Unkertons' meanness as displayed to herself.</p> + +<p>"If I'd still been running the show for them," she went on presently, +"I should have said quite firmly and plainly, 'You can't ask Mrs. +Staverton with the Richard Scotts. She and he were once—'"</p> + +<p>She stopped eloquently.</p> + +<p>"But were they once?" asked Mr. Satterthwaite.</p> + +<p>"My dear man! It's well known. That trip into the interior! I'm +surprised the woman had the face to accept the invitation."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps she didn't know the others were coming," suggested Mr. +Satterthwaite.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps she did. That's far more likely."</p> + +<p>"You think—"</p> + +<p>"She's what I call a dangerous woman—the sort of woman who'd stick at +nothing. I wouldn't be in Richard Scott's shoes this week-end."</p> + +<p>"And his wife knows nothing, you think?"</p> + +<p>"I'm certain of it. But I suppose some kind friend will enlighten her +sooner or later. Here's Jimmy Allenson. Such a nice boy. He saved my +life in Egypt last winter—I was so bored, you know. Hullo, Jimmy, come +here at once."</p> + +<p>Captain Allenson obeyed, dropping down on the turf beside her. He was +a handsome young fellow of thirty, with white teeth and an infectious +smile.</p> + +<p>"I'm glad somebody wants me," he observed. "The Scotts are doing the +turtledove stunt, two required, not three, Porter's devouring the +Field, and I've been in mortal danger of being entertained by my +hostess."</p> + +<p>He laughed. Lady Cynthia laughed with him. Mr. Satterthwaite, who was +in some ways a little old-fashioned, so much so that he seldom made fun +of his host and hostess until after he had left their house, remained +grave.</p> + +<p>"Poor Jimmy," said Lady Cynthia.</p> + +<p>"Mine not to reason why, mine but to swiftly fly. I had a narrow escape +of being told the family ghost story."</p> + +<p>"An Unkerton ghost," cried Lady Cynthia. "How screaming."</p> + +<p>"Not an Unkerton ghost," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "A Greenways ghost. +They bought it with the house."</p> + +<p>"Of course," said Lady Cynthia. "I remember now. But it doesn't clank +chains, does it? It's only something to do with a window."</p> + +<p>Jimmy Allenson looked up quickly. "A window?"</p> + +<p>But for the moment Mr. Satterthwaite did not answer. He was looking +over Jimmy's head at three figures approaching from the direction +of the house—a slim girl between two men. There was a superficial +resemblance between the men, both were tall and dark with bronzed faces +and quick eyes, but looked at more closely the resemblance vanished.</p> + +<p>Richard Scott, hunter and explorer, was a man of extraordinarily vivid +personality. He had a manner that radiated magnetism. John Porter, his +friend and fellow hunter, was a man of squarer build with an impassive, +rather wooden face, and very thoughtful gray eyes. He was a quiet man, +content always to play second fiddle to his friend.</p> + +<p>And between these two walked Moira Scott who, until three months ago, +had been Moira O'Connell, a slender figure, big wistful brown eyes, and +golden-red hair that stood out round her small face like a saint's halo.</p> + +<p><i>That child mustn't be hurt</i>, said Mr. Satterthwaite to himself. <i>It +would be abominable that a child like that should be hurt.</i></p> + +<p>Lady Cynthia greeted the newcomers with a wave of the latest thing in +parasols. "Sit down, and don't interrupt," she said. "Mr. Satterthwaite +is telling us a ghost story."</p> + +<p>"I love ghost stories," said Moira Scott. She dropped down on the grass.</p> + +<p>"The ghost of Greenways House?" asked Richard Scott.</p> + +<p>"Yes, you know about it?"</p> + +<p>Scott nodded. "I used to stay here in the old days," he explained. +"Before the Elliots had to sell up. The Watching Cavalier, that's it, +isn't it?"</p> + +<p>"The Watching Cavalier," said his wife softly. "I like that. It sounds +interesting. Please go on."</p> + +<p>But Mr. Satterthwaite seemed somewhat loath to do so. He assured her +that it was not really interesting at all.</p> + +<p>"Now you've done it, Satterthwaite," said Richard Scott sardonically. +"That hint of reluctance clinches it."</p> + +<p>In response to popular clamor, Mr. Satterthwaite was forced to speak.</p> + +<p>"It's really very uninteresting," he said apologetically. "I believe +the original story centers round a Cavalier ancestor of the Elliot +family. His wife had a Roundhead lover. The husband was killed by the +lover in an upstairs room, and the guilty pair fled; but, as they fled, +they looked back at the house and saw the face of the dead husband at +the window, watching them. That is the legend, but the ghost story is +only concerned with a pane of glass in the window of that particular +room, on which is an irregular stain, almost imperceptible from near +at hand, but which from far away certainly gives the effect of a man's +face looking out."</p> + +<p>"Which window is it?" asked Mrs. Scott, looking up at the house.</p> + +<p>"You can't see it from here," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "It is round the +other side, but was boarded up from the inside some years ago—forty +years ago, I think, to be accurate."</p> + +<p>"What did they do that for? I thought you said the ghost didn't walk."</p> + +<p>"It doesn't," Mr. Satterthwaite assured her. "I suppose—well, I +suppose there grew to be a superstitious feeling about it, that's all."</p> + +<p>Then, deftly enough, he succeeded in turning the conversation. Jimmy +Allenson was perfectly ready to hold forth upon Egyptian sand diviners.</p> + +<p>"Frauds, most of them. Ready enough to tell you vague things about the +past, but won't commit themselves as to the future."</p> + +<p>"I should have thought it was usually the other way about," remarked +John Porter.</p> + +<p>"It's illegal to tell the future in this country, isn't it?" said +Richard Scott. "Moira persuaded a gypsy into telling her fortune, but +the woman gave her her shilling back, and said there was nothing doing, +or words to that effect."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps she saw something so frightful that she didn't like to tell it +me," said Moira.</p> + +<p>"Don't pile on the agony, Mrs. Scott," said Allenson lightly. "I, for +one, refuse to believe that an unlucky fate is hanging over you."</p> + +<p><i>I wonder</i>, thought Mr. Satterthwaite. <i>I wonder.</i></p> + +<p>Then he looked up sharply. Two women were coming from the house, a +short stout woman with black hair, inappropriately dressed in jade +green, and a tall slim figure in creamy white. The first woman was his +hostess, Mrs. Unkerton; the second was a woman he had often heard of, +but never met.</p> + +<p>"Here's Mrs. Staverton," announced Mrs. Unkerton, in a tone of great +satisfaction. "All friends here, I think."</p> + +<p>"These people have an uncanny gift for saying just the most awful +things they can," murmured Lady Cynthia, but Mr. Satterthwaite was not +listening. He was watching Mrs. Staverton.</p> + +<p>Very easy—very natural. Her careless "Hullo! Richard, ages since we +met. Sorry I couldn't come to the wedding. Is this your wife? You must +be tired of meeting all your husband's weather-beaten old friends." +Moira's response—suitable, rather shy. The elder woman's swift +appraising glance that went on lightly to another old friend.</p> + +<p>"Hullo, John!" The same easy tone, but with a subtle difference in +it—a warming quality that had been absent before.</p> + +<p>And then that sudden smile. It transformed her. Lady Cynthia had been +quite right. A dangerous woman! Very fair—deep blue eyes—not the +traditional coloring of the siren—a face almost haggard in repose. A +woman with a slow dragging voice and a sudden dazzling smile.</p> + +<p>Iris Staverton sat down. She became naturally and inevitably the center +of the group. So, you felt, it would always be.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite was recalled from his thoughts by Major Porter's +suggesting a stroll. Mr. Satterthwaite, who was not, as a general rule, +much given to strolling, acquiesced. The two men sauntered off together +across the lawn.</p> + +<p>"Very interesting story of yours just now," said the Major.</p> + +<p>"I will show you the window," said Mr. Satterthwaite.</p> + +<p>He led the way round to the west side of the house. Here there was +a small formal garden—the Privy Garden, it was always called, and +there was some point in the name, for it was surrounded by high holly +hedges, and even the entrance to it ran zigzag between the same high +prickly hedges.</p> + +<p>Once inside, it was very charming with an old-world charm of formal +flower beds, flagged paths, and a low stone seat, exquisitely carved. +When they had reached the center of the garden, Mr. Satterthwaite +turned and pointed up at the house. The length of Greenways House ran +north and south. In this narrow west wall there was only one window, a +window on the first floor, almost overgrown by ivy, with grimy panes, +and which you could just see was boarded up on the inside.</p> + +<p>"There you are," said Mr. Satterthwaite.</p> + +<p>Craning his neck a little, Porter looked up. "H'm, I can see a kind of +discoloration on one of the panes, nothing more."</p> + +<p>"We're too near," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "There's a clearing higher up +in the woods where you get a really good view."</p> + +<p>He led the way out of the Privy Garden and, turning sharply to the +left, struck into the woods. A certain enthusiasm of showmanship +possessed him, and he hardly noticed that the man at his side was +absent and inattentive.</p> + +<p>"They had, of course, to make another window, when they boarded up this +one," he explained. "The new one faces south, overlooking the lawn +where we were sitting just now. I rather fancy the Scotts have the room +in question. That is why I didn't want to pursue the subject. Mrs. +Scott might have felt nervous if she had realized that she was sleeping +in what might be called the haunted room."</p> + +<p>"Yes. I see," said Porter.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite looked at him sharply, and realized that the other +had not heard a word of what he was saying.</p> + +<p>"Very interesting," said Porter. He slashed with his stick at some tall +foxgloves, and, frowning, he said, "She ought not to have come. She +ought never to have come."</p> + +<p>People often spoke after this fashion to Mr. Satterthwaite. He seemed +to matter so little, to have so negative a personality. He was merely a +glorified listener.</p> + +<p>"No," said Porter, "she ought never to have come."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite knew instinctively that it was not of Mrs. Scott he +spoke. "You think not?" he asked.</p> + +<p>Porter shook his head as though in foreboding. "I was on that trip," +he said abruptly. "The three of us went. Scott and I and Iris. She's a +wonderful woman—and a damned fine shot." He paused. "What made them +ask her?" he finished abruptly.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite shrugged his shoulders. "Ignorance," he said.</p> + +<p>"There's going to be trouble," said the other. "We must stand by—and +do what we can."</p> + +<p>"But surely Mrs. Staverton—"</p> + +<p>"I'm talking of Scott." He paused. "You see—there's Mrs. Scott to +consider."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite had been considering her all along, but he did not +think it necessary to say so, since the other man had so clearly +forgotten her until this minute.</p> + +<p>"How did Scott meet his wife?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"Last winter, in Cairo. A quick business. They were engaged in three +weeks, and married in six."</p> + +<p>"She seems to me very charming."</p> + +<p>"She is; no doubt about it. And he adores her—but that will make no +difference." And again Major Porter repeated, using the pronoun that +meant to him one person only, "Hang it all, she shouldn't have come."</p> + +<p>Just then they stepped out upon a high grassy knoll at some little +distance from the house. With again something of the pride of the +showman, Mr. Satterthwaite stretched out his arm. "Look," he said.</p> + +<p>It was fast growing dusk. The window could still be plainly descried, +and apparently pressed against one of the panes was a man's face +surmounted by a plumed Cavalier's hat.</p> + +<p>"Very curious," said Porter. "Really very curious. What will happen +when that pane of glass gets smashed some day?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite smiled. "That is one of the most interesting parts of +the story. That pane of glass has been replaced to my certain knowledge +at least eleven times, perhaps oftener. The last time was twelve years +ago when the then owner of the house determined to destroy the myth. +But it's always the same. <i>The stain reappears</i>—not all at once; the +discoloration spreads gradually. It takes a month or two as a rule."</p> + +<p>For the first time, Porter showed signs of real interest. He gave a +sudden quick shiver. "Damned odd, these things. No accounting for them. +What's the real reason of having the room boarded up inside?"</p> + +<p>"Well, an idea got about that the room was—unlucky. The Eveshams were +in it just before the divorce. Then Stanley and his wife were staying +here, and had that room when he ran off with his chorus girl."</p> + +<p>Porter raised his eyebrows. "I see. Danger, not to life, but to morals."</p> + +<p><i>And now</i>, thought Mr. Satterthwaite, <i>the Scotts have it. I wonder</i>—</p> + +<p>They retraced their steps in silence to the house. Walking almost +noiselessly on the soft turf, each absorbed in his own thoughts, +they became unwittingly eavesdroppers. They were rounding the corner +of the holly hedge when they heard Iris Staverton's voice, raised +fierce and clear from the depths of the Privy Garden: "You shall be +sorry—sorry—for this!"</p> + +<p>Scott's voice answered, low and uncertain, so that the words could +not be distinguished; and then the woman's voice rose again, speaking +words that they were to remember later. "Jealousy—it drives one to the +devil—it <i>is</i> the devil! It can drive one to black murder. Be careful, +Richard; for God's sake, be careful."</p> + +<p>And then, on that, she had come out of the Privy Garden, ahead of them, +and on round the corner of the house without seeing them, walking +swiftly, almost running, like a woman hag-ridden and pursued.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite thought again of Lady Cynthia's words. A dangerous +woman. For the first time he had a premonition of tragedy, coming swift +and inexorable, not to be gainsaid.</p> + +<p>Yet that evening he felt ashamed of his fears. Everything seemed normal +and pleasant. Mrs. Staverton, with her easy insouciance, showed no sign +of strain. Moira Scott was her charming, unaffected self. The two women +appeared to be getting on very well. Richard Scott himself seemed to be +in boisterous spirits.</p> + +<p>The most worried-looking person was stout Mrs. Unkerton. She confided +at length in Mr. Satterthwaite.</p> + +<p>"Think it silly or not, as you like, there's something giving me the +creeps. And I'll tell you frankly, I've sent for the glazier, unbeknown +to Ned."</p> + +<p>"The glazier?"</p> + +<p>"To put a new pane of glass in that window. It's all very well. Ned's +proud of it—says it gives the house a tone. I don't like it. I tell +you flat. We'll have a nice, plain, modern pane of glass, with no nasty +stories attached to it."</p> + +<p>"You forget," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "Or perhaps you don't know. The +stain comes back."</p> + +<p>"That's as it may be," said Mrs. Unkerton. "All I can say is, if it +does, it's against nature!"</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite raised his eyebrows, but did not reply.</p> + +<p>"And what if it does?" pursued Mrs. Unkerton defiantly. "We're not so +bankrupt, Ned and I, that we can't afford a new pane of glass every +month—or every week if need be for the matter of that."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite did not meet the challenge. He had seen too many +things crumple and fall before the power of money to believe that even +a Cavalier ghost could put up a successful fight. Nevertheless, he was +interested by Mrs. Unkerton's manifest uneasiness. Even she was not +exempt from the tension in the atmosphere—only she attributed it to +an attenuated ghost story, not to the clash of personalities among her +guests.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite was fated to hear yet another scrap of conversation +which threw light upon the situation. He was going up the wide +staircase to bed. John Porter and Mrs. Staverton were sitting together +in an alcove of the big hall. She was speaking with a faint irritation +in her golden voice.</p> + +<p>"I hadn't the least idea the Scotts were going to be here. I daresay, +if I had known, I shouldn't have come; but I can assure you, my dear +John, that now I am here, I'm not going to run away."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite passed on up the staircase out of earshot. He +thought, <i>I wonder now. How much of that is true? Did she know? I +wonder. What's going to come of it?</i></p> + +<p>He shook his head.</p> + +<p>In the clear light of the morning he felt that he had perhaps been a +little melodramatic in his imaginings of the evening before. A moment +of strain—yes, certainly—inevitable under the circumstances—but +nothing more. People adjusted themselves. His fancy that some great +catastrophe was pending was nerves—pure nerves—or possibly liver. +Yes, that was it, liver. He was due at Carlsbad in another fortnight.</p> + +<p>On his own account he proposed a little stroll that evening just as it +was growing dusk. He suggested to Major Porter that they should go up +to the clearing and see if Mrs. Unkerton had been as good as her word, +and had a new pane of glass put in. To himself, he said, <i>Exercise, +that's what I need. Exercise.</i></p> + +<p>The two men walked slowly through the woods. Porter, as usual, was +taciturn.</p> + +<p>"I can't help feeling," said Mr. Satterthwaite, loquaciously, +"that we were a little foolish in our imaginings yesterday. +Expecting—er—trouble, you know. After all, people have to behave +themselves—swallow their feelings and that sort of thing."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps," said Porter. After a minute or two he added, "Civilized +people."</p> + +<p>"You mean?"</p> + +<p>"People who've lived outside civilization a good deal sometimes go +back. Revert. Whatever you call it."</p> + +<p>They emerged onto the grassy knoll. Mr. Satterthwaite was breathing +rather fast. He never enjoyed going up hill.</p> + +<p>He looked toward the window. The face was still there, more lifelike +than ever.</p> + +<p>"Our hostess has repented, I see."</p> + +<p>Porter threw it only a cursory glance. "Unkerton cut up rough, I +expect," he said indifferently. "He's the sort of man who is willing to +be proud of another family's ghost, and who isn't going to run the risk +of having it driven away when he's paid spot cash for it."</p> + +<p>He was silent a minute or two, staring, not at the house, but at the +thick undergrowth by which they were surrounded. "Has it ever struck +you," he said, "that civilization's damned dangerous?"</p> + +<p>"Dangerous?" Such a revolutionary remark shocked Mr. Satterthwaite to +the core.</p> + +<p>"Yes. There are no safety valves, you see."</p> + +<p>He turned abruptly, and they descended the path by which they had come.</p> + +<p>"I really am quite at a loss to understand you," said Mr. +Satterthwaite, pattering along with nimble steps to keep up with the +other's strides. "Reasonable people—"</p> + +<p>Porter laughed. A short, disconcerting laugh. Then he looked at the +correct little gentleman by his side.</p> + +<p>"You think it's all bunkum on my part, Mr. Satterthwaite? But there are +people, you know, who can tell you when a storm's coming. They feel it +beforehand in the air. And other people can foretell trouble. There's +trouble coming now, Mr. Satterthwaite, big trouble. It may come any +minute. It may—"</p> + +<p>He stopped dead, clutching Mr. Satterthwaite's arm. And in that tense +minute of silence it came—the sound of two shots and, following them, +a cry—a cry in a woman's voice.</p> + +<p>"My God!" cried Porter, "it's come."</p> + +<p>He raced down the path, Mr. Satterthwaite panting behind him. In a +minute they came out onto the lawn, close by the hedge of the Privy +Garden. At the same time, Richard Scott and Mr. Unkerton came round the +opposite corner of the house. They halted, facing each other, to left +and right of the entrance to the Privy Garden.</p> + +<p>"It—it came from in there," said Unkerton, pointing with a flabby hand.</p> + +<p>"We must see," said Porter. He led the way into the enclosure. As +he rounded the last bend of the holly hedge, he stopped dead. Mr. +Satterthwaite peered over his shoulder. A loud cry burst from Richard +Scott.</p> + +<p>There were three people in the Privy Garden. Two of them lay on the +grass near the stone seat, a man and a woman. The third was Mrs. +Staverton. She was standing quite close to them by the holly hedge, +gazing with horror-stricken eyes, and holding something in her right +hand.</p> + +<p>"Iris," cried Porter. "Iris. For God's sake! What's that you've got in +your hand?"</p> + +<p>She looked down at it then—with a kind of wonder, an unbelievable +indifference.</p> + +<p>"It's a pistol," she said wonderingly. And then—after what seemed an +interminable time, but was in reality only a few seconds: "I—picked it +up."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite had gone forward to where Unkerton and Scott were +kneeling on the turf.</p> + +<p>"A doctor," the latter was murmuring. "We must have a doctor."</p> + +<p>But it was too late for any doctor. Jimmy Allenson, who had complained +that the sand diviners hedged about the future, and Moira Scott, to +whom a gypsy had returned a shilling, lay there in the last great +stillness.</p> + +<p>It was Richard Scott who completed a brief examination. The iron nerve +of the man showed in this crisis. After the first cry of agony, he was +himself again.</p> + +<p>He laid his wife gently down again. "Shot from behind," he said +briefly. "The bullet has passed right through her."</p> + +<p>Then he handled Jimmy Allenson. The wound here was in the breast and +the bullet was lodged in the body.</p> + +<p>John Porter came toward them. "Nothing should be touched," he said +sternly. "The police must see it all exactly as it is now."</p> + +<p>"The police," said Richard Scott. His eyes lit up with a sudden flame +as he looked at the woman standing by the holly hedge. He made a step +in that direction, but at the same time John Porter also moved, so as +to bar his way. For a moment it seemed as though there was a duel of +eyes between the two friends.</p> + +<p>Porter very quietly shook his head. "No, Richard," he said. "It looks +like it—but you're wrong."</p> + +<p>Richard Scott spoke with difficulty, moistening his dry lips. "Then +why—has she got that in her hand?"</p> + +<p>And again Iris Staverton said in the same lifeless tone, "I—picked it +up."</p> + +<p>"The police," said Unkerton, rising. "We must send for the police—at +once. You will telephone perhaps, Scott? Someone should stay here—yes, +I am sure someone should stay here."</p> + +<p>In his quiet, gentlemanly manner, Mr. Satterthwaite offered to do so. +His host accepted the offer with manifest relief. "The ladies," he +explained. "I must break the news to the ladies, Lady Cynthia and my +dear wife."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite stayed in the Privy Garden looking down on the body +of that which had once been Moira Scott. <i>Poor child</i>, he said to +himself. <i>Poor child.</i></p> + +<p>He quoted to himself the tag about the evil men do living after them. +For was not Richard Scott in a way responsible for his innocent wife's +death? They would hang Iris Staverton, he supposed, not that he liked +to think of it, but was not it at least a part of the blame he laid at +the man's door? The evil that men do—</p> + +<p>And the girl, the innocent girl, had paid.</p> + +<p>He looked down at her with a very deep pity. Her small face, so white +and wistful, a half smile on the lips still. The ruffled golden hair, +the delicate ear. There was a spot of blood on the lobe of it. With +an inner feeling of being something of a detective, Mr. Satterthwaite +deduced an earring, torn away in her fall. He craned his neck forward. +Yes, he was right, there was a small pearl drop hanging from the other +ear.</p> + +<p><i>Poor child, poor child.</i></p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>"And now, sir," said Inspector Winkfield.</p> + +<p>They were in the library. The Inspector, a shrewd-looking, forceful man +of forty-odd, was concluding his investigations. He had questioned most +of the guests, and had by now pretty well made up his mind on the case. +He was listening to what Major Porter and Mr. Satterthwaite had to say. +Mr. Unkerton sat heavily in a chair, staring with protruding eyes at +the opposite wall.</p> + +<p>"As I understand it, gentlemen," said the Inspector, "you'd been for a +walk. You were returning to the house by a path that winds round the +left side of what they call the Privy Garden. Is that correct?"</p> + +<p>"Quite correct, Inspector."</p> + +<p>"You heard two shots, and a woman's scream?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"You then ran as fast as you could, emerged from the woods, and made +your way to the entrance of the Privy Garden. If anybody had left that +garden, they could only do so by the one entrance. The holly hedges +are impassable. If anyone had run out of the garden and turned to the +right, he would have been met by Mr. Unkerton and Mr. Scott. If he had +turned to the left, he could not have done so without being seen by +you. Is that right?"</p> + +<p>"That is so," said Major Porter. His face was very white.</p> + +<p>"That seems to settle it," said the Inspector. "Mr. and Mrs. Unkerton +and Lady Cynthia Drage were sitting on the lawn, Mr. Scott was in the +billiard room, which opens onto that lawn. At ten minutes past six, +Mrs. Staverton came out of the house, spoke a word or two to those +sitting there, and went round the corner of the house toward the Privy +Garden. Two minutes later the shots were heard. Mr. Scott rushed out of +the house and, together with Mr. Unkerton, ran to the Privy Garden. At +the same time, you and Mr.—er Satterthwaite arrived from the opposite +direction. Mrs. Staverton was in the Privy Garden with a pistol in her +hand from which two shots had been fired. As I see it, she shot the +lady first from behind, as she was sitting on the bench. Then Captain +Allenson sprang up and went for her, and she shot him in the chest as +he came toward her. I understand that there had been a—er—previous +attachment between her and Mr. Richard Scott—"</p> + +<p>"That's a damned lie," said Porter.</p> + +<p>His voice rang out hoarse and defiant. The Inspector said nothing, +merely shook his head.</p> + +<p>"What is her own story?" asked Mr. Satterthwaite.</p> + +<p>"She says that she went into the Privy Garden to be quiet for a little. +Just before she rounded the last hedge, she heard the shots. She +came round the corner, saw the pistol lying at her feet, and picked +it up. No one passed her, and she saw no one in the garden but the +two victims." The Inspector gave an eloquent pause. "That's what she +says—and although I cautioned her, she insisted on making a statement."</p> + +<p>"If she said that," said Major Porter, and his face was still deadly +white, "she was speaking the truth. I know Iris Staverton."</p> + +<p>"Well, sir," said the Inspector, "there'll be plenty of time to go into +all that later. In the meantime, I've got my duty to do."</p> + +<p>With an abrupt movement, Porter turned to Mr. Satterthwaite. "You! +Can't you help? Can't <i>you</i> do something?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite could not help feeling immensely flattered. He had +been appealed to, he, most insignificant of men, and by a man like John +Porter.</p> + +<p>He was just about to flutter out a regretful reply when the butler, +Thompson, entered, with a card upon a salver which he took to his +master with an apologetic cough. Mr. Unkerton was still sitting huddled +up in a chair, taking no part in the proceedings.</p> + +<p>"I told the gentleman you would probably not be able to see him, sir," +said Thompson, "but he insisted that he had an appointment and that it +was most urgent."</p> + +<p>Unkerton took the card. "Mr. Harley Quin," he read. "I remember, he was +to see me about a picture. I did make an appointment, but as things +are—"</p> + +<p>But Mr. Satterthwaite had started forward. "Mr. Harley Quin, did you +say?" he cried. "How extraordinary, how very extraordinary. Major +Porter, you asked me if I could help you. I think I can. This Mr. Quin +is a friend—or I should say, an acquaintance of mine. He is a most +remarkable man."</p> + +<p>"One of these amateur solvers of crime, I suppose," remarked the +Inspector disparagingly.</p> + +<p>"No," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "He is not that kind of man at all. But +he has a power—an almost uncanny power—of showing you what you have +seen with your own eyes, of making clear to you what you have heard +with your own ears. Let us, at any rate, give him an outline of the +case, and hear what he has to say."</p> + +<p>Mr. Unkerton glanced at the Inspector, who merely snorted and looked at +the ceiling. Then the former gave a short nod to Thompson, who left the +room and returned ushering in a tall, slim stranger.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Unkerton?" The stranger shook him by the hand. "I am sorry to +intrude upon you at such a time. We must leave our little picture chat +until another time. Ah! my friend, Mr. Satterthwaite. Still as fond of +the drama as ever?"</p> + +<p>A faint smile played for a minute round the stranger's lips as he said +these last words.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Quin," said Mr. Satterthwaite impressively, "we have a drama here; +we are in the midst of one. I should like, and my friend Major Porter +would like, to have your opinion of it."</p> + +<p>Mr. Quin sat down. The red-shaded lamp threw a broad band of colored +light over the checked pattern of his overcoat, and left his face in +shadow almost as though he wore a mask.</p> + +<p>Succinctly, Mr. Satterthwaite recited the main points of the tragedy. +Then he paused, breathlessly awaiting the words of the oracle.</p> + +<p>But Mr. Quin merely shook his head. "A sad story," he said. "A very sad +and shocking tragedy. The lack of motive makes it very intriguing."</p> + +<p>Unkerton stared at him. "You don't understand," he said. "Mrs. +Staverton was heard to threaten Richard Scott. She was bitterly jealous +of his wife. Jealousy—"</p> + +<p>"I agree," said Mr. Quin. "Jealousy or demoniac possession. It's all +the same. But you misunderstand me. I was not referring to the murder +of Mrs. Scott, but to that of Captain Allenson."</p> + +<p>"You're right," cried Porter, springing forward. "There's a flaw there. +If Iris had ever contemplated shooting Mrs. Scott, she'd have got her +alone somewhere. No, we're on the wrong tack. And I think I see another +solution. Only those three people went into the Privy Garden. That is +indisputable, and I don't intend to dispute it. But I reconstruct the +tragedy differently. Supposing Jimmy Allenson shoots first Mrs. Scott +and then himself. That's possible, isn't it? He flings the pistol from +him as he falls—Mrs. Staverton finds it lying on the ground and picks +it up just as she said. How's that?"</p> + +<p>The Inspector shook his head. "Won't wash, Major Porter. If Captain +Allenson had fired that shot close to his body, the cloth would have +been singed."</p> + +<p>"He might have held the pistol at arm's length."</p> + +<p>"Why should he? No sense in it. Besides, there's no motive."</p> + +<p>"Might have gone off his head suddenly," muttered Porter, but without +any great conviction. He fell to silence again, suddenly rousing +himself to say defiantly, "Well, Mr. Quin?"</p> + +<p>The latter shook his head. "I'm not a magician. I'm not even a +criminologist. But I will tell you one thing—I believe in the value +of impressions. In any time of crisis there is always one moment that +stands out from all the others, one picture that remains when all else +has faded. Mr. Satterthwaite is, I think, likely to have been the +most unprejudiced observer of those present. Will you cast your mind +back, Mr. Satterthwaite, and tell us the moment that made the strongest +impression on you? Was it when you heard the shots? Was it when you +first saw the dead bodies? Was it when you first observed the pistol in +Mrs. Staverton's hand? Clear your mind of any preconceived standard of +values and tell us."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite fixed his eyes on Mr. Quin's face, rather as a +schoolboy might repeat a lesson of which he was not sure.</p> + +<p>"No," he said, slowly. "It was not any of these. The moment +that I shall always remember was when I stood alone by the +bodies—afterward—looking down on Mrs. Scott. She was lying on her +side. Her hair was ruffled. There was a spot of blood on her little +ear."</p> + +<p>And instantly, as he said it, he felt that he had said a terrific, a +significant thing.</p> + +<p>"Blood on her ear? Yes, I remember," said Unkerton slowly.</p> + +<p>"Her earring must have been torn out when she fell," explained Mr. +Satterthwaite.</p> + +<p>But it sounded a little improbable as he said it.</p> + +<p>"She was lying on her left side," said Porter. "I suppose it was that +ear?"</p> + +<p>"No," said Mr. Satterthwaite quickly. "It was her right ear."</p> + +<p>The Inspector coughed. "I found this in the grass," he vouchsafed. He +held up a loop of gold wire.</p> + +<p>"But, my God, man," cried Porter. "The thing can't have been wrenched +to pieces by a mere fall. It's more as though it had been shot away by +a bullet."</p> + +<p>"So it was," cried Mr. Satterthwaite. "It was a bullet. It must have +been."</p> + +<p>"There were only two shots," said the Inspector. "A shot can't have +grazed her ear and shot her in the back as well. And if one shot +carried away the earring, and the second shot killed her, it can't have +killed Captain Allenson as well—not unless he was standing close in +front of her—very close—facing her as it might be. Oh! no, not even +then, unless, that is—"</p> + +<p>"Unless she was in his arms, you were going to say," said Mr. Quin, +with a queer little smile. "Well, why not?"</p> + +<p>Everyone stared at each other. The idea was so vitally strange to +them—Allenson and Mrs. Scott. Mr. Unkerton voiced the same feeling.</p> + +<p>"But they hardly knew each other," he said.</p> + +<p>"I don't know," said Mr. Satterthwaite thoughtfully. "They might have +known each other better than we thought. Lady Cynthia said he saved +her from being bored in Egypt last winter, and you"—he turned to +Porter—"you told me that Richard Scott met his wife in Cairo last +winter. They might have known each other very well indeed out there."</p> + +<p>"They didn't seem to be together much," said Unkerton.</p> + +<p>"No—they rather avoided each other. It was almost unnatural, now I +come to think of it—"</p> + +<p>They all looked at Mr. Quin, as if a little startled at the conclusions +at which they had arrived so unexpectedly.</p> + +<p>Mr. Quin rose to his feet. "You see," he said, "what Mr. +Satterthwaite's impression has done for us." He turned to Unkerton. "It +is your turn now."</p> + +<p>"Eh? I don't understand you."</p> + +<p>"You were very thoughtful when I came into this room. I should like +to know exactly what thought it was that obsessed you. Never mind +if it has nothing to do with the tragedy. Never mind if it seems to +you—superstitious—" Mr. Unkerton started, ever so slightly. "Tell us."</p> + +<p>"I don't mind telling you," said Unkerton. "Though it's nothing to do +with the business, and you'll probably laugh at me into the bargain. I +was wishing that my Missis had left well alone and not replaced that +pane of glass in the haunted window. I feel as though doing that has +maybe brought a curse upon us."</p> + +<p>He was unable to understand why the two men opposite him stared so.</p> + +<p>"But she hasn't replaced it yet," said Mr. Satterthwaite at last.</p> + +<p>"Yes, she has. Man came first thing this morning."</p> + +<p>"My God!" said Porter, "I begin to understand. That room, it's paneled, +I suppose, not papered?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, but what does that—"</p> + +<p>But Porter had swung out of the room. The others followed him. He went +straight upstairs to the Scotts' bedroom. It was a charming room, +paneled in cream, with two windows facing south. Porter felt with his +hands along the panels on the western wall.</p> + +<p>"There's a spring somewhere—must be. Ah!" There was a click, and a +section of the paneling rolled back. It disclosed the grimy panes of +the haunted window. One pane of glass was clean and new. Porter stooped +quickly and picked up something. He held it out on the palm of his +hand. It was a fragment of ostrich feather. Then he looked at Mr. Quin. +Mr. Quin nodded.</p> + +<p>He went across to the hat cupboard in the bedroom. There were several +hats in it—the dead woman's hats. He took out one with a large brim +and curling feathers—an elaborate Ascot hat.</p> + +<p>Mr. Quin began speaking in a gentle, reflective voice.</p> + +<p>"Let us suppose," said Mr. Quin, "a man who is by nature intensely +jealous, a man who has stayed here in bygone years and knows the secret +of the spring in the paneling. To amuse himself he opens it one day, +and looks out over the Privy Garden. There, secure as they think from +being over-looked, he sees his wife and another man. There can be no +possible doubt in his mind as to the relations between them. He is +mad with rage. What shall he do? An idea comes to him. He goes to the +cupboard and puts on the hat with the brim and feathers. It is growing +dusk, and he remembers the story of the stain on the glass. Anyone +looking up at the window will see as they think the Watching Cavalier. +Thus secured, he watches them, and at the moment they are clasped in +each other's arms, he shoots. He is a good shot—a wonderful shot. As +they fall, he fires once more—that shot carries away the earring. +He flings the pistol out of the window into the Privy Garden, rushes +downstairs and out through the billiard room."</p> + +<p>Porter took a step toward him.</p> + +<p>"But he let her be accused?" he cried. "He stood by and let her be +accused? Why? Why?"</p> + +<p>"I think you know why," said Mr. Quin. "I should guess—it's only +guesswork on my part, mind—that Richard Scott was once madly in love +with Iris Staverton—so madly that even meeting her years afterward +stirred up the embers of jealousy again. I should say that Iris +Staverton once fancied that she might love him, that she went on a +hunting trip with him and another—and that she came back in love with +the better man."</p> + +<p>"The better man," muttered Porter, dazed. "You mean—"</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Mr. Quin, with a faint smile. "I mean you." He paused a +minute, and then said, "If I were you—I should go to her now."</p> + +<p>"I will," said Porter.</p> + +<p>He turned and left the room.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="At_the_Bells_and_Motley"><span class="smcap">At the Bells and Motley</span></h2> +</div> + + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite was annoyed. Altogether it had been an unfortunate +day. They had started late; they had taken the wrong turning and lost +themselves amid the wilds of Salisbury Plain. Now it was close on +eight o'clock; they were still a matter of forty miles from Marswick +Manor, whither they were bound, and a puncture had supervened to render +matters still more trying.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite, looking like some small bird whose plumage had been +ruffled, walked up and down in front of the village garage while his +chauffeur conversed in hoarse undertones with the local expert.</p> + +<p>"Half an hour <i>at</i> least," said that worthy, pronouncing judgment.</p> + +<p>"And lucky at that," supplemented Masters, the chauffeur. "More like +three quarters if you ask me."</p> + +<p>"What is this—place, anyway?" demanded Mr. Satterthwaite fretfully. +Being a little gentleman considerate of the feelings of others, he +substituted the word "place" for "Godforsaken hole" which had first +risen to his lips.</p> + +<p>"Kirtlington Mallet."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite was not much wiser, and yet a faint familiarity +seemed to linger round the name. He looked round him disparagingly. +Kirtlington Mallet seemed to consist of one straggling street, the +garage and the post office on one side of it balanced by three +indeterminate shops on the other side. Farther down the road, however, +Mr. Satterthwaite perceived something that creaked and swung in the +wind, and his spirits rose ever so slightly.</p> + +<p>"There's an inn here, I see," he remarked.</p> + +<p>"Bells and Motley," said the garageman. "That's it—yonder."</p> + +<p>"If I might make a suggestion, sir," said Masters. "Why not try it? +They would be able to give you some sort of a meal, no doubt—not of +course, what you are accustomed to—" He paused apologetically, for Mr. +Satterthwaite was accustomed to the best cooking of continental chefs, +and had in his own service a <i>cordon bleu</i> to whom he paid a fabulous +salary.</p> + +<p>"We shan't be able to take the road again for another three quarters of +an hour, sir. I'm sure of that. And it's already past eight o'clock. +You could ring up Sir George Foster, sir, from the inn, and acquaint +him with the cause of our delay."</p> + +<p>"You seem to think you can arrange everything, Masters," said Mr. +Satterthwaite snappily.</p> + +<p>Masters, who did think so, maintained a respectful silence.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite, in spite of his earnest wish to discountenance +any suggestion that might possibly be made to him—he was in that +mood—nevertheless looked down the road toward the creaking inn sign +with faint inward approval. He was a man of birdlike appetite, an +epicure; but even such men can be hungry.</p> + +<p>"The Bells and Motley," he said thoughtfully. "That's an odd name for +an inn. I don't know that I ever heard it before."</p> + +<p>"There's odd folks come to it by all account," said the local man.</p> + +<p>He was bending over the wheel, and his voice came muffled and +indistinct.</p> + +<p>"Odd folks?" queried Mr. Satterthwaite. "Now what do you mean by that?"</p> + +<p>The other hardly seemed to know what he meant.</p> + +<p>"Folks that come and go. That kind," he said vaguely.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite reflected that people who come to an inn are almost +of necessity those who "come and go." The definition seemed to him to +lack precision. But nevertheless his curiosity was stimulated. Somehow +or other he had got to put in three quarters of an hour. The Bells and +Motley would be as good as anywhere else.</p> + +<p>With his usual small, mincing steps he walked away down the road. From +afar there came a rumble of thunder. The mechanic looked up and spoke +to Masters: "There's a storm coming over. Thought I could feel it in +the air."</p> + +<p>"Crikey," said Masters. "And forty miles to go."</p> + +<p>"Ah!" said the other. "There's no need to be hurrying over this job. +You'll not be wanted to take the road till the storm's passed over. +That little boss of yours doesn't look as though he'd relish being out +in thunder and lightning."</p> + +<p>"Hope they'll do him well at that place," muttered the chauffeur. "I'll +be pushing along there for a bite myself presently."</p> + +<p>"Billy Jones is all right," said the garageman. "Keeps a good table."</p> + +<p>Mr. William Jones, a big burly man of fifty, and landlord of the Bells +and Motley, was at this minute beaming ingratiatingly down on little +Mr. Satterthwaite.</p> + +<p>"Can do you a nice steak, sir—<i>and</i> fried potatoes, and as good a +cheese as any gentleman could wish for. This way, sir, in the coffee +room. We're not very full at present, the last of the fishing gentlemen +just gone. A little later we'll be full again for the hunting. Only one +gentleman here at present, name of Quin—"</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite stopped dead.</p> + +<p>"Quin?" he said excitedly. "Did you say Quin?"</p> + +<p>"That's the name, sir. Friend of yours, perhaps?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, indeed. Oh! yes, most certainly." Twittering with excitement, +Mr. Satterthwaite hardly realized that the world might contain more +than one man of that name. He had no doubts at all. In an odd way, the +information fitted in with what the man at the garage had said. "Folks +that come and go." A very apt description of Mr. Quin. And the name of +the inn too seemed a peculiarly fitting and appropriate one.</p> + +<p>"Dear me, dear me," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "What a <i>very</i> odd thing. +That we should meet like this! Mr. Harley Quin, is it not?"</p> + +<p>"That's right, sir. This is the coffee room, sir. Ah! here is the +gentleman."</p> + +<p>Tall, dark, smiling, the familiar figure of Mr. Quin rose from the +table at which he was sitting, and the well-remembered voice spoke.</p> + +<p>"Ah! Mr. Satterthwaite, we meet again. An unexpected meeting!"</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite was shaking him warmly by the hand.</p> + +<p>"Delighted. Delighted, I'm sure. A lucky breakdown for me. My car, you +know. And you are staying here? For long?"</p> + +<p>"One night only."</p> + +<p>"Then I am indeed fortunate."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite sat down opposite his friend with a little sigh of +satisfaction, and regarded the dark, smiling face opposite him with a +pleasurable expectancy.</p> + +<p>The other man shook his head gently.</p> + +<p>"I assure you," he said, "that I have not a bowl of goldfish or a +rabbit to produce from my sleeve."</p> + +<p>"Too bad," cried Mr. Satterthwaite, a little taken aback. "Yes, I must +confess—I do rather adopt that attitude toward you. A man of magic. +Ha, ha. That is how I regard you. A man of magic."</p> + +<p>"And yet," said Mr. Quin, "it is you who do the conjuring tricks, not +I."</p> + +<p>"Ah!" said Mr. Satterthwaite eagerly. "But I cannot do them without +you. I lack—shall we say—inspiration?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Quin smilingly shook his head. "That is too big a word. I speak the +cue, that is all."</p> + +<p>The landlord came in at that minute with bread and a slab of yellow +butter. As he set the things on the table there was a vivid flash of +lightning, and a clap of thunder almost overhead.</p> + +<p>"A wild night, gentlemen."</p> + +<p>"On such a night—" began Mr. Satterthwaite, and stopped.</p> + +<p>"Funny now," said the landlord, unconscious of the question, "if those +weren't just the words I was going to use myself. It was just such a +night as this when Captain Harwell brought his bride home, the very day +before he disappeared forever."</p> + +<p>"Ah!" cried Mr. Satterthwaite, suddenly. "Of course!"</p> + +<p>He had got the clue. He knew now why the name Kirtlington Mallet +was familiar. Three months before he had read every detail of the +astonishing disappearance of Captain Richard Harwell. Like other +newspaper readers all over Great Britain, he had puzzled over the +details of the disappearance, and, also like every other Briton, had +evolved his own theories.</p> + +<p>"Of course," he repeated. "It was at Kirtlington Mallet it happened."</p> + +<p>"It was at this house he stayed for the hunting last winter," said +the landlord. "Oh! I knew him well. A main handsome young gentleman +and not one that you'd think had a care on his mind. He was done away +with—that's my belief. Many's the time I've seen them come riding home +together—he and Miss Le Couteau, and all the village saying there'd be +a match come of it—and sure enough, so it did. A very beautiful young +lady, and well thought of, for all she was a Canadian and a stranger. +Ah! there's some dark mystery there. We'll never know the rights of it. +It broke her heart. It did, sure enough. You've heard as she's sold the +place up and gone abroad; couldn't bear to go on here with everyone +staring and pointing after her—through no fault of her own, poor young +dear? A black mystery, that's what it is."</p> + +<p>He shook his head, then, suddenly recollecting his duties, hurried from +the room.</p> + +<p>"A black mystery," said Mr. Quin softly.</p> + +<p>His voice was provocative in Mr. Satterthwaite's ear.</p> + +<p>"Are you pretending that we can solve the mystery where Scotland Yard +failed?" he asked sharply.</p> + +<p>The other made a characteristic gesture.</p> + +<p>"Why not? Time has passed. Three months. That makes a difference."</p> + +<p>"That is a curious idea of yours," said Mr. Satterthwaite slowly. "That +one sees things better afterward than at the time."</p> + +<p>"The longer the time that has elapsed, the more things fall into +proportion. One sees them in their true relationship to one another."</p> + +<p>There was a silence which lasted for some minutes.</p> + +<p>"I am not sure," said Mr. Satterthwaite, in a hesitating voice, "that I +remember the facts clearly by now."</p> + +<p>"I think you do," said Mr. Quin quietly.</p> + +<p>It was all the encouragement Mr. Satterthwaite needed. His general role +in life was that of listener and looker-on. Only in the company of Mr. +Quin was the position reversed. There Mr. Quin was the appreciative +listener, and Mr. Satterthwaite took the center of the stage.</p> + +<p>"It was just over a year ago," he said, "that Ashley Grange passed +into the possession of Miss Eleanor Le Couteau. It is a beautiful old +house, but it had been neglected and allowed to remain empty for many +years. It could not have found a better chatelaine. Miss Le Couteau +was a French Canadian, her forebears were <i>émigrés</i> from the French +Revolution, and had handed down to her a collection of almost priceless +French relics and antiques. She was a buyer and a collector also, with +a very fine and discriminating taste, so much so that, when she decided +to sell Ashley Grange and everything it contained after the tragedy, +Mr. Cyrus G. Bradburn, the American millionaire, made no bones about +paying the fancy price of sixty thousand pounds for the Grange as it +stood."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite paused.</p> + +<p>"I mention these things," he said apologetically, "not because they are +relevant to the story—strictly speaking, they are not—but to convey +an atmosphere, the atmosphere of young Mrs. Harwell."</p> + +<p>Mr. Quin nodded. "Atmosphere is always valuable," he said gravely.</p> + +<p>"So we get a picture of this girl," continued the other. "Just +twenty-three, dark, beautiful, accomplished, nothing crude and +unfinished about her. And rich—we must not forget that. She was an +orphan. A Mrs. St. Clair, a lady of unimpeachable breeding and social +standing, lived with her as duenna. But Eleanor Le Couteau had complete +control of her own fortune. And fortune hunters are never hard to seek. +At least a dozen impecunious young men were to be found dangling around +her on all occasions, in the hunting-field, in the ballroom, wherever +she went. Young Lord Leccan, the most eligible party in the country, is +reported to have asked her to marry him, but she remained heart-free. +That is, until the coming of Captain Richard Harwell.</p> + +<p>"Captain Harwell had put up at the local inn for the hunting. He was a +dashing rider to hounds, a handsome laughing daredevil of a fellow. +You remember the old saying, Mr. Quin? 'Happy the wooing that's not +long doing.' The adage was carried out at least in part. At the end of +two months, Richard Harwell and Eleanor Le Couteau were engaged.</p> + +<p>"The marriage followed three months afterward. The happy pair went +abroad for a two weeks' honeymoon, and then returned to take up their +residence at Ashley Grange. The landlord has just told us that it was +on a night of storm such as this that they returned to their home. +An omen, I wonder? Who can tell. Be that as it may, the following +morning very early—about half-past seven—Captain Harwell was seen +walking in the garden by one of the gardeners, John Mathias. He was +bareheaded, and was whistling. We have a picture there, a picture of +lightheartedness, of careless happiness. And yet from that minute, as +far as we know, no one ever set eyes on Captain Richard Harwell again."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite paused, pleasantly conscious of a dramatic moment. +The admiring glance of Mr. Quin gave him the tribute he needed, and he +went on.</p> + +<p>"The disappearance was remarkable—unaccountable. It was not till the +following day that the distracted wife called in the police. As you +know, they have not succeeded in solving the mystery."</p> + +<p>"There have, I suppose, been theories?" asked Mr. Quin.</p> + +<p>"Oh! theories, I grant you. Theory No. 1, that Captain Harwell had +been murdered, done away with. But if so, where was the body? It could +hardly have been spirited away. And besides, what motive was there? As +far as was known, Captain Harwell had not an enemy in the world."</p> + +<p>He paused abruptly, as though uncertain. Mr. Quin leaned forward. "You +are thinking," he said softly, "of young Stephen Grant."</p> + +<p>"I am," admitted Mr. Satterthwaite. "Stephen Grant, if I remember +rightly, had been in charge of Captain Harwell's horses, and had been +discharged by his master for some trifling offense. On the morning +after the home-coming, very early, Stephen Grant was seen in the +vicinity of Ashley Grange, and could give no good account of his +presence there. He was detained by the police as being concerned in +the disappearance of Captain Harwell, but nothing could be proved +against him, and he was eventually discharged. It is true that he might +be supposed to bear a grudge against Captain Harwell for his summary +dismissal, but the motive was undeniably of the flimsiest. I suppose +the police felt they must do something. You see, as I said just now, +Captain Harwell had not an enemy in the world."</p> + +<p>"As far as was known," said Mr. Quin reflectively.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite nodded appreciatively.</p> + +<p>"We are coming to that. What, after all, <i>was</i> known of Captain +Harwell? When the police came to look into his antecedents they were +confronted with a singular paucity of material. Who was Richard +Harwell? Where did he come from? He had appeared literally out of the +blue, as it seemed. He was a magnificent rider, and apparently well +off. Nobody in Kirtlington Mallet had bothered to inquire further. +Miss Le Couteau had had no parents or guardians to make inquiries into +the prospects and standing of her fiancé. She was her own mistress. +The police theory at this point was clear enough. A rich girl and an +impudent impostor. The old story!</p> + +<p>"But it was not quite that. True, Miss Le Couteau had no parents or +guardians, but she had an excellent firm of solicitors in London +who acted for her. Their evidence made the mystery deeper. Eleanor +Le Couteau had wished to settle a sum outright upon her prospective +husband, but he had refused. He himself was well off, he declared. It +was proved conclusively that Harwell never had a penny of his wife's +money. Her fortune was absolutely intact.</p> + +<p>"He was, therefore, no common swindler; but was his object a refinement +of the art? Did he propose blackmail at some future date if Eleanor +Harwell should wish to marry some other man? I will admit that +something of that kind seemed to me the most likely solution. It has +always seemed so to me—until tonight."</p> + +<p>Mr. Quin leaned forward, prompting him.</p> + +<p>"Tonight?"</p> + +<p>"Tonight—I am not satisfied with that. How did he manage to disappear +so suddenly and completely—at that hour in the morning, with every +laborer bestirring himself and tramping to work? Bareheaded, too."</p> + +<p>"There is no doubt about that latter point—since the gardener saw him?"</p> + +<p>"Yes—the gardener—John Mathias. Was there anything there, I wonder?"</p> + +<p>"The police would not overlook him," said Mr. Quin.</p> + +<p>"They questioned him closely. He never wavered in his statement. His +wife bore him out. He left his cottage at seven to attend to the +greenhouses; he returned at twenty minutes to eight. The servants in +the house heard the front door slam at about a quarter after seven. +That fixes the time when Captain Harwell left the house. Ah! yes, I +know what you are thinking."</p> + +<p>"Do you, I wonder?" said Mr. Quin.</p> + +<p>"I fancy so. Time enough for Mathias to have made away with his master. +But why, man, why? And if so, where did he hide the body?"</p> + +<p>The landlord came in bearing a tray.</p> + +<p>"Sorry to have kept you so long, gentlemen."</p> + +<p>The odor from the dishes was pleasant to Mr. Satterthwaite's nostrils. +He felt gracious. "This looks excellent," he said. "Most excellent. We +have been discussing the disappearance of Captain Harwell. What became +of the gardener Mathias?"</p> + +<p>"Took a place in Essex, I believe. Didn't care to stay hereabouts. +There were some as looked askance at him, you understand. Not that I +ever believed he had anything to do with it."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite helped himself. Mr. Quin followed suit. The landlord +seemed disposed to linger and chat. Mr. Satterthwaite had no objection; +on the contrary. "This Mathias now," he said. "What kind of a man was +he?"</p> + +<p>"Middle-aged chap, must have been a powerful fellow once, but bent and +crippled with rheumatism. He had that mortal bad, was laid up many +a time with it, unable to do any work. For my part, I think it was +sheer kindness on Miss Eleanor's part to keep him on. He'd outgrown +his usefulness as a gardener, though his wife managed to make herself +useful up at the house. Been a cook, she had, and always willing to +lend a hand."</p> + +<p>"What sort of a woman was she?" asked Mr. Satterthwaite, quickly.</p> + +<p>The landlord's answer disappointed him. "A plain body. Middle-aged, +and dour-like in manner. Deaf, too. Not that I ever knew much of them. +They'd only been here a month, you understand, when the thing happened. +They say he'd been a rare good gardener in his time, though. Wonderful +testimonials Miss Eleanor had with him."</p> + +<p>"Was she interested in gardening?" asked Mr. Quin softly.</p> + +<p>"No, sir, I couldn't say that she was, not like some of the ladies +round here who pay good money to gardeners and spend the whole of their +time grubbing about on their knees as well. Foolishness I call it. You +see, Miss Le Couteau wasn't here very much except in the winter for the +hunting. The rest of the time she was up in London and away in those +foreign seaside places where they say the French ladies don't so much +as put a toe into the water for fear of spoiling their costumes, or so +I've heard."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite smiled. "There was no—er—woman of any kind mixed up +with Captain Harwell?" he asked. Though his first theory was disposed +of, he nevertheless clung to his idea.</p> + +<p>Mr. William Jones shook his head. "Nothing of that sort. Never a +whisper of it. No, it's a dark mystery, that's what it is."</p> + +<p>"And your theory? What do you yourself think?" persisted Mr. +Satterthwaite.</p> + +<p>"What do I think?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"Don't know what to think. It's my belief as how he was done in, but +who by I can't say. I'll fetch you gentlemen the cheese."</p> + +<p>He stumped from the room bearing empty dishes. The storm, which had +been quieting down, suddenly broke out with redoubled vigor. A flash +of forked lightning and a great clap of thunder close upon each other +made little Mr. Satterthwaite jump, and before the last echoes of +the thunder had died away, a girl came into the room carrying the +advertised cheese.</p> + +<p>She was tall and dark, and handsome in a sullen fashion of her own. +Her likeness to the landlord of the Bells and Motley was apparent +enough to proclaim her his daughter.</p> + +<p>"Good evening, Mary," said Mr. Quin. "A stormy night."</p> + +<p>She nodded. "I hate these stormy nights," she muttered.</p> + +<p>"You are afraid of thunder, perhaps?" said Mr. Satterthwaite kindly.</p> + +<p>"Afraid of thunder? Not me! There's little that I'm afraid of. No, but +the storm sets them off. Talking, talking, the same thing over and over +again, like a lot of parrots. Father begins it: 'It reminds me, this +does, of the night poor Captain Harwell—' And so on, and so on." She +turned on Mr. Quin. "You've heard how he goes on. What's the sense of +it? Can't anyone let past things be?"</p> + +<p>"A thing is only past when it is done with," said Mr. Quin.</p> + +<p>"Isn't this done with? Suppose he wanted to disappear? These fine +gentlemen do sometimes."</p> + +<p>"You think he disappeared of his own free will?"</p> + +<p>"Why not? It would make better sense than to suppose a kindhearted +creature like Stephen Grant murdered him. What should he murder him +for, I should like to know? Stephen had had a drop too much one day +and spoke to him saucy like, and got the sack for it. But what of it? +He got another place just as good. Is that a reason to murder a man in +cold blood?"</p> + +<p>"But surely," said Mr. Satterthwaite, "the police were quite satisfied +of his innocence."</p> + +<p>"The police! What do the police matter? When Stephen comes into the bar +of an evening, every man looks at him queer like. They don't really +believe he murdered Harwell, but they're not sure, and so they look at +him sideways and edge away. Nice life for a man, to see people shrink +away from you, as though you were something different from the rest of +the folks. Why won't Father hear of our getting married, Stephen and +I? 'You can take your pigs to a better market, my girl. I've nothing +against Stephen, but—well, we don't know, do we?'"</p> + +<p>She stopped, her breast heaving with the violence of her resentment.</p> + +<p>"It's cruel, cruel, that's what it is," she burst out. "Stephen, that +wouldn't hurt a fly! And all through life there'll be people who'll +think he did it. It's turning him queer and bitter like. I don't +wonder, I'm sure. And the more he's like that, the more people think +there must have been something in it."</p> + +<p>Again she stopped. Her eyes were fixed on Mr. Quin's face, as though +something in it was drawing this outburst from her.</p> + +<p>"Can nothing be done?" said Mr. Satterthwaite.</p> + +<p>He was genuinely distressed. The thing was, he saw, inevitable. The +very vagueness and unsatisfactoriness of the evidence against Stephen +Grant made it the more difficult for him to disprove the accusation.</p> + +<p>The girl whirled round on him. "Nothing but the truth can help him," +she cried. "If Captain Harwell were to be found, if he was to come +back. If the true rights of it were only known—"</p> + +<p>She broke off with something very like a sob, and hurried quickly from +the room.</p> + +<p>"A fine-looking girl," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "A sad case altogether. +I wish—I very much wish that something could be done about it."</p> + +<p>His kind heart was troubled.</p> + +<p>"We are doing what we can," said Mr. Quin. "There is still nearly half +an hour before your car can be ready."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite stared at him. "You think we can come at the truth +just by—talking it over like this?"</p> + +<p>"You have seen much of life," said Mr. Quin gravely. "More than most +people."</p> + +<p>"Life has passed me by," said Mr. Satterthwaite bitterly.</p> + +<p>"But in so doing has sharpened your vision. Where others are blind you +can see."</p> + +<p>"It is true," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "I am a great observer."</p> + +<p>He plumed himself complacently. The moment of bitterness was past. "I +look at it like this," he said after a minute or two. "To get at the +cause for a thing, we must study the effect."</p> + +<p>"Very good," said Mr. Quin approvingly.</p> + +<p>"The effect in this case is that Miss Le Couteau—Mrs. Harwell, I +mean—is a wife and yet not a wife. She is not free—she cannot marry +again. And look at it as we will, we see Richard Harwell as a sinister +figure, a man from nowhere with a mysterious past."</p> + +<p>"I agree," said Mr. Quin. "You see what all are bound to see, what +cannot be missed, Captain Harwell in the limelight, a suspicious +figure."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite looked at him doubtfully. The words seemed somehow to +suggest a faintly different picture to his mind. "We have studied the +effect," he said. "Or call it the <i>result</i>. We can now pass—"</p> + +<p>Mr. Quin interrupted him. "You have not touched on the result on the +strictly material side."</p> + +<p>"You are right," said Mr. Satterthwaite, after a moment or two for +consideration. "One should do the thing thoroughly. Let us say then +that the result of the tragedy is that Mrs. Harwell is a wife and not +a wife, unable to marry again, that Mr. Cyrus Bradburn has been able +to buy Ashley Grange and its contents for—sixty thousand pounds, was +it?—and that somebody in Essex has been able to secure John Mathias +as a gardener! For all that, we do not suspect 'somebody in Essex' or +Mr. Cyrus Bradburn of having engineered the disappearance of Captain +Harwell."</p> + +<p>"You are sarcastic," said Mr. Quin.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite looked sharply at him. "But surely you agree—"</p> + +<p>"Oh! I agree," said Mr. Quin. "The idea is absurd. What next?"</p> + +<p>"Let us imagine ourselves back on the fatal day. The disappearance has +taken place, let us say, this very morning."</p> + +<p>"No, no," said Mr. Quin, smiling. "Since, in our imagination at least, +we have power over time, let us turn it the other way. Let us say the +disappearance of Captain Harwell took place a hundred years ago. That +we, in the twenty-first century, are looking back."</p> + +<p>"You are a strange man," said Mr. Satterthwaite slowly. "You believe in +the past, not the present. Why?"</p> + +<p>"You used, not long ago, the word atmosphere. There is no atmosphere in +the present."</p> + +<p>"That is true, perhaps," said Mr. Satterthwaite thoughtfully. "Yes, it +is true. The present is apt to be—parochial."</p> + +<p>"A good word," said Mr. Quin.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite gave a funny little bow. "You are too kind," he said.</p> + +<p>"Let us take—not this present year, that would be too difficult, but +say—last year," continued the other. "Sum it up for me, you, who have +the gift of the neat phrase."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite thought for a minute. He was jealous of his +reputation.</p> + +<p>"A hundred years ago we have the age of powder and patches," he +said. "Shall we say that it was the age of crossword puzzles and cat +burglars?"</p> + +<p>"Very good," approved Mr. Quin. "You mean that nationally, not +internationally, I presume?"</p> + +<p>"As to crossword puzzles, I must confess that I do not know," said +Mr. Satterthwaite. "But the cat burglar had a great inning on the +Continent. You remember that series of famous thefts from French +châteaux? It is surmised that one man alone could not have done it. The +most miraculous feats were performed to gain admission. There was a +theory that a troupe of acrobats were concerned—the Clondinis. I once +saw their performance—truly masterly. A mother, son, and daughter. +They vanished from the stage in a rather mysterious fashion. But we are +wandering from our subject."</p> + +<p>"Not very far," said Mr. Quin. "Only across the Channel."</p> + +<p>"Where the French ladies will not wet their toes, according to our +worthy host," said Mr. Satterthwaite, laughing.</p> + +<p>There was a pause. It seemed somehow significant.</p> + +<p>"Why did he disappear?" cried Mr. Satterthwaite. "Why? Why? It is +incredible, a kind of conjuring trick."</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Mr. Quin. "A conjuring trick. That describes it exactly. +Atmosphere again, you see. And wherein does the essence of a conjuring +trick lie?"</p> + +<p>"'The quickness of the hand deceives the eye,'" quoted Mr. +Satterthwaite glibly.</p> + +<p>"That is everything, is it not? To deceive the eye? Sometimes by the +quickness of the hand, sometimes—by other means. There are many +devices, the pistol shot, the waving of a red handkerchief, something +that seems important, but in reality is not. The eye is diverted from +the real business, it is caught by the spectacular action that means +nothing—nothing at all."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite leaned forward, his eyes shining. "There is something +in that. It is an idea."</p> + +<p>He went on softly. "The pistol shot. What was the pistol shot in the +conjuring trick we are discussing? What is the spectacular moment that +holds the imagination?"</p> + +<p>He drew in his breath sharply. "The disappearance," breathed Mr. +Satterthwaite. "Take that away, and it leaves nothing."</p> + +<p>"Nothing? Suppose things took the same course without that dramatic +gesture."</p> + +<p>"You mean—supposing Miss Le Couteau were still to sell Ashley Grange +to Mr. Bradburn and leave—for no reason?"</p> + +<p>"Well."</p> + +<p>"Well, why not? It would have aroused talk, I suppose; there would have +been a lot of interest displayed in the value of the contents, in—Ah! +wait!"</p> + +<p>He was silent a minute, then burst out. "You are right, there is too +much limelight, the limelight on Captain Harwell. And because of that, +<i>she</i> has been in shadow. <i>Miss Le Couteau!</i> Everyone asking 'Who +was Captain Harwell? Where did he come from?' But because she is the +injured party, no one makes inquiries about her. Was she really a +French Canadian? Were those wonderful heirlooms really handed down to +her? You were right when you said just now that we had not wandered far +from our subject—<i>only across the Channel</i>. Those so-called heirlooms +were stolen from the French châteaux, most of them valuable <i>objets +d'art</i>, and in consequence difficult to dispose of. She buys the +house—for a mere song, probably—settles down there and pays a good +sum to an irreproachable Englishwoman to chaperon her. Then <i>he</i> comes. +The plot is laid beforehand. The marriage, the disappearance, and the +nine days' wonder! What more natural than that a brokenhearted woman +should want to sell everything that reminds her of past happiness? The +American is a connoisseur, the things are genuine and beautiful, some +of them beyond price. He makes an offer, she accepts it. She leaves the +neighborhood, a sad and tragic figure. The great <i>coup</i> has come off. +The eye of the public has been deceived by the quickness of the hand +and the spectacular nature of the trick."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite paused, flushed with triumph.</p> + +<p>"But for you, I should never have seen it," he said with sudden +humility. "You have a most curious effect upon me. One says things so +often without even seeing what they really mean. You have the knack +of showing one. But it is still not quite clear to me. It must have +been most difficult for Harwell to disappear as he did. After all, the +police all over England were looking for him."</p> + +<p>"They were probably looking," said Mr. Quin, "all over England."</p> + +<p>"It would have been simplest to remain hidden at the Grange," mused Mr. +Satterthwaite. "If it could be managed."</p> + +<p>"He was, I think, very near the Grange," said Mr. Quin.</p> + +<p>His look of significance was not lost on Mr. Satterthwaite. "Mathias's +cottage?" he exclaimed. "But the police must have searched it?"</p> + +<p>"Repeatedly, I should imagine," said Mr. Quin.</p> + +<p>"Mathias," said Mr. Satterthwaite, frowning.</p> + +<p>"And Mrs. Mathias," said Mr. Quin.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite stared hard at him. "If that gang was really the +Clondinis," he said dreamily, "there are three of them in it. The two +young ones were Harwell and Eleanor Le Couteau. The mother now, was she +Mrs. Mathias? But in that case—"</p> + +<p>"Mathias suffered from rheumatism, did he not?" said Mr. Quin +innocently.</p> + +<p>"Oh!" cried Mr. Satterthwaite. "I have it. But could it be done? I +believe it could. Listen. Mathias was there a month. During that time, +Harwell and Eleanor were away for a fortnight on a honeymoon. For the +fortnight before the wedding, they were supposedly in town. A clever +man could have doubled the parts of Harwell and Mathias. When Harwell +was at Kirtlington Mallet, Mathias was conveniently laid up with +rheumatism, with Mrs. Mathias to sustain the fiction. Her part was very +necessary. Without her, someone might have suspected the truth. As you +say, Harwell was hidden in Mathias's cottage. He <i>was</i> Mathias. When +at last the plans matured, and Ashley Grange was sold, he and his wife +gave out that they were taking a place in Essex. Exit John Mathias and +his wife—forever."</p> + +<p>There was a knock at the coffee-room door, and Masters entered.</p> + +<p>"The car is at the door, sir," he said.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite rose. So did Mr. Quin, who went across to the window, +pulling the curtains. A beam of moonlight streamed into the room.</p> + +<p>"The storm is over," he said.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite was pulling on his gloves. "The Commissioner is +dining with me next week," he said importantly. "I shall put my +theory—ah!—before him."</p> + +<p>"It will be easily proved or disproved," said Mr. Quin. "A comparison +of the objects at Ashley Grange with a list supplied by the French +police—!"</p> + +<p>"Just so," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "Rather hard luck on Mr. Bradburn, +but—well—"</p> + +<p>"He can, I believe, stand the loss," said Mr. Quin.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite held out his hand. "Good-by," he said. "I cannot +tell you how much I have appreciated this unexpected meeting. You are +leaving here tomorrow, I think you said?"</p> + +<p>"Possibly tonight. My business here is done. I come and go, you know."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite remembered hearing those same words earlier in the +evening. Rather curious.</p> + +<p>He went out to the car and the waiting Masters. From the open door into +the bar the landlord's voice floated out, rich and complacent.</p> + +<p>"A dark mystery," he was saying. "A dark mystery, that's what it is."</p> + +<p>But he did not use the word "dark." The word he used suggested quite +a different color. Mr. William Jones was a man of discrimination who +suited his adjectives to his company. The company in the bar liked +their adjectives full flavored.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite reclined luxuriously in the comfortable limousine. +His breast was swelled with triumph. He saw the girl Mary come out on +the steps and stand under the creaking inn sign.</p> + +<p>"She little knows," said Mr. Satterthwaite to himself. "She little +knows what <i>I</i> am going to do!"</p> + +<p>The sign of the Bells and Motley swayed gently in the wind.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="The_Sign_in_the_Sky"><span class="smcap">The Sign in the Sky</span></h2> +</div> + + +<p>The judge was finishing his charge to the jury:</p> + +<p>"Now, gentlemen, I have almost finished what I want to say to you. +There is evidence for you to consider as to whether this case is +plainly made out against this man so that you may say he is guilty of +the murder of Vivien Barnaby. You have had the evidence of the servants +as to the time the shot was fired. They have one and all agreed upon +it. You have had the evidence of the letter written to the defendant +by Vivien Barnaby on the morning of that same day, Friday, September +23rd, a letter which the defense has not attempted to deny. You have +had evidence that the prisoner first denied having been at Deering +Hill, and later, after evidence had been given by the police, admitted +he had. You will draw your own conclusions from that denial. This +is not a case of direct evidence. You will have to come to your own +conclusions on the subject of motive—of means—of opportunity. The +contention of the defense is that some person unknown entered the music +room after the defendant had left it, and shot Vivien Barnaby with the +gun which by a strange forgetfulness the defendant had left behind him. +You have heard the defendant's story of the reason it took him half +an hour to get home. If you disbelieve the defendant's story and are +satisfied, beyond any reasonable doubt, that the defendant did, upon +Friday, September 23rd, discharge his gun at close quarters to Vivien +Barnaby's head with intent to kill her, then, gentlemen, your verdict +must be guilty. If, on the other hand, you have any reasonable doubt, +it is your duty to acquit the prisoner. I will now ask you to retire +to your room and consider and let me know when you have arrived at a +conclusion."</p> + +<p>The jury were absent a little under half an hour. They returned the +verdict that to everyone had seemed a foregone conclusion, the verdict +of "Guilty."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite left the court after hearing the verdict, with a +thoughtful frown on his face.</p> + +<p>A mere murder trial, as such, did not attract him. He was of too +fastidious a temperament to find interest in the sordid details of +the average crime. But the Wylde case had been different. Young +Martin Wylde was what is termed a gentleman—and the victim, Sir +George Barnaby's young wife, had been personally known to the elderly +gentleman.</p> + +<p>He was thinking of all this as he walked up Holborn, and then plunged +into a tangle of mean streets leading in the direction of Soho. In +one of these streets there was a small restaurant, known only to the +few, of whom Mr. Satterthwaite was one. It was not cheap—it was, on +the contrary, exceedingly expensive, since it catered exclusively for +the palate of the jaded gourmet. It was quiet—no strains of jazz were +allowed to disturb the hushed atmosphere—it was rather dark; waiters +appeared soft-footed out of the twilight, bearing silver dishes with +the air of participating in some holy rite. The name of the restaurant +was Arlecchino.</p> + +<p>Still thoughtful, Mr. Satterthwaite turned into the Arlecchino and made +for his favorite table in a recess in the far corner. Owing to the +twilight before-mentioned, it was not until he was quite close to it +that he saw it was already occupied by a tall, dark man who sat with +his face in shadow, and with a play of color from a stained window +turning his sober garb to a kind of riotous motley.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite would have turned back, but just at that moment the +stranger moved slightly and the other recognized him.</p> + +<p>"God bless my soul," said Mr. Satterthwaite, who was given to +old-fashioned expressions. "Why, it's Mr. Quin!"</p> + +<p>Three times before he had met Mr. Quin, and each time the meeting had +resulted in something a little out of the ordinary. A strange person, +this Mr. Quin, with a knack of showing you the things you had known +all along in a totally different light.</p> + +<p>At once Mr. Satterthwaite felt excited—pleasurably excited. His role +was that of the looker-on, and he knew it, but sometimes, when in the +company of Mr. Quin, he had the illusion of being an actor—and the +principal actor at that.</p> + +<p>"This is very pleasant," he said, beaming all over his dried-up little +face. "Very pleasant indeed. You've no objection to my joining you, I +hope?"</p> + +<p>"I shall be delighted," said Mr. Quin. "As you see, I have not yet +begun my meal."</p> + +<p>A deferential headwaiter hovered up out of the shadows. Mr. +Satterthwaite, as befitted a man with a seasoned palate, gave his whole +mind to the task of selection. In a few minutes, the headwaiter, a +slight smile of approbation on his lips, retired, and a young satellite +began his ministrations. Mr. Satterthwaite turned to Mr. Quin.</p> + +<p>"I have just come from the Old Bailey," he began. "A sad business, I +thought."</p> + +<p>"He was found guilty?" said Mr. Quin.</p> + +<p>"Yes, the jury were out only half an hour."</p> + +<p>Mr. Quin bowed his head. "An inevitable result—on the evidence," he +said.</p> + +<p>"And yet—" began Mr. Satterthwaite—and stopped.</p> + +<p>Mr. Quin finished the sentence for him. "And yet your sympathies were +with the accused? Is that what you were going to say?"</p> + +<p>"I suppose it was. Martin Wylde is a nice-looking young fellow—one can +hardly believe it of him. All the same, there have been a good many +nice-looking young fellows lately who have turned out to be murderers +of a particularly cold-blooded and repellent type."</p> + +<p>"Too many," said Mr. Quin quietly.</p> + +<p>"I beg your pardon?" said Mr. Satterthwaite, slightly startled.</p> + +<p>"Too many for Martin Wylde. There has been a tendency from the +beginning to regard this as just one more of a series of the same type +of crime—a man seeking to free himself from one woman in order to +marry another."</p> + +<p>"Well," said Mr. Satterthwaite, doubtfully. "On the evidence—"</p> + +<p>"Ah!" said Mr. Quin quickly, "I am afraid I have not followed all the +evidence."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite's self-confidence came back to him with a rush. He +felt a sudden sense of power. He was tempted to be consciously dramatic.</p> + +<p>"Let me try and show it to you. I have met the Barnabys, you +understand. I know the peculiar circumstances. With me you will come +behind the scenes—you will see the thing from inside."</p> + +<p>Mr. Quin leaned forward with his quick encouraging smile. "If anyone +can show me that, it will be Mr. Satterthwaite," he murmured.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite gripped the table with both hands. He was uplifted, +carried out of himself. For the moment he was an artist pure and +simple—an artist whose medium was words.</p> + +<p>Swiftly, with a dozen broad strokes, he etched in the picture of life +at Deering Hill. Sir George Barnaby, elderly, obese, purse-proud. A man +perpetually fussing over the little things of life. A man who wound up +his clocks every Friday afternoon, and who paid his own housekeeping +books every Tuesday morning, and who always saw to the locking of his +own front door every night. A careful man.</p> + +<p>And from Sir George he went on to Lady Barnaby. Here his touch was +gentler, but none the less sure. He had seen her but once, but +his impression of her was definite and lasting. A vivid, defiant +creature—pitifully young. A trapped child, that was how he described +her.</p> + +<p>"She hated him, you understand? She had married him before she knew +what she was doing. And now—"</p> + +<p>She was desperate—that was how he put it. Turning this way and that. +She had no money of her own; she was entirely dependent on this +elderly husband. But all the same she was a creature at bay—still +unsure of her own powers, with a beauty that was as yet more promise +than actuality. And she was greedy. Mr. Satterthwaite affirmed that +definitely. Side by side with defiance there ran a greedy streak—a +clasping and a clutching at life.</p> + +<p>"I never met Martin Wylde," continued Mr. Satterthwaite. "But I heard +of him. He lived less than a mile away. Farming, that was his line. And +she took an interest in farming—or pretended to. If you ask me, it was +pretending. I think that she saw in him her only way of escape—and she +grabbed at him, greedily, like a child might have done. Well, there +could only be one end to that. We know what that end was, because the +letters were read out in court. He kept her letters—she didn't keep +his, but from the text of hers one can see that he was cooling off. He +admits as much. There was the other girl. She also lived in the village +of Deering Vale. Her father was the doctor there. You saw her in court, +perhaps? No, I remember, you were not there, you said. I shall have +to describe her to you. A fair girl—very fair. Gentle. Perhaps—yes, +perhaps a tiny bit stupid. But very restful, you know. And loyal. Above +all, loyal."</p> + +<p>He looked at Mr. Quin for encouragement, and Mr. Quin gave it him by a +slow, appreciative smile. Mr. Satterthwaite went on.</p> + +<p>"You heard that last letter read—you must have seen it, in the papers, +I mean. The one written on the morning of Friday, September 13th. It +was full of desperate reproaches and vague threats, and it ended by +begging Martin Wylde to come to Deering Hill that same evening at six +o'clock. '<i>I will leave the side door open for you, so that no one need +know you have been here. I shall be in the music room.</i>' It was sent by +hand."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite paused for a minute or two.</p> + +<p>"When he was first arrested, you remember, Martin Wylde denied that +he had been to the house at all that evening. His statement was that +he had taken his gun and gone out shooting in the woods. But when the +police brought forward their evidence, that statement broke down. They +had found his fingerprints, you remember, both on the wood of the side +door and on one of the two cocktail glasses on the table in the music +room. He admitted then that he had come to see Lady Barnaby, that they +had had a stormy interview, but that it had ended in his having managed +to soothe her down. He swore that he left his gun outside leaning +against the wall near the door, and that he left Lady Barnaby alive and +well, the time being then a minute or two after a quarter-past six. He +went straight home, he says, but evidence was called to show that he +did not reach his farm until a quarter to seven, and, as I have just +mentioned, it is barely a mile away. It would not take half an hour to +get there. He forgot all about his gun, he declares. Not a very likely +statement—and yet—"</p> + +<p>"And yet?" queried Mr. Quin.</p> + +<p>"Well," said Mr. Satterthwaite slowly, "it's a possible one, isn't it? +Counsel ridiculed the supposition, of course, but I think he was wrong. +You see, I've known a good many young men, and these emotional scenes +upset them very much—especially the dark nervous type like Martin +Wylde. Women, now, can go through a scene like that and feel positively +better for it afterward, with all their wits about them. It acts like +a safety valve for them, steadies their nerves down and all that. But +I can see Martin Wylde going away with his head in a whirl, sick and +miserable, and without a thought of the gun he had left leaning up +against the wall."</p> + +<p>He was silent for some minutes before he went on:</p> + +<p>"Not that it matters. For the next part is only too clear, +unfortunately. It was exactly twenty minutes past six when the shot +was heard. All the servants heard it, the cook, the kitchen-maid, the +butler, the housemaid, and Lady Barnaby's own maid. They came rushing +to the music room. She was lying huddled over the arm of her chair. The +gun had been discharged close to the back of her head, so that the shot +hadn't a chance to scatter. At least two of them penetrated the brain."</p> + +<p>He paused again and Mr. Quin asked casually, "The servants gave +evidence, I suppose?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite nodded. "Yes. The butler got there a second or two +before the others, but their evidence was practically a repetition of +each other's."</p> + +<p>"So they <i>all</i> gave evidence," said Mr. Quin musingly. "There were no +exceptions?"</p> + +<p>"Now I remember it," said Mr. Satterthwaite, "the housemaid was only +called at the inquest. She's gone to Canada since, I believe."</p> + +<p>"I see," said Mr. Quin.</p> + +<p>There was a silence, and somehow the air of the little restaurant +seemed to be charged with an uneasy feeling. Mr. Satterthwaite felt +suddenly as though he were on the defensive.</p> + +<p>"Why shouldn't she?" he said abruptly.</p> + +<p>"Why should she?" said Mr. Quin with a very slight shrug of the +shoulders.</p> + +<p>Somehow the question annoyed Mr. Satterthwaite. He wanted to shy away +from it—to get back on familiar ground.</p> + +<p>"There couldn't be much doubt who fired the shot. As a matter of fact, +the servants seemed to have lost their heads a bit. There was no one +in the house to take charge. It was some minutes before anyone thought +of ringing up the police, and when they did so, they found that the +telephone was out of order."</p> + +<p>"Oh," said Mr. Quin. "The telephone was out of order."</p> + +<p>"It was," said Mr. Satterthwaite—and was struck suddenly by the +feeling that he had said something tremendously important. "It might, +of course, have been done on purpose," he said slowly. "But there seems +no point in that. Death was practically instantaneous."</p> + +<p>Mr. Quin said nothing, and Mr. Satterthwaite felt that his explanation +was unsatisfactory.</p> + +<p>"There was absolutely no one to suspect but young Wylde," he went on. +"By his own account, even, he was only out of the house three minutes +before the shot was fired. And who else could have fired it? Sir George +was at a bridge party a few houses away. He left there at half-past six +and was met just outside the gate by a servant bringing him the news. +The last rubber finished at half-past six exactly—no doubt about that. +Then there was Sir George's secretary, Henry Thompson. He was in London +that day, and actually at a business meeting at the moment the shot was +fired. Finally there is Sylvia Dale, who, after all, had a perfectly +good motive, impossible as it seems that she should have had anything +to do with such a crime. She was at the station of Deering Vale seeing +a friend off by the 6:28 train. That lets her out. Then the servants. +What earthly motive could any one of them have? Besides, they all +arrived on the spot practically simultaneously. No, it must have been +Martin Wylde."</p> + +<p>But he said it in a dissatisfied kind of voice.</p> + +<p>They went on with their lunch. Mr. Quin was not in a talkative mood, +and Mr. Satterthwaite had said all he had to say. But the silence was +not a barren one. It was filled with the growing dissatisfaction of Mr. +Satterthwaite, heightened and fostered in some strange way by the mere +quiescence of the other man.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite suddenly put down his knife and fork with a clatter. +"Supposing that that young man is really innocent," he said. "He's +going to be hanged."</p> + +<p>He looked very startled and upset about it. And still Mr. Quin said +nothing.</p> + +<p>"It's not as though—" began Mr. Satterthwaite, and stopped. "Why +shouldn't the woman go to Canada?" he ended inconsequently.</p> + +<p>Mr. Quin shook his head.</p> + +<p>"I don't even know what part of Canada she went to," continued Mr. +Satterthwaite peevishly.</p> + +<p>"Could you find out?" suggested the other.</p> + +<p>"I suppose I could. The butler, now. He'd know. Or possibly Thompson, +the secretary."</p> + +<p>He paused again. When he resumed speech, his voice sounded almost +pleading. "It's not as though it were anything to do with me?"</p> + +<p>"That a young man is going to be hanged in a little over three weeks?"</p> + +<p>"Well, yes—if you put it that way, I suppose. Yes, I see what you +mean. Life and death. And that poor girl, too. It's not that I'm +hard-hearted—but, after all—what good will it do? Isn't the whole +thing rather fantastic? Even if I found out where the woman's gone to +in Canada—why, it would probably mean that I should have to go out +there myself."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite looked seriously upset. "And I was thinking of going +to the Riviera next week," he said pathetically.</p> + +<p>And his glance toward Mr. Quin said as plainly as it could be said: <i>Do +let me off, won't you?</i></p> + +<p>"You have never been to Canada?"</p> + +<p>"Never."</p> + +<p>"A very interesting country."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite looked at him undecidedly. "You think I ought to go?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Quin leaned back in his chair and lighted a cigarette. Between +puffs of smoke, he spoke deliberately.</p> + +<p>"You are, I believe, a rich man, Mr. Satterthwaite. Not a +millionaire, but a man able to indulge a hobby without counting the +expense. You have looked on at the dramas of other people. Have +you never contemplated stepping in and playing a part? Have you +never seen yourself for a minute as the arbiter of other people's +destinies—standing in the center of the stage with life and death in +your hands?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite leaned forward. The old eagerness surged over him. +"You mean—if I go on this wild goose chase to Canada—"</p> + +<p>Mr. Quin smiled. "Oh! it was your suggestion, going to Canada, not +mine," he said lightly.</p> + +<p>"You can't put me off like that," said Mr. Satterthwaite earnestly. +"Whenever I have come across you—" He stopped.</p> + +<p>"Well?"</p> + +<p>"There is something about you I do not understand. Perhaps I never +shall. The last time I met you—"</p> + +<p>"On Midsummer Eve."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite was startled, as though the words held a clue that he +did not quite understand.</p> + +<p>"Was it Midsummer Eve?" he asked confusedly.</p> + +<p>"Yes. But let us not dwell on that. It is unimportant, is it not?"</p> + +<p>"Since you say so," said Mr. Satterthwaite courteously. He felt that +elusive clue slipping through his fingers. "When I come back from +Canada"—he paused a little awkwardly—"I—I—should much like to see +you again."</p> + +<p>"I am afraid I have no fixed address for the moment," said Mr. Quin +regretfully. "But I often come to this place. If you also frequent it, +we shall no doubt meet before very long."</p> + +<p>They parted pleasantly.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite was very excited. He hurried round to Cook's and +inquired about boat sailings. Then he rang up Deering Hill. The voice +of a butler, suave and deferential, answered him.</p> + +<p>"My name is Satterthwaite. I am speaking for a—er—firm of solicitors. +I wished to make a few inquiries about a young woman who was recently +housemaid in your establishment."</p> + +<p>"Would that be Louisa, sir? Louisa Bullard?"</p> + +<p>"That is the name," said Mr. Satterthwaite, very pleased to be told it.</p> + +<p>"I regret she is not in this country, sir. She went to Canada six +months ago."</p> + +<p>"Can you give me her present address?"</p> + +<p>The butler was afraid he couldn't. It was a place in the mountains she +had gone to—a Scotch name—ah! Banff, that was it. Some of the other +young women in the house had been expecting to hear from her, but she +had never written or given them any address.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite thanked him and rang off. He was still undaunted. The +adventurous spirit was strong in his breast. He would go to Banff. If +this Louisa Bullard was there, he would track her down somehow or other.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>To his own surprise, he enjoyed the trip greatly. It was many years +since he had taken a long sea voyage. The Riviera, Le Touquet and +Deauville, and Scotland had been his usual round. The feeling that he +was setting off on an impossible mission added a secret zest to his +journey. What an utter fool these fellow travelers of his would think +him did they but know the object of his quest! But then—they were not +acquainted with Mr. Quin.</p> + +<p>In Banff he found his objective easily attained. Louisa Bullard was +employed in the large hotel there. Twelve hours after his arrival he +was standing face to face with her.</p> + +<p>She was a woman of about thirty-five, anemic-looking, but with a strong +frame. She had pale brown hair inclined to curl, and a pair of honest +brown eyes. She was, he thought, slightly stupid, but very trustworthy.</p> + +<p>She accepted quite readily his statement that he had been asked to +collect a few further facts from her about the tragedy at Deering Hill.</p> + +<p>"I saw in the paper that Mr. Martin Wylde had been convicted, sir. Very +sad it is, too."</p> + +<p>She seemed, however, to have no doubt as to his guilt.</p> + +<p>"A nice young gentleman gone wrong. But though I wouldn't speak ill +of the dead, it was her ladyship what led him on. Wouldn't leave him +alone, she wouldn't. Well, they've both got their punishment. There's a +text used to hang on my wall when I was a child, '<i>God is not mocked</i>,' +and it's very true. I knew something was going to happen that very +evening—and sure enough it did."</p> + +<p>"How was that?" said Mr. Satterthwaite.</p> + +<p>"I was in my room, sir, changing my dress, and I happened to glance out +of the window. There was a train going along, and the white smoke of +it rose up in the air, and if you'll believe me it formed itself into +the sign of a gigantic hand. A great white hand against the crimson of +the sky. The fingers were crooked-like, as though they were reaching +out for something. It fair gave me a turn. 'Did you ever, now?' I said +to myself. 'That's a sign of something coming'—and sure enough at +that very minute I heard the shot. 'It's come,' I said to myself, and +I rushed downstairs and joined Carrie and the others who were in the +hall, and we went into the music room and there she was, shot through +the head—and the blood and everything. Horrible! I spoke up, I did, +and told Sir George how I'd seen the sign beforehand, but he didn't +seem to think much of it. An unlucky day, that was; I'd felt it in my +bones from early in the morning. Friday, and the 13th—what could you +expect?"</p> + +<p>She rambled on. Mr. Satterthwaite was patient. Again and again he took +her back to the crime, questioning her closely. In the end he was +forced to confess defeat. Louisa Bullard had told all she knew, and her +story was perfectly simple and straightforward.</p> + +<p>Yet he did discover one fact of importance. The post in question had +been suggested to her by Mr. Thompson, Sir George's secretary. The +wages attached were so large that she was tempted, and accepted the +job, although it involved her leaving England very hurriedly. A Mr. +Denman had made all the arrangements to this end and had also warned +her not to write to her fellow servants in England, as this might "get +her into trouble with the immigration authorities," which statement she +had accepted in blind faith.</p> + +<p>The amount of the wages, casually mentioned by her, was indeed so large +that Mr. Satterthwaite was startled. After some hesitation he made up +his mind to approach this Mr. Denman.</p> + +<p>He found very little difficulty in inducing Mr. Denman to tell all he +knew. The latter had come across Thompson in London, and Thompson had +done him a good turn. The secretary had written to him in September +saying that for personal reasons Sir George was anxious to get this +girl out of England. Could he find her a job? A sum of money had been +sent to raise the wages to a high figure.</p> + +<p>"Usual trouble, I guess," said Mr. Denman, leaning back nonchalantly in +his chair. "Seems a nice quiet girl, too."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite did not agree that this was the usual trouble. Louisa +Bullard, he was sure, was not a cast-off fancy of Sir George Barnaby's. +For some reason it had been vital to get her out of England. But why? +And who was at the bottom of it? Sir George himself, working through +Thompson? Or the latter working on his own initiative, and dragging in +his employer's name?</p> + +<p>Still pondering over these questions, Mr. Satterthwaite made the return +journey. He was cast down and despondent. His journey had done no good.</p> + +<p>Smarting under a sense of failure, he made his way to the Arlecchino +the day after his return. He hardly expected to be successful the first +time, but to his satisfaction the familiar figure was sitting at the +table in the recess, and the dark face of Mr. Harley Quin smiled a +welcome.</p> + +<p>"Well," said Mr. Satterthwaite as he helped himself to a pat of butter, +"you sent me on a nice wild goose chase."</p> + +<p>Mr. Quin raised his eyebrows. "I sent you?" he objected. "It was your +own idea entirely."</p> + +<p>"Whose-ever idea it was, it's not succeeded. Louisa Bullard has nothing +to tell."</p> + +<p>Thereupon Mr. Satterthwaite related the details of his conversation +with the housemaid and then went on to his interview with Mr. Denman. +Mr. Quin listened in silence.</p> + +<p>"In one sense, I was justified," continued Mr. Satterthwaite. "She was +deliberately got out the way. But why? I can't see it."</p> + +<p>"No?" said Mr. Quin, and his voice was, as ever, provocative.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite flushed. "I daresay you think I might have questioned +her more adroitly. I can assure you that I took her over the story +again and again. It was not my fault that I did not get what we want."</p> + +<p>"Are you sure," said Mr. Quin, "that you did not get what you want?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite looked up at him in astonishment, and met that sad, +mocking gaze he knew so well. The little man shook his head, slightly +bewildered.</p> + +<p>There was a silence, and then Mr. Quin said, with a total change of +manner, "You gave me a wonderful picture the other day of the people +in this business. In a few words you made them stand out as clearly as +though they were etched. I wish you would do something of that kind for +the place—you left that in shadow."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite was flattered.</p> + +<p>"The place? Deering Hill? Well, it's a very ordinary sort of house +nowadays. Red brick, you know, and bay windows. Quite hideous outside, +but very comfortable inside. Not a very large house. About two acres +of ground. They're all much the same, those houses round the links. +Built for rich men to live in. The inside of the house is reminiscent +of a hotel—the bedrooms are like hotel suites. Baths and hot and +cold basins in all the bedrooms and a good many gilded electric-light +fittings. All wonderfully comfortable, but not very country-like. You +can tell that Deering Vale is only nineteen miles from London."</p> + +<p>Mr. Quin listened attentively. "The train service is bad, I have +heard," he remarked.</p> + +<p>"Oh! I don't know about that," said Mr. Satterthwaite, warming to +his subject. "I was down there for a bit last summer. I found it +quite convenient for town. Of course the trains only go every hour. +Forty-eight minutes past the hour from Waterloo—up to 10:48."</p> + +<p>"And how long does it take to Deering Vale?"</p> + +<p>"Just about three quarters of an hour. Twenty-eight minutes past the +hour at Deering Vale."</p> + +<p>"Of course," said Mr. Quin with a gesture of vexation. "I should have +remembered. Miss Dale saw someone off by the 6:28 that evening, didn't +she?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite did not reply for a minute or two. His mind had gone +back with a rush to his unsolved problem. Presently he said, "I wish +you would tell me what you meant just now when you asked me if I was +sure I had not got what I wanted?"</p> + +<p>It sounded rather complicated, put that way, but Mr. Quin made no +pretense of not understanding.</p> + +<p>"I just wondered if you weren't being a little too exacting. After +all, you found out that Louisa Bullard was deliberately got out of the +country. That being so, there must be a reason. And the reason must lie +in what she said to you."</p> + +<p>"Well," said Mr. Satterthwaite argumentatively. "What did she say? If +she'd given evidence at the trial, what could she have said?"</p> + +<p>"She might have told what she saw," said Mr. Quin.</p> + +<p>"What did she see?"</p> + +<p>"A sign in the sky."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite stared at him.</p> + +<p>"Are you thinking of <i>that</i> nonsense? That superstitious notion of its +being the hand of God?"</p> + +<p>"Perhaps," said Mr. Quin. "For all you and I know, it may have been the +hand of God, you know."</p> + +<p>The other was clearly puzzled at the gravity of his manner. "Nonsense," +he said. "She said herself it was the smoke of the train."</p> + +<p>"An up train or a down train, I wonder," murmured Mr. Quin.</p> + +<p>"Hardly an up train. They go at ten minutes to the hour. It must have +been a down train—the 6:28—no, that won't do. She said the shot came +immediately afterward, and we know the shot was fired at twenty minutes +past six. The train couldn't have been ten minutes early."</p> + +<p>"Hardly, on that line," agreed Mr. Quin.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite was staring ahead of him.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps a goods train," he murmured. "But surely, if so—"</p> + +<p>"There would have been no need to get her out of England. I agree," +said Mr. Quin.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite gazed at him, fascinated.</p> + +<p>"The 6:28," he said slowly. "But if so, if the shot was fired then, why +did everyone say it was earlier?"</p> + +<p>"Obvious," said Mr. Quin. "The clocks must have been wrong."</p> + +<p>"All of them?" said Mr. Satterthwaite doubtfully. "That's a pretty tall +coincidence, you know."</p> + +<p>"I wasn't thinking of it as a coincidence," said the other. "I was +thinking that it was Friday."</p> + +<p>"Friday?" said Mr. Satterthwaite.</p> + +<p>"You did tell me, you know, that Sir George always wound the clocks on +a Friday afternoon," said Mr. Quin apologetically.</p> + +<p>"He put them back ten minutes," said Mr. Satterthwaite, almost in a +whisper, so awed was he by the discoveries he was making. "Then he went +out to bridge. I think he must have opened the note from his wife to +Martin Wylde that morning—yes, decidedly he opened it. He left his +bridge party at 6:30, found Martin's gun standing by the side door, and +went in and shot her from behind. Then he went out again, threw the +gun into the bushes where it was found later, and was apparently just +coming out of the neighbor's gate when someone came running to fetch +him. But the telephone—what about the telephone? Ah! yes, I see. He +disconnected it so that a summons could not be sent to the police that +way—they might have noted the time it was received. And Wylde's story +works out now. The real time he left was five and twenty past six. +Walking slowly, he would reach home about a quarter to seven. Yes, I +see it all. Louisa was the only danger with her endless talk about her +superstitious fancies. Someone might realize the significance of the +train and then—good-by to that excellent alibi."</p> + +<p>"Wonderful," commented Mr. Quin.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite turned to him, flushed with success.</p> + +<p>"The only thing is—how to proceed now?"</p> + +<p>"I should suggest Sylvia Dale," said Mr. Quin.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite looked doubtful. "I mentioned to you," he said. "She +seemed to me a little—er—stupid."</p> + +<p>"She has a father and brothers who will take the necessary steps."</p> + +<p>"That is true," said Mr. Satterthwaite, relieved.</p> + +<p>A very short time afterward he was sitting with the girl, telling her +the story. She listened attentively. She put no questions to him, but +when he had done she rose.</p> + +<p>"I must have a taxi—at once."</p> + +<p>"My dear child, what are you going to do?"</p> + +<p>"I am going to Sir George Barnaby."</p> + +<p>"Impossible. Absolutely the wrong procedure. Allow me to—"</p> + +<p>He twittered on by her side. But he produced no impression. Sylvia Dale +was intent on her own plans. She allowed him to go with her in the +taxi, but to all his remonstrances she addressed a deaf ear. She left +him in the taxi while she went into Sir George's city office.</p> + +<p>It was half an hour later when she came out. She looked exhausted, +her fair beauty drooping like a waterless flower. Mr. Satterthwaite +received her with concern.</p> + +<p>"I've won," she murmured, as she leaned back with half-closed eyes.</p> + +<p>"What?" He was startled. "What did you do? What did you say?"</p> + +<p>She sat up a little.</p> + +<p>"I told him that Louisa Bullard had been to the police with her story. +I told him that the police had made inquiries and that he had been seen +going into his own grounds and out again, a few minutes after half-past +six. I told him that the game was up. He—he went to pieces. I told +him that there was still time for him to get away, that the police +weren't coming for another hour to arrest him. I told him that if he'd +sign a confession that he'd killed Vivien I'd do nothing, but that if +he didn't I'd scream and tell the whole building the truth. He was so +panicky that he didn't know what he was doing. He signed the paper +without realizing what he was doing."</p> + +<p>She thrust it into his hands. "Take it—take it. You know what to do +with it so that they'll set Martin free."</p> + +<p>"He actually signed it," cried Mr. Satterthwaite, amazed.</p> + +<p>"He is a little stupid, you know," said Sylvia Dale. "So am I," she +added as an afterthought. "That is why I know how stupid people behave. +We get rattled, you know, and then we do the wrong thing and are sorry +afterward."</p> + +<p>She shivered and Mr. Satterthwaite patted her hand.</p> + +<p>"You need something to pull you together," he said. "Come, we are close +to a very favorite resort of mine—the Arlecchino. Have you ever been +there?"</p> + +<p>She shook her head.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite stopped the taxi and took the girl into the little +restaurant. He made his way to the table in the recess, his heart +beating hopefully. But the table was empty.</p> + +<p>Sylvia Dale saw the disappointment in his face. "What is it?" she asked.</p> + +<p>"Nothing," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "That is, I half expected to see a +friend of mine here. It doesn't matter. Some day, I expect, I shall see +him again."</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="The_Soul_of_the_Croupier"><span class="smcap">The Soul of the Croupier</span></h2> +</div> + + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite was enjoying the sunshine on the terrace at Monte +Carlo.</p> + +<p>Every year regularly, on the second Sunday in January, Mr. +Satterthwaite left England for the Riviera. He was far more punctual +than any swallow. In the month of April he returned to England. May and +June he spent in London, and had never been known to miss Ascot. He +left town after the Eton and Harrow match, paying a few country-house +visits before repairing to Deauville or Le Touquet. Shooting-parties +occupied most of September and October, and he usually spent a couple +of months in town to wind up the year. He knew everybody, and it may +safely be said that everybody knew him.</p> + +<p>This morning he was frowning. The blue of the sea was admirable, the +gardens were, as always, a delight, but the people disappointed him—he +thought them an ill-dressed, shoddy crowd. Some, of course, were +gamblers, doomed souls who could not keep away. Those Mr. Satterthwaite +tolerated. They were a necessary background. But he missed the usual +leaven of the élite—his own people.</p> + +<p>"It's the exchange," said Mr. Satterthwaite gloomily. "All sorts of +people come here now who could never have afforded it before. And then, +of course, I'm getting old. All the young people—the people coming +on—they go to these Swiss places."</p> + +<p>But there were others that he missed, the well-dressed barons and +counts of foreign diplomacy, the grand dukes and the royal princes. +The only royal prince he had seen so far was working a lift in one of +the less well-known hotels. He missed, too, the beautiful and expensive +ladies. There were still a few of them, but not nearly so many as there +used to be.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite was an earnest student of the drama called Life, but +he liked his material to be highly colored. He felt discouragement +sweep over him. Values were changing—and he—was too old to change.</p> + +<p>It was at that moment that he observed the Countess Czarnova coming +toward him.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite had seen the Countess at Monte Carlo for many seasons +now. The first time he had seen her she had been in the company of +a grand duke. On the next occasion she was with an Austrian baron. +On successive years her friends had been sallow men wearing rather +flamboyant jewelry. For the last year or two she was much seen with +very young men, almost boys.</p> + +<p>She was walking with a very young man now. Mr. Satterthwaite happened +to know him, and he was sorry. Franklin Rudge was a young American, a +typical product of one of the Middle West states, eager to register +impressions, crude, but lovable, a curious mixture of native shrewdness +and idealism. He was in Monte Carlo with a party of other young +Americans of both sexes, all much of the same type. It was their first +glimpse of the Old World and they were outspoken in criticism and in +appreciation.</p> + +<p>On the whole they disliked the English people in the hotel, and the +English people disliked them. Mr. Satterthwaite, who prided himself on +being a cosmopolitan, rather liked them. Their directness and vigor +appealed to him, though their occasional solecisms made him shudder.</p> + +<p>It occurred to him that the Countess Czarnova was a most unsuitable +friend for young Franklin Rudge. He took off his hat politely as they +came abreast of him, and the Countess gave him a charming bow and smile.</p> + +<p>She was a very tall woman, superbly made. Her hair was black, so were +her eyes, and her eyelashes and eyebrows were more superbly black than +any nature had ever fashioned.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite, who knew far more of feminine secrets than it is +good for any man to know, rendered immediate homage to the art with +which she was made up. Her complexion appeared to be flawless, of a +uniform creamy white. The very faint bistre shadows under her eyes +were most effective. Her mouth was neither crimson nor scarlet, but a +subdued wine color. She was dressed in a very daring creation of black +and white, and carried a parasol of the shade of pinky-red which is +most helpful to the complexion.</p> + +<p>Franklin Rudge was looking happy and important.</p> + +<p><i>There goes a young fool</i>, said Mr. Satterthwaite to himself. <i>But I +suppose it's no business of mine, and anyway he wouldn't listen to me. +Well, well, I've bought experience myself in my time.</i></p> + +<p>But he still felt rather worried, because there was a very attractive +little American girl in the party, and he was sure that she would not +like Franklin Rudge's friendship with the Countess at all.</p> + +<p>He was just about to retrace his steps in the opposite direction when +he caught sight of the girl in question coming up one of the paths +toward him. She wore a well-cut suit, she had on sensible walking +shoes, and carried a guide book. There are some Americans who pass +through Paris and emerge clothed as the Queen of Sheba, but Elizabeth +Martin was not one of them. She was "doing Europe" in a stern, +conscientious spirit. She had high ideas of culture and art and she was +anxious to get as much as possible for her limited store of money.</p> + +<p>It is doubtful if Mr. Satterthwaite thought of her as either cultured +or artistic. To him she merely appeared very young.</p> + +<p>"Good morning, Mr. Satterthwaite," said Elizabeth. "Have you seen +Franklin—Mr. Rudge—anywhere about?"</p> + +<p>"I saw him just a few minutes ago."</p> + +<p>"With his friend the Countess, I suppose," said the girl sharply.</p> + +<p>"Er—with the Countess, yes," admitted Mr. Satterthwaite.</p> + +<p>"That Countess of his doesn't cut any ice with me," said the girl in a +rather high, shrill voice. "Franklin's just crazy about her. <i>Why</i> I +can't think."</p> + +<p>"She's got a very charming manner, I believe," said Mr. Satterthwaite +cautiously.</p> + +<p>"Do you know her?"</p> + +<p>"Slightly."</p> + +<p>"I'm right down worried about Franklin," said Miss Martin. "That boy's +got a lot of sense as a rule. You'd never think he'd fall for this sort +of siren stuff. And he won't hear a thing; he gets madder than a hornet +if anyone tries to say a word to him. Tell me, anyway—is she a real +Countess?"</p> + +<p>"I shouldn't like to say," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "She may be."</p> + +<p>"That's the real Ha Ha English manner," said Elizabeth with signs of +displeasure. "All I can say is that in Sargon Springs—that's our home +town, Mr. Satterthwaite—that Countess would look a mighty queer bird."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite thought it possible. He forebore to point out that +they were not in Sargon Springs but in the principality of Monaco, +where the Countess happened to synchronize with her environment a great +deal better than Miss Martin did.</p> + +<p>He made no answer and Elizabeth went on toward the Casino. Mr. +Satterthwaite sat on a seat in the sun, and was presently joined by +Franklin Rudge. Rudge was full of enthusiasm.</p> + +<p>"I'm enjoying myself," he announced with naïve enthusiasm. "Yes, sir! +This is what I call seeing life—rather a different kind of life from +what we have in the States."</p> + +<p>The elder man turned a thoughtful face to him. "Life is lived very +much the same everywhere," he said rather wearily. "It wears different +clothes—that's all."</p> + +<p>Franklin Rudge stared. "I don't get you."</p> + +<p>"No," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "That's because you've got a long way to +travel yet. But I apologize. No elderly man should permit himself to +get into the habit of preaching."</p> + +<p>"Oh! that's all right." Rudge laughed, displaying the beautiful +teeth of all his countrymen. "I don't say, mind you, that I'm +not disappointed in the Casino. I thought the gambling would be +different—something much more feverish. It seems just rather dull and +sordid to me."</p> + +<p>"Gambling is life and death to the gambler, but it has no great +spectacular value," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "It is more exciting to +read about than to see."</p> + +<p>The young man nodded his agreement.</p> + +<p>"You're rather a big bug socially, aren't you?" he asked, with a +diffident candor that made it impossible to take offense. "I mean you +know all the duchesses and earls and countesses and things."</p> + +<p>"A good many of them," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "And also the Jews and +the Portuguese and the Greeks and the Argentines."</p> + +<p>"Eh?" said Mr. Rudge.</p> + +<p>"I was just explaining," said Mr. Satterthwaite, "that I move in +English society."</p> + +<p>Franklin Rudge meditated for a moment or two.</p> + +<p>"You know the Countess Czarnova, don't you?" he said at length.</p> + +<p>"Slightly," said Mr. Satterthwaite, making the same answer he had made +to Elizabeth.</p> + +<p>"Now there's a woman whom it's been very interesting to meet. One's +inclined to think that the aristocracy of Europe is played out and +effete. That may be true of the men, but the women are different. Isn't +it a pleasure to meet an exquisite creature like the Countess? Witty, +charming, intelligent, generations of civilization behind her, an +aristocrat to her finger tips!"</p> + +<p>"Is she?" asked Mr. Satterthwaite.</p> + +<p>"Well, isn't she? You know what her family are?"</p> + +<p>"No," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "I'm afraid I know very little about her."</p> + +<p>"She was a Radzynski," explained Franklin Rudge. "One of the oldest +families in Hungary. She's had the most extraordinary life. You know +that great rope of pearls she wears?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite nodded.</p> + +<p>"That was given her by the King of Bosnia. She smuggled some secret +papers out of the kingdom for him."</p> + +<p>"I heard," said Mr. Satterthwaite, "that the pearls had been given her +by the King of Bosnia."</p> + +<p>The fact was indeed a matter of common gossip, it being reported that +the lady had been a <i>chère amie</i> of His Majesty's in days gone by.</p> + +<p>"Now I'll tell you something more."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite listened, and the more he listened the more he +admired the fertile imagination of the Countess Czarnova. No vulgar +"siren stuff" (as Elizabeth Martin had put it) for her. The young man +was shrewd enough in that way, clean-living and idealistic. No, the +Countess moved austerely through a labyrinth of diplomatic intrigues. +She had enemies, detractors—naturally! It was a glimpse, so the young +American was to feel, into the life of the old régime with the Countess +as the central figure, aloof, aristocratic, the friend of counselors +and princes, a figure to inspire romantic devotion.</p> + +<p>"And she's had any amount to contend against," ended the young man +warmly. "It's an extraordinary thing, but she's never found a woman +who would be a real friend to her. Women have been against her all her +life."</p> + +<p>"Probably," said Mr. Satterthwaite.</p> + +<p>"Don't you call it a scandalous thing?" demanded Rudge hotly.</p> + +<p>"N—No," said Mr. Satterthwaite thoughtfully. "I don't know that I do. +Women have got their own standards, you know. It's no good our mixing +ourselves up in their affairs. They must run their own show."</p> + +<p>"I don't agree with you," said Rudge earnestly. "It's one of the worst +things in the world today, the unkindness of woman to woman. You +know Elizabeth Martin? Now she agrees with me in theory absolutely. +We've often discussed it together. She's only a kid, but her ideas +are all right. But the moment it comes to a practical test—why, +she's as bad as any of them. Got a real down on the Countess without +knowing a darned thing about her, and won't listen when I try to +tell her things. It's all <i>wrong</i>, Mr. Satterthwaite. I believe in +democracy—and—what's that but brotherhood between men and sisterhood +between women?"</p> + +<p>He paused earnestly. Mr. Satterthwaite tried to think of any +circumstances in which a sisterly feeling might arise between the +Countess and Elizabeth Martin and failed.</p> + +<p>"Now the Countess, on the other hand," went on Rudge, "admires +Elizabeth immensely, and thinks her charming in every way. Now what +does that show?"</p> + +<p>"It shows," said Mr. Satterthwaite dryly, "that the Countess has lived +a considerable time longer than Miss Martin has."</p> + +<p>Franklin Rudge went off unexpectedly at a tangent. "Do you know how old +she is? She told me. Rather sporting of her. I should have guessed +her to be twenty-nine, but she told me of her own accord that she was +thirty-five. She doesn't look it, does she?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite, whose private estimate of the lady's age was between +forty-five and forty-nine, merely raised his eyebrows.</p> + +<p>"I should caution you against believing all you are told at Monte +Carlo," he murmured.</p> + +<p>He had enough experience to know the futility of arguing with the lad. +Franklin Rudge was at a pitch of white-hot chivalry when he would have +disbelieved any statement that was not backed with authoritative proof.</p> + +<p>"Here is the Countess," said the boy, rising.</p> + +<p>She came up to them with the languid grace that so became her. +Presently they all three sat down together. She was very charming to +Mr. Satterthwaite, but in rather an aloof manner. She deferred to him +prettily, asking his opinion, and treating him as an authority on the +Riviera.</p> + +<p>The whole thing was cleverly managed. Very few minutes had elapsed +before Franklin Rudge found himself gracefully but unmistakably +dismissed, and the Countess and Mr. Satterthwaite were left +<i>tête-à-tête</i>.</p> + +<p>She put down her parasol and began drawing patterns with it in the dust.</p> + +<p>"You are interested in that nice American boy, Mr. Satterthwaite, are +you not?"</p> + +<p>Her voice was low with a caressing note in it.</p> + +<p>"He's a nice young fellow," said Mr. Satterthwaite noncommittally.</p> + +<p>"I find him sympathetic, yes," said the Countess reflectively. "I have +told him much of my life."</p> + +<p>"Indeed," said Mr. Satterthwaite.</p> + +<p>"Details such as I have told to few others," she continued dreamily. "I +have had an extraordinary life, Mr. Satterthwaite. Few would credit the +amazing things that have happened to me."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite was shrewd enough to penetrate her meaning. After +all, the stories that she had told to Franklin Rudge <i>might</i> be the +truth. It was extremely unlikely, and in the last degree improbable, +but it was <i>possible</i>. No one could definitely say, "This is not so."</p> + +<p>He did not reply, and the Countess continued to look out dreamily +across the bay. And suddenly Mr. Satterthwaite had a strange and new +impression of her. He saw her no longer as a harpy, but as a desperate +creature at bay, fighting tooth and nail. He stole a sideways glance at +her. The parasol was down; he could see the little haggard lines at the +corners of her eyes. In one temple a pulse was beating.</p> + +<p>It flowed through him again and again—that increasing certitude. She +was a creature desperate and driven. She would be merciless to him +or to anyone who stood between her and Franklin Rudge. But he still +felt he hadn't got the hang of the situation. Clearly she had plenty +of money. She was always beautifully dressed, and her jewels were +marvelous. There could be no real urgency of that kind. Was it love? +Women of her age did, he well knew, fall in love with boys. It might be +that. There was, he felt sure, something out of the common about the +situation.</p> + +<p>Her <i>tête-à-tête</i> with him was, he recognized, a throwing down of the +gauntlet. She had singled him out as her chief enemy. He felt sure that +she hoped to goad him into speaking slightingly of her to Franklin +Rudge. Mr. Satterthwaite smiled to himself. He was too old a bird for +that. He knew when it was wise to hold one's tongue.</p> + +<p>He watched her that night in the Cercle Privé, as she tried her +fortunes at roulette.</p> + +<p>Again and again she staked, only to see her stake swept away. She bore +her losses well, with the stoical <i>sang-froid</i> of the old habitué. She +staked <i>en plein</i> once or twice, put the maximum on red, won a little +on the middle dozen and then lost it again; finally she backed <i>manque</i> +six times and lost every time. Then with a little graceful shrug of the +shoulders she turned away.</p> + +<p>She was looking unusually striking in a dress of gold tissue with an +underlying note of green. The famous Bosnian pearls were looped round +her neck and long pearl earrings hung from her ears.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite heard two men near him appraise her.</p> + +<p>"The Czarnova," said one. "She wears well, does she not? The Crown +jewels of Bosnia look fine on her."</p> + +<p>The other, a small man, stared curiously after her. "So those are the +pearls of Bosnia, are they?" he asked. "<i>En vérité.</i> That is odd."</p> + +<p>He chuckled softly to himself.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite missed hearing more, for at the moment he turned his +head and was overjoyed to recognize an old friend.</p> + +<p>"My dear Mr. Quin." He shook him warmly by the hand. "The last place I +should ever have dreamed of seeing you."</p> + +<p>Mr. Quin smiled, his dark, attractive face lighting up.</p> + +<p>"It should not surprise you," he said. "It is Carnival time. I am often +here in Carnival time."</p> + +<p>"Really? Well, this is a great pleasure. Are you anxious to remain in +the rooms? I find them rather warm."</p> + +<p>"It will be pleasanter outside," agreed the other. "We will walk in the +gardens."</p> + +<p>The air outside was sharp, but not chill. Both men drew deep breaths.</p> + +<p>"That is better," said Mr. Satterthwaite.</p> + +<p>"Much better," agreed Mr. Quin. "And we can talk freely. I am sure that +there is much that you want to tell me."</p> + +<p>"There is indeed."</p> + +<p>Speaking eagerly, Mr. Satterthwaite unfolded his perplexities. As usual +he took pride in his power of conveying atmosphere. The Countess, young +Franklin, uncompromising Elizabeth—he sketched them all in with a deft +touch.</p> + +<p>"You have changed since I first knew you," said Mr. Quin, smiling, when +the recital was over.</p> + +<p>"In what way?"</p> + +<p>"You were content then to look on at the dramas that life offered. +Now—you want to take part—to act."</p> + +<p>"It is true," confessed Mr. Satterthwaite. "But in this case I do not +know what to do. It is all very perplexing. Perhaps—" He hesitated. +"Perhaps you will help me?"</p> + +<p>"With pleasure," said Mr. Quin. "We will see what we can do."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite had an odd sense of comfort and reliance.</p> + +<p>The following day he introduced Franklin Rudge and Elizabeth Martin +to his friend Mr. Harley Quin. He was pleased to see that they got on +together. The Countess was not mentioned, but at lunch time he heard +news that aroused his attention.</p> + +<p>"Mirabelle is arriving in Monte this evening," he confided excitedly to +Mr. Quin.</p> + +<p>"The Parisian stage favorite?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. I daresay you know—it's common property—she is the King of +Bosnia's latest craze. He has showered jewels on her, I believe. They +say she is the most exacting and extravagant woman in Paris."</p> + +<p>"It should be interesting to see her and the Countess Czarnova meet +tonight."</p> + +<p>"Exactly what I thought."</p> + +<p>Mirabelle was a tall, thin creature with a wonderful head of dyed +fair hair. Her complexion was a pale mauve with orange lips. She +was amazingly chic. She was dressed in something that looked like a +glorified bird of paradise, and she wore chains of jewels hanging down +her bare back. A heavy bracelet set with immense diamonds clasped her +left ankle.</p> + +<p>She created a sensation when she appeared in the Casino.</p> + +<p>"Your friend the Countess will have a difficulty in outdoing this," +murmured Mr. Quin in Mr. Satterthwaite's ear.</p> + +<p>The latter nodded. He was curious to see how the Countess comported +herself.</p> + +<p>She came late, and a low murmur ran round as she walked unconcernedly +to one of the center roulette tables.</p> + +<p>She was dressed in white—a mere straight slip of marocain, such as a +debutante might have worn, and her gleaming white neck and arms were +unadorned. She wore not a single jewel.</p> + +<p>"It is clever, that," said Mr. Satterthwaite with instant approval. +"She disdains rivalry and turns the tables on her adversary."</p> + +<p>He himself walked over and stood by the table. From time to time he +amused himself by placing a stake. Sometimes he won, more often he lost.</p> + +<p>There was a terrific run on the last dozen. The numbers 31 and 34 +turned up again and again. Stakes flocked to the bottom of the cloth.</p> + +<p>With a smile, Mr. Satterthwaite made his last stake for the evening, +and placed the maximum on Number 5.</p> + +<p>The Countess in her turn leaned forward and placed the maximum on +Number 6.</p> + +<p>"<i>Faites vos jeux</i>," called the croupier hoarsely. "<i>Rien ne va plus. +Plus rien.</i>"</p> + +<p>The ball spun, humming merrily. Mr. Satterthwaite thought to himself: +<i>This means something different to each of us. Agonies of hope and +despair, boredom, idle amusement, life and death.</i></p> + +<p>Click!</p> + +<p>The croupier bent forward to see.</p> + +<p>"<i>Numéro cinq, rouge, impair et manque.</i>"</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite had won!</p> + +<p>The croupier, having raked in the other stakes, pushed forward Mr. +Satterthwaite's winnings. He put out his hand to take them. The +Countess did the same. The croupier looked from one to the other of +them.</p> + +<p>"<i>A Madame</i>," he said brusquely.</p> + +<p>The Countess picked up the money. Mr. Satterthwaite drew back. He +remained a gentleman. The Countess looked him full in the face and he +returned her glance. One or two of the people round pointed out to +the croupier that he had made a mistake, but the man shook his head +impatiently. He had decided. That was the end. He raised his raucous +cry.</p> + +<p>"<i>Faites vos jeux, Messieurs et Mesdames.</i>"</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite rejoined Mr. Quin. Beneath his impeccable demeanor he +was feeling extremely indignant. Mr. Quin listened sympathetically.</p> + +<p>"Too bad," he said, "but these things happen. We are to meet your +friend Franklin Rudge later. I am giving a little supper party."</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The three met at midnight, and Mr. Quin explained his plan.</p> + +<p>"It is what is called a 'Hedges and Highways' party," he explained. "We +choose our meeting-place, then each one goes out and is bound in honor +to invite the first person he meets."</p> + +<p>Franklin Rudge was amused by the idea. "Say, what happens if they won't +accept?"</p> + +<p>"You must use your utmost powers of persuasion."</p> + +<p>"Good. And where's the meeting-place?"</p> + +<p>"A somewhat Bohemian café—where one can take strange guests. It is +called Le Caveau."</p> + +<p>He explained its whereabouts, and the three parted. Mr. Satterthwaite +was so fortunate as to run straight into Elizabeth Martin and he +claimed her joyfully. They reached Le Caveau and descended into a +kind of cellar, where they found a table spread for supper and lit by +old-fashioned candles in candlesticks.</p> + +<p>"We are the first," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "Ah! here comes Franklin—"</p> + +<p>He stopped abruptly. With Franklin was the Countess. It was an awkward +moment. Elizabeth displayed less graciousness than she might have done. +The Countess, as a woman of the world, retained the honors.</p> + +<p>Last of all came Mr. Quin. With him was a small dark man, neatly +dressed, whose face seemed familiar to Mr. Satterthwaite. A moment +later he recognized him. It was the croupier who earlier in the evening +had made such a lamentable mistake.</p> + +<p>"Let me introduce you to the company, M. Pierre Vaucher," said Mr. Quin.</p> + +<p>The little man seemed confused. Mr. Quin performed the necessary +introductions easily and lightly. Supper was brought—an excellent +supper. Wine came—very excellent wine. Some of the frigidity went out +of the atmosphere. The Countess was very silent, so was Elizabeth. +Franklin Rudge became talkative. He told various stories—not humorous +stories, but serious ones. And quietly and assiduously Mr. Quin passed +round the wine.</p> + +<p>"I'll tell you—and this is a true story—about a man who made good," +said Franklin Rudge impressively. He had shown no lack of appreciation +of the champagne.</p> + +<p>He told his story—perhaps at somewhat unnecessary length. It was, like +many true stories, greatly inferior to fiction.</p> + +<p>As he uttered the last word, Pierre Vaucher, opposite him, seemed to +wake up. He also had done justice to the champagne. He leaned forward +across the table.</p> + +<p>"I, too, will tell you a story," he said thickly. "But mine is the +story of a man who did not make good. It is the story of a man who +went, not up, but down the hill. And, like yours, it is a true story."</p> + +<p>"Pray tell it to us, monsieur," said Mr. Satterthwaite courteously.</p> + +<p>Pierre Vaucher leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling. +"It is in Paris that the story begins. There was a man there, a +working jeweler. He was young and lighthearted and industrious in his +profession. They said there was a future before him. A good marriage +was already arranged for him, the bride not too bad-looking, the dowry +most satisfactory. And then, what would you think? One morning he sees +a girl. Such a miserable little wisp of a girl, Messieurs. Beautiful? +Yes, perhaps, if she were not half-starved. But anyway, for this young +man, she has a magic that he cannot resist. She has been struggling to +find work, she is virtuous—or at least that is what she tells him. I +do not know if it was true."</p> + +<p>The Countess's voice came suddenly out of the semi-darkness. "Why +should it not be true? There are many like that."</p> + +<p>"Well, as I say, the young man believed her. And he married her—an act +of folly! His family would have no more to say to him. He had outraged +their feelings. He married—I will call her Jeanne—it was a good +action. He told her so. He felt that she should be very grateful to +him. He had sacrificed much for her sake."</p> + +<p>"A charming beginning for the poor girl," observed the Countess +sarcastically.</p> + +<p>"He loved her, yes, but from the beginning she maddened him. She had +moods—tantrums—she would be cold to him one day, passionate the next. +At last he saw the truth. She had never loved him. She had married him +so as to keep body and soul together. That truth hurt him, it hurt him +horribly, but he tried his utmost to let nothing appear on the surface. +And he still felt he deserved gratitude and obedience to his wishes. +They quarreled. She reproached him—Mon Dieu, what did she not reproach +him with?</p> + +<p>"You can see the next step, can you not? The thing that was bound to +come. She left him. For two years he was alone, working in his little +shop with no news of her. He had one friend—absinthe. The business did +not prosper so well.</p> + +<p>"And then one day he came into the shop to find her sitting there. +She was beautifully dressed. She had rings on her hands. He stood +considering her. His heart was beating—but beating! He was at a loss +what to do. He would have liked to have beaten her, to have clasped +her in his arms, to have thrown her down on the floor and trampled on +her, to have thrown himself at her feet. He did none of these things. +He took up his pincers and went on with his work. 'Madame desires?' he +asked formally.</p> + +<p>"That upset her. She did not look for that, see you. 'Pierre,' she +said, 'I have come back.' He laid aside his pincers and looked at her. +'You wish to be forgiven?' he said. 'You want me to take you back? You +are sincerely repentant?' 'Do you want me back?' she murmured. Oh! very +softly she said it.</p> + +<p>"He knew she was laying a trap for him. He longed to seize her in his +arms, but he was too clever for that. He pretended indifference.</p> + +<p>"'I am a Christian man,' he said. 'I try to do what the Church +directs.' 'Ah!' he thought, 'I will humble her, humble her to her +knees.'</p> + +<p>"But Jeanne, that is what I will call her, flung back her head and +laughed. Evil laughter it was. 'I mock myself at you, little Pierre,' +she said. 'Look at these rich clothes, these rings and bracelets. I +came to show myself to you. I thought I would make you take me in your +arms and when you did so, then—<i>then</i> I would spit in your face and +tell you how I hated you!'</p> + +<p>"And on that she went out of the shop. Can you believe, Messieurs, that +a woman could be as evil as all that—to come back only to torment him?"</p> + +<p>"No," said the Countess. "I would not believe it, and any man who was +not a fool would not believe it either. But all men are blind fools."</p> + +<p>Pierre Vaucher took no notice of her. He went on: "And so that young +man of whom I tell you sank lower and lower. He drank more absinthe. +The little shop was sold over his head. He became of the dregs, of +the gutter. Then came the war. Ah! it was good, the war. It took that +man out of the gutter and taught him to be a brute beast no longer. It +drilled him—and sobered him. He endured cold and pain and the fear of +death—but he did not die, and when the war ended, he was a man again.</p> + +<p>"It was then, Messieurs, that he came South. His lungs had been +affected; they said he must find work in the South. I will not weary +you with all the things he did. Suffice it to say that he ended up as a +croupier, and there—there in the Casino one evening, he saw again—the +woman who had ruined his life. She did not recognize him, but he +recognized her. She appeared to be rich and to lack for nothing—but, +Messieurs, the eyes of a croupier are sharp. There came an evening when +she placed her last stake in the world on the table. Ask me not how I +know—I do know—one feels these things. Others might not believe. She +still had rich clothes—why not pawn them, one would say? But to do +that—pah! your credit is gone at once. Her jewels? Ah, no! Was I not +a jeweler in my time? Long ago the real jewels have gone. The pearls +of a King sold one by one, and replaced with false. And meantime one +must eat and pay one's hotel bill. Yes, and the rich men—well, they +have seen one about for many years. Bah! they say—she is over fifty! A +younger chicken for my money."</p> + +<p>A long shuddering sigh came out of the windows where the Countess +leaned back.</p> + +<p>"Yes. It was a great moment, that. Two nights I have watched her. Lose, +lose, and lose again. And now the end. She puts all on one number. +Beside her, an English milord stakes the maximum also—on the next +number. The ball rolls; the moment has come; she has lost.</p> + +<p>"Her eyes meet mine. What do I do? I jeopardize my place in the Casino. +I rob the English milord. '<i>A Madame</i>,' I say, and pay over the money."</p> + +<p>"Ah!" There was a crash as the Countess sprang to her feet and leaned +across the table, sweeping her glass onto the floor. "Why?" she cried. +"That's what I want to know, <i>why</i> did you do it?"</p> + +<p>There was a long pause, a pause that seemed interminable, and still +those two facing each other across the table looked and looked. It was +like a duel.</p> + +<p>A mean little smile crept across Pierre Vaucher's face. He raised his +hands. "Madame," he said. "There is such a thing as pity."</p> + +<p>"Ah!"</p> + +<p>She sank down again. "I see."</p> + +<p>She was calm, smiling, herself again.</p> + +<p>"An interesting story, Monsieur Vaucher, is it not? Permit me to give +you a light for your cigarette."</p> + +<p>She deftly rolled up a spill, lighted it at the candle, and held it +toward him. He leaned forward till the flame caught the tip of the +cigarette he held between his lips.</p> + +<p>Then she rose unexpectedly to her feet. "And now I must leave you all. +Please—I need no one to escort me."</p> + +<p>Before one could realize it, she was gone. Mr. Satterthwaite would have +hurried out after her, but he was arrested by a startled oath from the +Frenchman.</p> + +<p>"<i>A thousand thunders!</i>"</p> + +<p>He was staring at the half-burned spill which the Countess had dropped +on the table. He unrolled it.</p> + +<p>"<i>Mon Dieu!</i>" he muttered. "A fifty-thousand-franc banknote. You +understand? Her winnings tonight. All that she has in the world. +And she lighted my cigarette with it! Because she was too proud to +accept—pity. Ah! proud, she was always proud as the Devil. She is +unique—wonderful."</p> + +<p>He sprang up from his seat and darted out. Mr. Satterthwaite and Mr. +Quin had also risen. The waiter approached Franklin Rudge.</p> + +<p>"<i>La note, Monsieur</i>," he observed unemotionally.</p> + +<p>Mr. Quin rescued it from him quickly.</p> + +<p>"I feel kind of lonesome, Elizabeth," remarked Franklin Rudge. "These +foreigners—they beat the band! I don't understand them. What's it all +mean, anyhow?"</p> + +<p>He looked across at her. "Gee, it's good to look at anything so hundred +percent American as you." His voice took on the plaintive note of a +small child. "These foreigners are so <i>odd</i>."</p> + +<p>They thanked Mr. Quin and went out into the night together. Mr. Quin +picked up his change and smiled across at Mr. Satterthwaite, who was +preening himself like a contented bird.</p> + +<p>"Well," said the latter. "That's all gone off splendidly. Our pair of +lovebirds will be all right now."</p> + +<p>"Which ones?" asked Mr. Quin.</p> + +<p>"Oh," said Mr. Satterthwaite, taken aback, "Oh! yes, well, I suppose +you are right, allowing for the Latin point of view and all that—"</p> + +<p>He looked dubious.</p> + +<p>Mr. Quin smiled, and a stained-glass panel behind him invested him for +just a moment in a motley garment of colored light.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="The_Worlds_End"><span class="smcap">The World's End</span></h2> +</div> + + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite had come to Corsica because of the Duchess. It was +out of his beat. On the Riviera he was sure of his comforts, and to be +comfortable meant a lot to Mr. Satterthwaite. But though he liked his +comfort, he also liked a Duchess. In his way, a harmless, gentlemanly, +old-fashioned way, Mr. Satterthwaite was a snob. He liked the best +people. And the Duchess of Leith was a very authentic Duchess. She was +the daughter of a duke as well as the wife of one.</p> + +<p>For the rest, she was rather a shabby-looking old lady, a good deal +given to black bead trimmings on her clothes. She had quantities of +diamonds in old-fashioned settings, and she wore them as her mother +before her had worn them: pinned all over her indiscriminately. +Someone had suggested once that the Duchess stood in the middle of the +room while her maid flung brooches at her haphazard. She subscribed +generously to charities, and looked well after her tenants and +dependents, but was extremely mean over small sums. She cadged lifts +from her friends, and did her shopping in bargain basements.</p> + +<p>The Duchess was seized with a whim for Corsica. Cannes bored her, and +she had had a bitter argument with the hotel proprietor over the price +of her rooms.</p> + +<p>"And you shall go with me, Satterthwaite," she said firmly. "We needn't +be afraid of scandal at our time of life."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite was delicately flattered. No one had ever mentioned +scandal in connection with him before. He was far too insignificant. +Scandal—and a Duchess—delicious.</p> + +<p>"Picturesque, you know," said the Duchess. "Brigands—all that sort +of thing. And extremely cheap, so I've heard. Manuelli was positively +impudent this morning. These hotel proprietors need putting in their +place. They can't expect to get the best people if they go on like +this. I told him so plainly."</p> + +<p>"I believe," said Mr. Satterthwaite, "that one can fly over quite +comfortably. From Antibes."</p> + +<p>"They probably charge you a pretty penny for it," said the Duchess +sharply. "Find out, will you?"</p> + +<p>"Certainly, Duchess."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite was still in a flutter of gratification, despite the +fact that his role was clearly to be that of a glorified courier.</p> + +<p>When she learned the price of a passage by <i>avion</i>, the Duchess turned +it down promptly. "They needn't think I'm going to pay a ridiculous sum +like that to go in one of their nasty dangerous things."</p> + +<p>So they went by boat, and Mr. Satterthwaite endured ten hours of acute +discomfort. To begin with, as the boat sailed at seven, he took it +for granted that there would be dinner on board. But there was no +dinner. The boat was small and the sea was rough. Mr. Satterthwaite was +decanted at Ajaccio in the early hours of the morning more dead than +alive.</p> + +<p>The Duchess, on the contrary, was perfectly fresh. She never minded +discomfort, if she could feel she was saving money. She waxed +enthusiastic over the scene on the quay, with the palm trees and the +rising sun. The whole population seemed to have turned out to watch the +arrival of the boat, and the launching of the gangway was attended with +excited cries and directions.</p> + +<p>"That maid of mine has been sick all night," said the Duchess. "The +girl's a perfect fool."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite smiled in a pallid fashion.</p> + +<p>"A waste of good food, I call it," continued the Duchess robustly.</p> + +<p>"Did she get any food?" asked Mr. Satterthwaite enviously.</p> + +<p>"I happened to bring some biscuits and a stick of chocolate on board +with me," said the Duchess. "When I found there was no dinner to be +got, I gave the lot to her. The lower classes always make such a fuss +about going without their meals."</p> + +<p>With a cry of triumph the launching of the gangway was accomplished. +A musical comedy chorus of brigands rushed aboard and wrested hand +luggage from the passengers by main force.</p> + +<p>"Come on, Satterthwaite," said the Duchess. "I want a hot bath and some +coffee."</p> + +<p>So did Mr. Satterthwaite. He was not wholly successful, however. They +were received at the hotel by a bowing manager and were shown to their +rooms. The Duchess's had a bathroom attached. Mr. Satterthwaite, +however, was directed to a bath that appeared to be situated in +somebody else's bedroom. To expect the water to be hot at that hour in +the morning was, perhaps, unreasonable. Later he drank intensely black +coffee, served in a pot without a lid. The shutters and the window +of his room had been flung open, and the crisp morning air came in +fragrantly. A day of dazzling blue and green.</p> + +<p>The waiter waved his hand with a flourish to call attention to the +view. "<i>Ajaccio</i>," he said solemnly. "<i>Le plus beau port du monde!</i>"</p> + +<p>And he departed abruptly.</p> + +<p>Looking out over the deep blue of the bay, with the snow mountains +beyond, Mr. Satterthwaite was almost inclined to agree with him. He +finished his coffee, and lying down on the bed, fell fast asleep.</p> + +<p>At <i>déjeuner</i> the Duchess was in great spirits.</p> + +<p>"This is just what will be good for you, Satterthwaite," she said. +"Get you out of all those fussy little old-maidish ways of yours." +She swept a lorgnette around the room. "Upon my word, there's Naomi +Carlton-Smith."</p> + +<p>She indicated a girl sitting by herself at a table in the window, a +round-shouldered girl who slouched as she sat. Her dress appeared to be +made of some kind of brown sacking. She had black hair, untidily bobbed.</p> + +<p>"An artist?" asked Mr. Satterthwaite.</p> + +<p>He was always good at placing people.</p> + +<p>"Quite right," said the Duchess. "Calls herself one, anyway. I knew +she was mooching around in some queer quarter of the globe. Poor as a +church mouse, proud as Lucifer, and a bee in her bonnet like all the +Carlton-Smiths. Her mother was my first cousin."</p> + +<p>"She's one of the Knowlton lot then?"</p> + +<p>The Duchess nodded.</p> + +<p>"Been her own worst enemy," she volunteered. "Clever girl too. Mixed +herself up with a most undesirable young man. One of that Chelsea +crowd. Wrote plays or poems or something unhealthy. Nobody took 'em, of +course. Then he stole somebody's jewels and got caught out. I forget +what they gave him. Five years, I think. But you must remember? It was +last winter."</p> + +<p>"Last winter I was in Egypt," explained Mr. Satterthwaite. "I had +flu very badly the end of January, and the doctors insisted on Egypt +afterward. I missed a lot."</p> + +<p>His voice rang with a note of real regret.</p> + +<p>"That girl seems to me to be moping," said the Duchess, raising her +lorgnette once more. "I can't allow that."</p> + +<p>On her way out, she stopped by Miss Carlton-Smith's table and tapped +the girl on the shoulder. "Well, Naomi, you don't seem to remember me?"</p> + +<p>Naomi rose rather unwillingly to her feet. "Yes, I do, Duchess. I saw +you come in. I thought it quite likely you mightn't recognize me."</p> + +<p>She drawled the words lazily, with a complete indifference of manner.</p> + +<p>"When you've finished your lunch, come and talk to me on the terrace," +ordered the Duchess.</p> + +<p>"Very well."</p> + +<p>Naomi yawned.</p> + +<p>"Shocking manners," said the Duchess to Mr. Satterthwaite, as she +resumed her progress. "All the Carlton-Smiths have."</p> + +<p>They had their coffee outside in the sunshine. They had been there +about six minutes when Naomi Carlton-Smith lounged out from the hotel +and joined them. She let herself fall slackly onto a chair with her +legs stretched out ungracefully in front of her.</p> + +<p>An odd face, with its jutting chin and deep-set gray eyes. A clever, +unhappy face—a face that only just missed being beautiful.</p> + +<p>"Well, Naomi," said the Duchess briskly. "And what are you doing with +yourself?"</p> + +<p>"Oh! I dunno. Just marking time."</p> + +<p>"Been painting?"</p> + +<p>"A bit."</p> + +<p>"Show me your things."</p> + +<p>Naomi grinned. She was not cowed by the autocrat. She was amused. She +went into the hotel and came out again with a portfolio.</p> + +<p>"You won't like 'em, Duchess," she said warningly. "Say what you like. +You won't hurt my feelings."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite moved his chair a little nearer. He was interested. +In another minute he was more interested still. The Duchess was frankly +unsympathetic.</p> + +<p>"I can't even see which way up the things ought to be," she complained. +"Good gracious, child, there was never a sky that color—or a sea +either."</p> + +<p>"That's the way I see 'em," said Naomi placidly.</p> + +<p>"Ugh!" said the Duchess, inspecting another. "This gives me the creeps."</p> + +<p>"It's meant to," said Naomi. "You're paying me a compliment without +knowing it."</p> + +<p>It was a queer vorticist study of prickly pear—just recognizable +as such. Gray-green with splodges of violent color where the fruit +glittered like jewels. A swirling mass of evil, fleshy—festering. Mr. +Satterthwaite shuddered and turned his head aside.</p> + +<p>He found Naomi looking at him and nodding her head in comprehension.</p> + +<p>"I know," she said. "But it <i>is</i> beastly."</p> + +<p>The Duchess cleared her throat. "It seems quite easy to be an artist +nowadays," she observed witheringly. "There's no attempt to copy +things. You just shovel on some paint—I don't know what with, not a +brush, I'm sure—"</p> + +<p>"Palette knife," interposed Naomi, smiling broadly once more.</p> + +<p>"A good deal at a time," continued the Duchess. "In lumps. And there +you are! Everyone says, 'How clever.' Well, I've no patience with that +sort of thing. Give me—"</p> + +<p>"A nice picture of a dog and a horse, by Edward Landseer."</p> + +<p>"And why not?" demanded the Duchess. "What's wrong with Landseer?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing," said Naomi. "He's all right. And you're all right. The tops +of things are always nice and shiny and smooth. I respect you, Duchess; +you've got force; you've met life fair and square and you've come out +on top. But the people who are underneath see the under side of things. +And that's interesting in a way."</p> + +<p>The Duchess stared at her. "I haven't the faintest idea what you're +talking about," she declared.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite was still examining the sketches. He realized, as +the Duchess could not, the perfection of technique behind them. He was +startled and delighted. He looked up at the girl.</p> + +<p>"Will you sell me one of these, Miss Carlton-Smith?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"You can have any one you like for five guineas," said the girl +indifferently.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite hesitated a minute or two and then he selected a +study of prickly pear and aloe. In the foreground was a vivid blur of +yellow mimosa; the scarlet of the aloe flower danced in and out of the +picture, and inexorable, mathematically underlying the whole, was the +oblong pattern of the prickly pear and the sword motif of the aloe.</p> + +<p>He made a little bow to the girl.</p> + +<p>"I am very happy to have secured this, and I think I have made a +bargain. Some day, Miss Carlton-Smith, I shall be able to sell this +sketch at a very good profit—if I want to!"</p> + +<p>The girl leaned forward to see which one he had taken. He saw a new +look come into her eyes. For the first time she was really aware of his +existence, and there was respect in the quick glance she gave him.</p> + +<p>"You have chosen the best," she said. "I—I am glad."</p> + +<p>"Well, I suppose you know what you're doing," said the Duchess. "And I +daresay you're right. I've heard that you're quite a connoisseur. But +you can't tell me that all this new stuff is art, because it isn't. +Still, we needn't go into that. Now I'm only going to be here a few +days and I want to see something of the island. You've got a car, I +suppose, Naomi?"</p> + +<p>The girl nodded.</p> + +<p>"Excellent," said the Duchess. "We'll make a trip somewhere tomorrow."</p> + +<p>"It's only a two-seater."</p> + +<p>"Nonsense, there's a dickey, I suppose, that will do for Mr. +Satterthwaite?"</p> + +<p>A shuddering sigh went through Mr. Satterthwaite. He had observed the +Corsican roads that morning. Naomi was regarding him thoughtfully.</p> + +<p>"I'm afraid my car will be no good to you," she said. "It's a terribly +battered old bus. I bought it second-hand for a mere song. It will just +get me up the hills—with coaxing. But I can't take passengers. There's +quite a good garage, though, in the town. You can hire a car there."</p> + +<p>"Hire a car," said the Duchess, scandalized. "What an idea. Who's that +nice-looking man, rather yellow, who drove up in a four-seater just +before lunch?"</p> + +<p>"I expect you mean Mr. Tomlinson. He's a retired Indian judge."</p> + +<p>"That accounts for the yellowness," said the Duchess. "I was afraid it +might be jaundice. He seems quite a decent sort of man. I shall talk to +him."</p> + +<p>That evening, on coming down to dinner, Mr. Satterthwaite found the +Duchess, resplendent in black beads and diamonds, talking earnestly to +the owner of the four-seater car. She beckoned authoritatively.</p> + +<p>"Come here, Mr. Satterthwaite. Mr. Tomlinson is telling me the most +interesting things, and what do you think? He is actually going to take +us on an expedition tomorrow in his car."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite regarded her with admiration.</p> + +<p>"We must go in to dinner," said the Duchess. "Do come and sit at our +table, Mr. Tomlinson, and then you can go on with what you were telling +me."</p> + +<p>"Quite a decent sort of man," the Duchess pronounced later.</p> + +<p>"With quite a decent sort of car," retorted Mr. Satterthwaite.</p> + +<p>"Naughty," said the Duchess, and gave him a resounding blow on the +knuckles with the dingy black fan she always carried. Mr. Satterthwaite +winced with pain.</p> + +<p>"Naomi is coming too," said the Duchess. "In her car. That girl wants +taking out of herself. She's very selfish. Not exactly self-centered, +but totally indifferent to everyone and everything. Don't you agree?"</p> + +<p>"I don't think that's possible," said Mr. Satterthwaite slowly. "I +mean, everyone's interest must go <i>somewhere</i>. There are, of course, +the people who revolve round themselves—but I agree with you, she's +not one of that kind. She's totally uninterested in herself. And yet +she's got a strong character—there must be <i>something</i>. I thought at +first it was her art—but it isn't. I've never met anyone so detached +from life. That's—dangerous."</p> + +<p>"Dangerous? What do you mean?"</p> + +<p>"Well, you see—it must be an obsession of some kind, and obsessions +are always dangerous."</p> + +<p>"Satterthwaite," said the Duchess, "don't be a fool. And listen to me. +About tomorrow—"</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite listened. It was very much his role in life.</p> + +<p>They started early the following morning, taking their lunch with them. +Naomi, who had been six months in the island, was to be the pioneer. +Mr. Satterthwaite went over to her as she sat waiting to start.</p> + +<p>"You are sure that—I can't come with you," he said wistfully.</p> + +<p>She shook her head. "You'll be much more comfortable in the back of +the other car. Nicely padded seats and all that. This is a regular old +rattletrap. You'd leap in the air going over the bumps."</p> + +<p>"And then of course the hills."</p> + +<p>Naomi laughed. "Oh! I only said that to rescue you from the dickey. +The Duchess could perfectly well afford to have hired a car. She's +the meanest woman in England. All the same, the old thing is rather a +sport, and I can't help liking her."</p> + +<p>"Then I could come with you after all," said Mr. Satterthwaite, +eagerly.</p> + +<p>She looked at him curiously. "Why are you so anxious to come with me?"</p> + +<p>"Can you ask?" Mr. Satterthwaite made his funny old-fashioned bow.</p> + +<p>She smiled, but shook her head. "That isn't the reason," she said +thoughtfully. "It's odd. But you can't come with me—not today."</p> + +<p>"Another day, perhaps," suggested Mr. Satterthwaite politely.</p> + +<p>"Oh! Another day!" She laughed suddenly, a very queer laugh, Mr. +Satterthwaite thought. "Another day! Well, we'll see."</p> + +<p>They started. They drove through the town, and then round the long +curve of the bay, winding inland to cross a river and then back to the +coast with its hundreds of little sandy coves. And then they began to +climb. In and out, round nerve-shattering curves, upward, ever upward +on the tortuous winding road. The blue bay was far below them and, on +the other side of it, Ajaccio sparkled in the sun, white like a fairy +city.</p> + +<p>In and out, in and out, with a precipice first one side of them, then +the other. Mr. Satterthwaite felt slightly giddy, he also felt slightly +sick. The road was not very wide. And still they climbed.</p> + +<p>It was cold now. The wind came to them straight off the snow peaks. Mr. +Satterthwaite turned up his coat collar and buttoned it tightly under +his chin.</p> + +<p>It was very cold. Across the water Ajaccio was still bathed in +sunlight, but up here thick gray clouds came drifting across the face +of the sun. Mr. Satterthwaite ceased to admire the view. He yearned for +a steam-heated hotel and a comfortable armchair.</p> + +<p>Ahead of them Naomi's little two-seater drove steadily forward. Up, +still up. They were on top of the world now. On either side of them +were lower hills, hills sloping down to valleys. They looked straight +across to the snow peaks. And the wind came tearing over them, sharp, +like a knife.</p> + +<p>Suddenly Naomi's car stopped, and she looked back.</p> + +<p>"We've arrived," she said. "At the world's end. And I don't think it's +an awfully good day for it."</p> + +<p>They all got out. They had arrived in a tiny village, half a dozen +stone cottages. An imposing name was printed in letters a foot high: +<i>Coti Chiaveeri</i>.</p> + +<p>Naomi shrugged her shoulders. "That's its official name, but I prefer +to call it the world's end."</p> + +<p>She walked on a few steps, and Mr. Satterthwaite joined her. They were +beyond the houses now. The road stopped. As Naomi had said, this was +the end, the back of beyond, the beginning of nowhere. Behind them the +white ribbon of the road, in front of them—nothing. Only far, far +below, the sea.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite drew a deep breath. "It's an extraordinary place. One +feels that anything might happen here, that one might meet—anyone—"</p> + +<p>He stopped, for just in front of them a man was sitting on a boulder, +his face turned to the sea. They had not seen him till this moment, and +his appearance had the suddenness of a conjuring trick. He might have +sprung from the surrounding landscape.</p> + +<p>"I wonder—" began Mr. Satterthwaite.</p> + +<p>But at that minute the stranger turned, and Mr. Satterthwaite saw his +face.</p> + +<p>"Why, Mr. Quin! How extraordinary. Miss Carlton-Smith, I want to +introduce my friend Mr. Quin to you. He's the most amazing fellow. You +are, you know. You always turn up in the nick of time—"</p> + +<p>He stopped, with the feeling that he had said something awkwardly +significant, and yet for the life of him he could not think what it was.</p> + +<p>Naomi had shaken hands with Mr. Quin in her usual abrupt style. "We're +here for a picnic," she said. "And it seems to me we shall be pretty +well frozen to the bone."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite shivered. "Perhaps," he said uncertainly. "We shall +find a sheltered spot?"</p> + +<p>"Which this isn't," agreed Naomi. "Still, it's worth seeing, isn't it?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, indeed." Mr. Satterthwaite turned to Mr. Quin. "Miss +Carlton-Smith calls this place the world's end. Rather a good name, eh?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Quin nodded his head slowly several times. "Yes—a very suggestive +name. I suppose one only comes once in one's life to a place like +that—a place where one can't go on any longer."</p> + +<p>"What do you mean?" asked Naomi sharply.</p> + +<p>He turned to her. "Well, usually there's a choice, isn't there? To the +right or to the left. Forward or back. Here—there's the road behind +you, and in front of you—nothing."</p> + +<p>Naomi stared at him. Suddenly she shivered and began to retrace her +steps toward the others. The two men fell in beside her. Mr. Quin +continued to talk, but his tone was now easily conversational.</p> + +<p>"Is the small car yours, Miss Carlton-Smith?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"You drive yourself? One needs, I think, a good deal of nerve +to do that round here. The turns are rather appalling. A moment +of inattention, a brake that failed to hold, and—over the +edge—down—down—down. It would be—very easily done."</p> + +<p>They had joined the others. Mr. Satterthwaite introduced his friend. He +felt a tug at his arm. It was Naomi. She drew him apart from the others.</p> + +<p>"Who is he?" she demanded fiercely.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite gazed at her in astonishment. "Well, I hardly know. +I mean, I have known him for some years now—we have run across each +other from time to time, but in the sense of knowing actually—"</p> + +<p>He stopped. These were futilities that he was uttering, and the girl by +his side was not listening. She was standing with her head bent down, +her hands clenched by her sides.</p> + +<p>"He knows things," she said. "He knows things. How does he know?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite had no answer. He could only look at her dumbly, +unable to comprehend the storm that shook her.</p> + +<p>"I'm afraid," she muttered.</p> + +<p>"Afraid of Mr. Quin?"</p> + +<p>"I'm afraid of his eyes. He sees things."</p> + +<p>Something cold and wet fell on Mr. Satterthwaite's cheek. He looked up.</p> + +<p>"Why, it's snowing," he exclaimed in great surprise.</p> + +<p>"A nice day to have chosen for a picnic," said Naomi.</p> + +<p>She had regained control of herself with an effort.</p> + +<p>What was to be done? A babel of suggestions broke out. The snow came +down fast and thick. Mr. Quin made a suggestion and everyone welcomed +it. There was a little stone Cassecroute at the end of the row of +houses. There was a stampede toward it.</p> + +<p>"You have your provisions," said Mr. Quin, "and they will probably be +able to make you some coffee."</p> + +<p>It was a tiny place, rather dark, for the one little window did little +toward lighting it, but from one end came a grateful glow of warmth. An +old Corsican woman was just throwing a handful of branches on the fire. +It blazed up and by its light the newcomers realized that others were +before them.</p> + +<p>Three people were sitting at the end of a bare wooden table. There was +something unreal about the scene to Mr. Satterthwaite's eye; there was +something even more unreal about the people.</p> + +<p>The woman who sat at the end of the table looked like a duchess—that +is, she looked like the popular conception of a duchess. She was the +ideal stage <i>grande dame</i>. Her aristocratic head was held high, her +exquisitely dressed hair was of a snowy white. She was dressed in +gray—soft draperies that fell about her in artistic folds. One long +white hand supported her chin, the other was holding a roll spread with +<i>pâté de foie gras</i>. On her right was a man with a very white face, +very black hair, and horn-rimmed spectacles. He was marvelously and +beautifully dressed. At the moment his head was thrown back, and his +left arm was thrown out, as though he were about to declaim something.</p> + +<p>On the left of the white-haired lady was a jolly-looking little man +with a bald head. After the first glance, nobody looked at him.</p> + +<p>There was just a moment of uncertainty, and then the Duchess (the +authentic Duchess) took charge.</p> + +<p>"Isn't this storm too dreadful," she said pleasantly, coming forward, +and smiling a purposeful and efficient smile that she had found very +useful when serving on welfare and other committees. "I suppose you've +been caught in it just like we have? But Corsica is a marvelous place. +I only arrived this morning."</p> + +<p>The man with the black hair got up, and the Duchess with a gracious +smile slipped into his seat.</p> + +<p>The white-haired lady spoke. "We have been here a week," she said.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite started. Could anyone who had once heard that +voice ever forget it? It echoed round the stone room, charged with +emotion—with exquisite melancholy. It seemed to him that she had said +something wonderful, memorable, full of meaning. She had spoken from +her heart.</p> + +<p>He spoke in a hurried aside to Mr. Tomlinson. "The man in spectacles is +Mr. Vyse—the producer, you know."</p> + +<p>The retired Indian judge was looking at Mr. Vyse with a good deal of +dislike.</p> + +<p>"What does he produce?" he asked. "Children?"</p> + +<p>"Oh! dear me, no," said Mr. Satterthwaite, shocked by the mere mention +of anything so crude in connection with Mr. Vyse. "Plays."</p> + +<p>"I think," said Naomi, "I'll go out again. It's too hot in here."</p> + +<p>Her voice, strong and harsh, made Mr. Satterthwaite jump. She made, +almost blindly, as it seemed, for the door, brushing Mr. Tomlinson +aside. But in the doorway itself she came face to face with Mr. Quin, +and he barred her way.</p> + +<p>"Go back and sit down," he said.</p> + +<p>His voice was authoritative. To Mr. Satterthwaite's surprise, the girl +hesitated a minute and then obeyed. She sat down at the foot of the +table as far from the others as possible.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite bustled forward and buttonholed the producer. "You +may not remember me," he began. "My name is Satterthwaite."</p> + +<p>"Of course!" A long bony hand shot out and enveloped the other's in a +painful grip. "My dear man. Fancy meeting you here. You know Miss Nunn, +of course?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite jumped. No wonder that voice had been familiar. +Thousands, all over England, had thrilled to those wonderful, +emotion-laden tones. Rosina Nunn! England's greatest emotional actress. +Mr. Satterthwaite too had lain under her spell. No one like her for +interpreting a part—for bringing out the finer shades of meaning. +He had thought of her always as an intellectual actress, one who +comprehended and got inside the soul of her part.</p> + +<p>He might be excused for not recognizing her. Rosina Nunn was volatile +in her tastes. For twenty-five years of her life she had been a blonde. +After a tour in the States, she had returned with the locks of the +raven, and she had taken up tragedy in earnest. This "French Marquise" +effect was her latest whim.</p> + +<p>"Oh! by the way, Mr. Judd—Miss Nunn's husband," said Vyse, carelessly +introducing the man with the bald head.</p> + +<p>Rosina Nunn had had several husbands, Mr. Satterthwaite knew. Mr. Judd +was evidently the latest.</p> + +<p>Mr. Judd was busily unwrapping packages from a hamper at his side. He +addressed his wife. "Some more <i>pâté</i>, dearest. That last wasn't as +thick as you like it."</p> + +<p>Rosina Nunn surrendered her roll to him, as she murmured simply, "Henry +thinks of the most enchanting meals. I always leave the commissariat to +him."</p> + +<p>"Feed the brute," said Mr. Judd, and laughed. He patted his wife on the +shoulder.</p> + +<p>"Treats her just as though she were a dog," murmured the melancholy +voice of Mr. Vyse in Mr. Satterthwaite's ear. "Cuts up her food for +her. Odd creatures, women."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite and Mr. Quin between them unpacked lunch. Hard-boiled +eggs, cold ham, and Gruyère cheese were distributed round the table. +The Duchess and Miss Nunn appeared to be deep in murmured confidences. +Fragments came along in the actress's deep contralto.</p> + +<p>"The bread must be very lightly toasted, you understand? Then just a +<i>very</i> thin layer of marmalade. Rolled up and put in the oven for one +minute—not more. Simply delicious."</p> + +<p>"That woman lives for food," murmured Mr. Vyse. "Simply lives for +it. She can't think of anything else. I remember in <i>Riders to the +Sea</i>—you know 'and it's the fine, quiet time I'll be having.' I +could <i>not</i> get the effect I wanted. At last I told her to think of +peppermint creams—she's very fond of peppermint creams. I got the +effect at once—a sort of far-away look that went to your very soul."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite was silent. He was remembering.</p> + +<p>Mr. Tomlinson opposite cleared his throat preparatory to entering into +conversation.</p> + +<p>"You produce plays, I hear, eh? I'm fond of a good play myself. <i>Jim +the Penman</i>, now; that was a play."</p> + +<p>"My God," said Mr. Vyse, and shivered down all the long length of him.</p> + +<p>"A tiny clove of garlic," said Miss Nunn to the Duchess. "You tell your +cook. It's wonderful."</p> + +<p>She sighed happily and turned to her husband. "Henry," she said +plaintively, "I've never even <i>seen</i> the caviar."</p> + +<p>"You're as near as nothing to sitting on it," returned Mr. Judd +cheerfully. "You put it behind you on the chair."</p> + +<p>Rosina Nunn retrieved it hurriedly, and beamed round the table.</p> + +<p>"Henry is too wonderful. I'm so terribly absent-minded. I never know +where I've put anything."</p> + +<p>"Like the day you packed your pearls in your sponge bag," said Henry +jocosely. "And then left it behind at the hotel. My word, I did a bit +of wiring and phoning that day."</p> + +<p>"They were insured," said Miss Nunn dreamily. "Not like my opal." A +spasm of exquisite heart-rending grief flitted across her face.</p> + +<p>Several times, when in the company of Mr. Quin, Mr. Satterthwaite had +had the feeling of taking part in a play. This illusion was with him +very strongly now. This was a dream. Everyone had his part. The words +"my opal" were his own cue. He leaned forward.</p> + +<p>"Your opal, Miss Nunn?"</p> + +<p>"Have you got the butter, Henry? Thank you. Yes, my opal. It was +stolen, you know. And I never got it back."</p> + +<p>"Do tell us," said Mr. Satterthwaite.</p> + +<p>"Well—I was born in October—so it's lucky for me to wear opals, +and because of that I wanted a real beauty. I waited a long time for +it. They said it was one of the most perfect ones known. Not very +large—about the size of a two-shilling piece—but oh! the color and +the fire."</p> + +<p>She sighed. Mr. Satterthwaite observed that the Duchess was fidgeting +and seemed uncomfortable, but nothing could stop Miss Nunn now. She +went on, and the exquisite inflections of her voice made the story +sound like some mournful saga of old.</p> + +<p>"It was stolen by a young man called Alec Gerard. He wrote plays."</p> + +<p>"Very good plays," put in Mr. Vyse professionally. "Why, I once kept +one of his plays six months."</p> + +<p>"Did you produce it?" asked Mr. Tomlinson.</p> + +<p>"Oh! <i>no</i>," said Mr. Vyse, shocked at the idea. "But do you know, at +one time I actually thought of doing so?"</p> + +<p>"It had a wonderful part in it for me," said Miss Nunn. "<i>Rachel's +Children</i>, it was called—though there wasn't anyone called Rachel in +the play. He came to talk to me about it—at the theater. I liked him. +He was nice-looking—and very shy, poor boy. I remember"—a beautiful +far-away look stole over her face—"he brought me some peppermint +creams. The opal was lying on the dressing-table. He'd been out in +Australia, and he knew something about opals. He took it over to the +light to look at it. I suppose he must have slipped it into his pocket +then. I missed it as soon as he'd gone. There <i>was</i> a to-do. You +remember?"</p> + +<p>She turned to Mr. Vyse.</p> + +<p>"Oh! I remember," said Mr. Vyse with a groan.</p> + +<p>"They found the empty case in his rooms," continued the actress. "He'd +been terribly hard up, but the very next day he was able to pay a large +sum into his bank. He pretended to account for it by saying that a +friend of his had put some money on a horse for him, but he couldn't +produce the friend. He said he must have put the case in his pocket by +mistake. I think that was a terribly weak thing to say, don't you? He +might have thought of something better than that. I had to go and give +evidence. There were pictures of me in all the papers. My press agent +said it was very good publicity—but I'd much rather have had my opal +back."</p> + +<p>She shook her head sadly.</p> + +<p>"Have some preserved pineapple?" said Mr. Judd.</p> + +<p>Miss Nunn brightened up. "Where is it?"</p> + +<p>"I gave it to you just now."</p> + +<p>Miss Nunn looked behind her and in front of her, eyed her gray silk +<i>pochette</i>, and then slowly drew up a large purple silk bag that was +reposing on the ground beside her. She began to turn the contents out +slowly on the table, much to Mr. Satterthwaite's interest.</p> + +<p>There was a powder puff, a lipstick, a small jewel case, a skein of +wool, another powder puff, two handkerchiefs, a box of chocolate +creams, an enameled paper knife, a mirror, a little dark brown wooden +box, five letters, a walnut, a small square of mauve crepe de Chine, +a piece of ribbon, and the end of a <i>croissant</i>. Last of all came the +preserved pineapple.</p> + +<p>"<i>Eureka</i>," murmured Mr. Satterthwaite softly.</p> + +<p>"I beg your pardon?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing," said Mr. Satterthwaite hastily. "What a charming paper +knife."</p> + +<p>"Yes, isn't it? Somebody gave it to me. I can't remember who."</p> + +<p>"That's an Indian box," remarked Mr. Tomlinson. "Ingenious little +things, aren't they?"</p> + +<p>"Somebody gave me that too," said Miss Nunn. "I've had it a long time. +It used always to stand on my dressing-table at the theater. I don't +think it's very pretty, though, do you?"</p> + +<p>The box was of plain dark brown wood. It pushed open from the side. On +the top of it were two plain flaps of wood that could be turned round +and round.</p> + +<p>"Not pretty perhaps," said Mr. Tomlinson with a chuckle. "But I'll bet +you've never seen one like it."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite leaned forward. He had an excited feeling. "Why did +you say it was ingenious?" he demanded.</p> + +<p>"Well, isn't it?"</p> + +<p>The judge appealed to Miss Nunn. She looked at him blankly.</p> + +<p>"I suppose I mustn't show them the trick of it—eh?"</p> + +<p>Miss Nunn still looked blank.</p> + +<p>"What trick?" asked Mr. Judd.</p> + +<p>"God bless my soul, don't you know?"</p> + +<p>He looked round the inquiring faces.</p> + +<p>"Fancy that now. May I have the box a minute? Thank you."</p> + +<p>He pushed it open.</p> + +<p>"Now then, can anyone give me something to put in it—not too big. +Here's a small piece of Gruyère cheese. That will do capitally. I place +it inside, shut the box."</p> + +<p>He fumbled for a minute or two with his hands.</p> + +<p>"Now see—"</p> + +<p>He opened the box again. It was empty.</p> + +<p>"Well, I never," said Mr. Judd. "How do you do it?"</p> + +<p>"It's quite simple. Turn the box upside down, and move the left-hand +flap halfway round, then shut the right-hand flap. Now to bring our +piece of cheese back again we must reverse that. The right-hand flap +halfway round, and the left one closed, still keeping the box upside +down. And now—Hey, presto!"</p> + +<p>The box slid open. A gasp went round the table. The cheese was +there—but so was something else. A round thing that blinked forth +every color of the rainbow.</p> + +<p>"<i>My opal!</i>"</p> + +<p>It was a clarion note. Rosina Nunn stood upright, her hands clasped to +her breast.</p> + +<p>"My opal! But how did it get there?"</p> + +<p>Henry Judd cleared his throat. "I—er—I rather think, Rosy, my girl, +you must have put it there yourself."</p> + +<p>Someone got up from the table and blundered out into the air. It was +Naomi Carlton-Smith. Mr. Quin followed her.</p> + +<p>"But when? Do you mean—"</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite watched her while the truth dawned on her. It took +over two minutes before she got it.</p> + +<p>"You mean last year—at the theater."</p> + +<p>"You know," said Henry apologetically. "You <i>do</i> fiddle with things, +Rosy. Look at you with the caviar today."</p> + +<p>Miss Nunn was painfully following out her mental processes. "I just +slipped it in without thinking, and then I suppose I turned the box +about and did the thing by accident, but then—but then—" At last +it came. "But then Alec Gerard didn't steal it after all. Oh!"—a +full-throated cry, poignant, moving—"how dreadful!"</p> + +<p>"Well," said Mr. Vyse, "that can be put right now."</p> + +<p>"Yes, but he's been in prison a year." And then she startled them. She +turned sharply on the Duchess. "Who is that girl—that girl who has +just gone out?"</p> + +<p>"Miss Carlton-Smith," said the Duchess, "was engaged to Mr. Gerard. +She—took the thing very hard."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite stole softly away. The snow had stopped. Naomi was +sitting on the stone wall. She had a sketchbook in her hand, and some +colored crayons were scattered round. Mr. Quin was standing beside her.</p> + +<p>She held out the sketchbook to Mr. Satterthwaite. It was a very rough +affair—but it had genius. A kaleidoscopic whirl of snowflakes with a +figure in the center.</p> + +<p>"Very good," said Mr. Satterthwaite.</p> + +<p>Mr. Quin looked up at the sky. "The storm is over," he said. "The roads +will be slippery, but I do not think there will be any accident—now."</p> + +<p>"There will be no accident," said Naomi. Her voice was charged with +some meaning that Mr. Satterthwaite did not understand. She turned and +smiled at him—a sudden dazzling smile. "Mr. Satterthwaite can drive +back with me if he likes."</p> + +<p>He knew then to what length desperation had driven her.</p> + +<p>"Well," said Mr. Quin, "I must bid you good-by."</p> + +<p>He moved away.</p> + +<p>"Where is he going?" said Mr. Satterthwaite, staring after him.</p> + +<p>"Back where he came from, I suppose," said Naomi in an odd voice.</p> + +<p>"But—but there isn't anything there," said Mr. Satterthwaite, for Mr. +Quin was making for that spot on the edge of the cliff where they had +first seen him. "You know you said yourself it was the world's end."</p> + +<p>He handed back the sketchbook.</p> + +<p>"It's very good," he said. "A very good likeness. But why—er—why did +you put him in fancy dress?"</p> + +<p>Her eyes met his for a brief second.</p> + +<p>"I see him like that," said Naomi Carlton-Smith.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="The_Voice_in_the_Dark"><span class="smcap">The Voice in the Dark</span></h2> +</div> + + +<p>"I am a little worried about Margery," said Lady Stranleigh. "My girl, +you know," she added.</p> + +<p>She sighed pensively. "It makes one feel terribly old to have a +grown-up daughter."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite, who was the recipient of these confidences, rose to +the occasion gallantly. "No one could believe it possible," he declared +with a little bow.</p> + +<p>"Flatterer," said Lady Stranleigh, but she said it vaguely and it was +clear that her mind was elsewhere.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite looked at the slender white-clad figure in some +admiration. The Cannes sunshine was searching, but Lady Stranleigh +came through the test very well. At a distance the youthful effect +was really extraordinary. One almost wondered if she were grown up +or not. Mr. Satterthwaite, who knew everything, knew that it was +perfectly possible for Lady Stranleigh to have grown-up grandchildren. +She represented the extreme triumph of art over nature. Her figure +was marvelous, her complexion was marvelous. She had enriched many +beauty parlors and certainly the result was astounding. Lady Stranleigh +lighted a cigarette, crossed her beautiful legs, encased in the finest +of nude stockings, and murmured:</p> + +<p>"Yes, I really am rather worried about Margery."</p> + +<p>"Dear me," said Mr. Satterthwaite, "what is the trouble?"</p> + +<p>Lady Stranleigh turned her beautiful blue eyes upon him. "You have +never met her, have you? She is Charles's daughter," she added +helpfully.</p> + +<p>If entries in <i>Who's Who</i> were strictly truthful, the entry concerning +Lady Stranleigh might have ended as follows: <i>hobbies: getting +married</i>. She had floated through life shedding husbands as she went. +She had lost three by divorce and one by death.</p> + +<p>"If she had been Rudolf's child I could have understood it," mused Lady +Stranleigh. "You remember Rudolf? He was always temperamental. Six +months after we married I had to apply for those queer things—what +do they call them? Conjugal whatnots, you know what I mean. Thank +goodness it is all much simpler nowadays. I remember I had to write +him the silliest kind of letter—my lawyer practically dictated it +to me. Asking him to come back, you know, and that I would do all I +could, etc., etc., but you never could count on Rudolf, he was so +temperamental. He came rushing home at once, which was quite the wrong +thing to do, and not at all what the lawyers meant."</p> + +<p>She sighed.</p> + +<p>"About Margery?" suggested Mr. Satterthwaite, tactfully leading her +back to the subject under discussion.</p> + +<p>"Of course. I was just going to tell you, wasn't I? Margery has been +seeing things, or hearing them. Ghosts, you know, and all that. I +should never have thought that Margery could be so imaginative. She is +a dear good girl, always has been, but just a shade—dull."</p> + +<p>"Impossible," murmured Mr. Satterthwaite with a confused idea of being +complimentary.</p> + +<p>"In fact very dull," said Lady Stranleigh. "Doesn't care for dancing or +cocktails or any of the things a young girl ought to care about. She +much prefers staying at home to hunt instead of coming out here with +me."</p> + +<p>"Dear, dear," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "She wouldn't come out with you, +you say?"</p> + +<p>"Well, I didn't exactly press her. Daughters have a depressing effect +upon one, I find."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite tried to think of Lady Stranleigh accompanied by a +serious-minded daughter and failed.</p> + +<p>"I can't help wondering if Margery is going off her head," continued +Margery's mother in a cheerful voice. "Hearing voices is a very bad +sign, so they tell me. It is not as though Abbot's Mede were haunted. +The old building was burned to the ground in 1836, and they put up a +kind of early Victorian château which simply cannot be haunted. It is +much too ugly and commonplace."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite coughed. He was wondering why he was being told all +this.</p> + +<p>"I thought perhaps," said Lady Stranleigh, smiling brilliantly upon +him, "that <i>you</i> might be able to help me."</p> + +<p>"I?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. You are going back to England tomorrow, aren't you?"</p> + +<p>"I am. Yes, that is so," admitted Mr. Satterthwaite cautiously.</p> + +<p>"And you know all these psychical research people. Of course you do, +you know everybody."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite smiled a little. It was one of his weaknesses to know +everybody.</p> + +<p>"So what can be simpler?" continued Lady Stranleigh. "I never get on +with that sort of person. You know—earnest men with beards and usually +spectacles. They bore me terribly and I am quite at my worst with them."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite was rather taken aback. Lady Stranleigh continued to +smile at him brilliantly.</p> + +<p>"So that is all settled, isn't it?" she said brightly. "You will go +down to Abbot's Mede and see Margery, and make all the arrangements. I +shall be terribly grateful to you. Of course, if Margery is <i>really</i> +going off her head, I will come home. Ah! here is Bimbo."</p> + +<p>Her smile from being brilliant became dazzling.</p> + +<p>A young man in white tennis flannels was approaching them. He was about +twenty-five years of age and extremely good-looking.</p> + +<p>The young man said simply, "I have been looking for you everywhere, +Babs."</p> + +<p>"What has the tennis been like?"</p> + +<p>"Septic."</p> + +<p>Lady Stranleigh rose. She turned her head over her shoulder and +murmured in dulcet tones to Mr. Satterthwaite, "It is simply marvelous +of you to help me. I shall never forget it."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite looked after the retreating couple.</p> + +<p><i>I wonder</i>, he mused to himself, <i>if Bimbo is going to be number five</i>.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The conductor of the Train de Luxe was pointing out to Mr. +Satterthwaite where an accident on the line had occurred a few years +previously. As he finished his spirited narrative, the other looked up +and saw a well-known face smiling at him over the conductor's shoulder.</p> + +<p>"My dear Mr. Quin," said Mr. Satterthwaite. His little withered +face broke into smiles. "What a coincidence! That we should both be +returning to England on the same train. You are going there, I suppose."</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Mr. Quin. "I have business there of rather an important +nature. Are you taking the first service of dinner?"</p> + +<p>"I always do so. Of course it is an absurd time—half-past six, but one +runs less risk with the cooking."</p> + +<p>Mr. Quin nodded comprehendingly. "I also," he said. "We might perhaps +arrange to sit together."</p> + +<p>Half-past six found Mr. Quin and Mr. Satterthwaite established opposite +each other at a small table in the dining car. Mr. Satterthwaite gave +due attention to the wine list and then turned to his companion.</p> + +<p>"I have not seen you since—ah, yes—not since Corsica. You left very +suddenly that day."</p> + +<p>Mr. Quin shrugged his shoulders. "Not more so than usual. I come and +go, you know. I come and go."</p> + +<p>The words seemed to awake some echo of remembrance in Mr. +Satterthwaite's mind. A little shiver passed down his spine—not a +disagreeable sensation, quite the contrary. He was conscious of a +pleasurable sense of anticipation.</p> + +<p>Mr. Quin was holding up a bottle of red wine, examining the label on +it. The bottle was between him and the light but for a minute or two a +red glow enveloped his person.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite felt again that sudden stir of excitement. "I too +have a kind of mission in England," he remarked, smiling broadly at the +remembrance. "You know Lady Stranleigh, perhaps?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Quin shook his head.</p> + +<p>"It is an old title," said Mr. Satterthwaite, "a very old title. One +of the few that can descend in the female line. She is a baroness in +her own right. Rather a romantic history really."</p> + +<p>Mr. Quin settled himself more comfortably in his chair. A waiter, +flying down the swinging car, deposited cups of soup before them as if +by a miracle. Mr. Quin sipped it cautiously.</p> + +<p>"You are about to give me one of those wonderful descriptive portraits +of yours," he murmured, "that is so, is it not?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite beamed on him.</p> + +<p>"She is really a marvelous woman," he said. "Sixty, you know—yes, I +should say at least sixty. I knew them as girls, she and her sister. +Beatrice, that was the name of the elder one. Beatrice and Barbara. +I remember them as the Barron girls. Both good-looking and, in those +days, very hard up. That was a great many years ago—why, dear me, I +was a young man myself then." Mr. Satterthwaite sighed. "There were +several lives then between them and the title. Old Lord Stranleigh was +a first cousin once removed, I think. Lady Stranleigh's life has been +quite a romantic affair. Three unexpected deaths—two of the old man's +brothers and a nephew. Then there was the <i>Uralia</i>. You remember the +wreck of the <i>Uralia</i>? She went down off the coast of New Zealand. The +Barron girls were on board. Beatrice was drowned. This one, Barbara, +was among the few survivors. Six months later old Stranleigh died and +she succeeded to the title and came into a considerable fortune. Since +then she has lived for one thing only—herself! She has always been the +same, beautiful, unscrupulous, completely callous, interested solely +in herself. She has had four husbands, and I have no doubt could get a +fifth in a minute."</p> + +<p>He went on to describe the mission with which he had been entrusted by +Lady Stranleigh.</p> + +<p>"I thought of running down to Abbot's Mede to see the young lady," he +explained. "I—I feel that something ought to be done about the matter. +It is impossible to think of Lady Stranleigh as an ordinary mother." He +stopped, looking across the table at Mr. Quin.</p> + +<p>"I wish you would come with me," he said wistfully. "Would it not be +possible?"</p> + +<p>"I am afraid not," said Mr. Quin, "but, let me see—Abbot's Mede is in +Wiltshire, is it not?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite nodded.</p> + +<p>"I thought as much. As it happens, I shall be staying not far from +Abbot's Mede, at a place you and I both know." He smiled. "You remember +that little inn, The Bells and Motley?"</p> + +<p>"Of course," cried Mr. Satterthwaite, "you will be there?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Quin nodded. "For a week or ten days, possibly longer. If you will +come and look me up one day, I shall be delighted to see you."</p> + +<p>And somehow or other Mr. Satterthwaite felt strangely comforted by the +assurance.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>"My dear Miss—er—Margery," said Mr. Satterthwaite, "I assure you that +I should not dream of laughing at you."</p> + +<p>Margery Gale frowned a little. They were sitting in the large +comfortable hall of Abbot's Mede. Margery Gale was a big, squarely +built girl. She bore no resemblance to her mother, but took entirely +after her father's side of the family, a line of hard-riding country +squires. She looked fresh and wholesome and the picture of sanity. +Nevertheless, Mr. Satterthwaite was reflecting to himself that the +Barrons as a family were all inclined to mental instability. Margery +might have inherited her physical appearance from her father and at the +same time have inherited some mental kink from her mother's side of the +family.</p> + +<p>"I wish," said Margery, "that I could get rid of that Casson woman. I +don't believe in spiritualism, and I don't like it. She is one of these +silly women that run a craze to death. She is always bothering me to +have a medium down here."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite coughed, fidgeted a little in his chair and then said +in a judicial manner, "Let me be quite sure that I have all the facts. +The first of the—er—phenomena occurred two months ago, I understand."</p> + +<p>"About that," agreed the girl. "Sometimes it was a whisper and +sometimes it was quite a clear voice, but it always said much the same +thing."</p> + +<p>"Which was?"</p> + +<p>"'<i>Give back what is not yours. Give back what you have stolen.</i>' On +each occasion I switched on the light, but the room was quite empty and +there was no one there. In the end I got so nervous that I got Clayton, +Mother's maid, to sleep on the sofa in my room."</p> + +<p>"And the voice came just the same?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, but—and this is what frightens me—Clayton did not hear it."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite reflected for a minute or two. "Did it come loudly or +softly that evening?"</p> + +<p>"It was almost a whisper," admitted Margery. "If Clayton was sound +asleep, I suppose she would not really have heard it. She wanted me to +see a doctor."</p> + +<p>The girl laughed bitterly. "But since last night even Clayton +believes," she continued.</p> + +<p>"What happened last night?"</p> + +<p>"I am just going to tell you. I have told no one as yet. I had been +out hunting yesterday and we had had a long run. I was dead tired and +slept very heavily. I dreamed—a horrible dream—that I had fallen over +some iron railings and that one of the spikes was entering slowly into +my throat. I woke to find that it was true—there was some sharp point +pressing into the side of my neck and at the same time a voice was +murmuring softly, '<i>You have stolen what is mine. This is death.</i>'</p> + +<p>"I screamed," continued Margery, "and clutched at the air but there +was nothing there. Clayton heard me scream from the room next door +where she was sleeping. She came rushing in, and she distinctly felt +something brushing past her in the darkness, but she says that, +whatever that something was, it was not anything human."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite stared at her. The girl was obviously very shaken +and upset. He noticed on the left side of her throat a small square of +sticking plaster. She caught the direction of his gaze and nodded.</p> + +<p>"Yes," she said, "it was not imagination, you see."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite put a question almost apologetically, it sounded so +melodramatic. "You don't know of anyone—er—who has a grudge against +you?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"Of course not," said Margery, "what an idea."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite started on another line of attack. "What visitors +have you had during the last two months?"</p> + +<p>"You don't mean just people for week-ends, I suppose? Marcia Keane +has been with me all along. She is my best friend and just as keen on +horses as I am. Then my cousin Roley Vavasour has been here a good +deal."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite nodded. He suggested that he should see Clayton, the +maid. "She has been with you a long time, I suppose?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"Donkey's years," said Margery. "She was Mother's and Aunt Beatrice's +maid when they were girls. That is why Mother has kept her on, I +suppose, although she has got a French maid for herself. Clayton does +sewing and pottering little odd jobs."</p> + +<p>She took him upstairs and presently Clayton came to them. She was a +tall, thin old woman with gray hair neatly parted, and looked the acme +of respectability.</p> + +<p>"No, sir," she said in answer to Mr. Satterthwaite's inquiries, "I have +never heard anything of the house being haunted. To tell you the truth, +sir, I thought it was all Miss Margery's imagination until last night. +But I actually felt something—brushing by me in the darkness. And I +can tell you this, sir, <i>it was not anything human</i>. And then there is +that wound in Miss Margery's neck. She didn't do that herself, poor +lamb."</p> + +<p>But her words were suggestive to Mr. Satterthwaite. Was it possible +that Margery could have inflicted that wound herself? He had heard of +strange cases where girls apparently just as sane and well balanced as +Margery had done the most amazing things.</p> + +<p>"It will soon heal up," said Clayton. "It's not like this scar of mine."</p> + +<p>She pointed to a mark on her own forehead. "That was done forty years +ago, sir. I still bear the mark of it."</p> + +<p>"It was the time the <i>Uralia</i> went down," put in Margery. "Clayton was +hit on the head by a spar, weren't you, Clayton?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, miss."</p> + +<p>"What do you think yourself, Clayton?" asked Mr. Satterthwaite. "What +do you think was the meaning of this attack on Miss Margery?"</p> + +<p>"I really should not like to say, sir."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite read this correctly as the reserve of the +well-trained servant. "What do you really think, Clayton?" he said +persuasively.</p> + +<p>"I think, sir, that something very wicked must have been done in this +house, and that until that is wiped out there won't be any peace."</p> + +<p>The woman spoke gravely, and her faded blue eyes met his steadily.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite went downstairs rather disappointed. Clayton +evidently held the orthodox view, a deliberate "haunting" as a +consequence of some evil deed in the past. Mr. Satterthwaite himself +was not so easily satisfied. The phenomena had only taken place in the +last two months. Had only taken place since Marcia Keane and Roley +Vavasour had been there. He must find out something about these two. It +was possible that the whole thing was a practical joke. But he shook +his head, dissatisfied with that solution. The thing was more sinister +than that. The post had just come in and Margery was opening and +reading her letters. Suddenly she gave an exclamation.</p> + +<p>"Mother is too absurd," she said. "Do read this." She handed the letter +to Mr. Satterthwaite.</p> + +<p>It was an epistle typical of Lady Stranleigh.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p><i>Darling Margery</i> [she wrote],</p> + +<p><i>I am so glad you have that nice little Mr. Satterthwaite there. He +is awfully clever and knows all the big-wig spook people. You must +have them all down and investigate things thoroughly. I am sure you +will have a perfectly marvelous time and I only wish I could be there, +but I have really been quite ill the last few days. The hotels are so +careless about the food they give one. The doctor says it is some kind +of poisoning. I was really very ill.</i></p> + +<p><i>Sweet of you to send me the chocolates, darling, but surely just a +wee bit silly, wasn't it? I mean, there's such wonderful confectionery +out here.</i></p> + +<p><i>By-by, darling, and have a lovely time laying the family ghosts. +Bimbo says my tennis is coming on marvelously. Oceans of love</i>,</p> + +<p class="ph2"><i>Yours, Barbara</i>.</p> +</div> + +<p>"Mother always wants me to call her Barbara," said Margery. "Simply +silly, I think."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite smiled a little. He realized that the stolid +conservatism of her daughter must on occasions be very trying to Lady +Stranleigh. The contents of her letter struck him in a way in which +obviously they did not strike Margery.</p> + +<p>"Did you send your mother a box of chocolates?" he asked.</p> + +<p>Margery shook her head. "No, I didn't. It must have been someone else."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite looked grave. Two things struck him as of +significance. Lady Stranleigh had received a gift of a box of +chocolates and she was suffering from a severe attack of poisoning. +Apparently she had not connected these two things. Was there a +connection? He himself was inclined to think there was.</p> + +<p>A tall, dark girl lounged out of the morning room and joined them. She +was introduced to Mr. Satterthwaite as Marcia Keane. She smiled on the +little man in an easy good-humored fashion.</p> + +<p>"Have you come down to hunt Margery's pet ghost?" she asked in a +drawling voice. "We all rot her about that ghost. Hello, here's Roley."</p> + +<p>A car had just drawn up at the front door. Out of it tumbled a tall +young man with fair hair and an eager, boyish manner.</p> + +<p>"Hello, Margery," he cried. "Hello, Marcia! I have brought down +reinforcements." He turned to the two women who were just entering the +hall. Mr. Satterthwaite recognized in the first one of the two the Mrs. +Casson of whom Margery had spoken just now.</p> + +<p>"You must forgive me, Margery dear," she drawled, smiling broadly. "Mr. +Vavasour told us that it would be quite all right. It was really his +idea that I should bring down Mrs. Lloyd with me."</p> + +<p>She indicated her companion with a slight gesture of the hand. "This is +Mrs. Lloyd," she said in a tone of triumph. "Simply the most wonderful +medium that ever existed."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Lloyd uttered no modest protest; she bowed and remained with her +hands crossed in front of her. She was a highly colored young woman +of commonplace appearance. Her clothes were unfashionable but rather +ornate. She wore a chain of moonstones and several rings.</p> + +<p>Margery Gale, as Mr. Satterthwaite could see, was not too pleased at +this intrusion. She threw an angry look at Roley Vavasour, who seemed +quite unconscious of the offense he had caused.</p> + +<p>"Lunch is ready, I think," said Margery.</p> + +<p>"Good," said Mrs. Casson, "we will hold a séance immediately afterward. +Have you got some fruit for Mrs. Lloyd? She never eats a solid meal +before a séance."</p> + +<p>They all went into the dining room. The medium ate two bananas and an +apple, and replied cautiously and briefly to the various polite remarks +which Margery addressed to her from time to time. Just before they +rose from table, she flung back her head suddenly and sniffed the air. +"There is something very wrong in this house; I feel it."</p> + +<p>"Isn't she wonderful," said Mrs. Casson in a low, delighted voice.</p> + +<p>"Oh! undoubtedly," said Mr. Satterthwaite dryly.</p> + +<p>The séance was held in the library. The hostess was, as Mr. +Satterthwaite could see, very unwilling; only the obvious delight of +her guests in the proceedings reconciled her to the ordeal.</p> + +<p>The arrangements were made with a good deal of care by Mrs. Casson, who +was evidently well up in those matters. The chairs were set round in +a circle, the curtains were drawn, and presently the medium announced +herself ready to begin.</p> + +<p>"Six people," she said, looking round the room. "That is bad. We must +have an uneven number. Seven is ideal. I get my best results out of a +circle of seven."</p> + +<p>"One of the servants," suggested Roley. He rose. "I will rout out the +butler."</p> + +<p>"Let's have Clayton," said Margery.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite saw a look of annoyance pass over Roley Vavasour's +good-looking face.</p> + +<p>"But why Clayton?" he demanded.</p> + +<p>"You don't like Clayton," said Margery slowly.</p> + +<p>Roley shrugged his shoulders. "Clayton doesn't like me," he said +whimsically; "in fact, she hates me like poison." He waited a minute or +two but Margery did not give way. "All right," he said, "have her down."</p> + +<p>The circle was formed. There was a period of silence, broken by the +usual coughs and fidgetings. Presently a succession of raps were +heard and then the voice of the medium's control, a Red Indian called +Cherokee.</p> + +<p>"Indian Brave says you good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Someone here +very anxious speak. Someone here very anxious give message to young +lady. I go now. The spirit say what she come to say."</p> + +<p>A pause and then a new voice, that of a woman, said softly, "Is Margery +here?"</p> + +<p>Roley Vavasour took it upon himself to answer.</p> + +<p>"Yes," he said, "she is. Who is that speaking?"</p> + +<p>"I am Beatrice."</p> + +<p>"Beatrice? Who is Beatrice?"</p> + +<p>To everyone's annoyance the voice of the Red Indian Cherokee was heard +once more: "I have message for all of you people. Life here very bright +and beautiful. We all work very hard. Help those who have not yet +passed over."</p> + +<p>Again a silence and then the woman's voice was heard once more: "This +is Beatrice speaking."</p> + +<p>"Beatrice who?"</p> + +<p>"Beatrice Barron."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite leaned forward. He was very excited. "Beatrice Barron +who was drowned in the <i>Uralia</i>?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, that is right. I remember the <i>Uralia</i>. I have a message—for +this house—<i>Give back what is not yours</i>."</p> + +<p>"I don't understand," said Margery helplessly. "I—oh, are you really +Aunt Beatrice?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I am your aunt."</p> + +<p>"Of course she is," said Mrs. Casson reproachfully. "How can you be so +suspicious? The spirits don't like it."</p> + +<p>And suddenly Mr. Satterthwaite thought of a very simple test. His voice +quivered a little as he spoke. "Do you remember Mr. Bottacetti?" he +asked.</p> + +<p>Immediately there came a ripple of laughter.</p> + +<p>"Poor old Boatupsetty. Of course."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite was dumbfounded. The test had succeeded. It was an +incident of over forty years ago, which had happened when he and the +Barron girls had found themselves at the same seaside resort. A young +Italian acquaintance of theirs had gone out in a boat and capsized, +and Beatrice Barron had jestingly named him Boatupsetty. It seemed +impossible that anyone in the room could know of this incident except +himself.</p> + +<p>The medium stirred and groaned.</p> + +<p>"She is coming out," said Mrs. Casson; "that is all we will get out of +her today, I am afraid."</p> + +<p>The daylight shone once more on the room full of people, two of whom at +least were badly scared.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite saw by Margery's white face that she was deeply +perturbed. When they had got rid of Mrs. Casson and the medium, he +sought a private interview with his hostess.</p> + +<p>"I want to ask you one or two questions, Miss Margery. If you and your +mother were to die, who succeeds to the title and estates?"</p> + +<p>"Roley Vavasour, I suppose. His mother was Mother's first cousin."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite nodded. "He seems to have been here a lot this +winter," he said gently. "You will forgive me asking—but is he—fond +of you?"</p> + +<p>"He asked me to marry him three weeks ago," said Margery quietly. "I +said no."</p> + +<p>"Please forgive me, but are you engaged to anyone else?"</p> + +<p>He saw the color sweep over her face.</p> + +<p>"I am," she said emphatically. "I am going to marry Noel Barton. Mother +laughs and says it is absurd. She seems to think it is ridiculous to be +engaged to a curate. Why, I should like to know? There are curates and +curates! You should see Noel on a horse."</p> + +<p>"Oh, quite so," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "Oh, undoubtedly."</p> + +<p>A footman entered with a telegram on a salver. Margery tore it open. +"Mother is arriving home tomorrow," she said. "Bother. I wish to +goodness she would stay away."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite made no comment on this filial sentiment. Perhaps +he thought it justified. "In that case," he murmured, "I think I am +returning to London."</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite was not quite pleased with himself. He felt that he +had left this particular problem in an unfinished state. True that, on +Lady Stranleigh's return, his responsibility was ended; yet he felt +assured that he had not heard the last of the Abbot's Mede mystery.</p> + +<p>But the next development, when it came, was so serious in its character +that it found him totally unprepared. He learned of it in the pages +of his morning paper: <i>Baroness Dies in Her Bath</i>, as the <i>Daily +Megaphone</i> had it. The other papers were more restrained and delicate +in their language, but the fact was the same. Lady Stranleigh had been +found dead in her bath, and her death was due to drowning. She had, it +was assumed, lost consciousness and while in that state her head had +slipped below the water.</p> + +<p>But Mr. Satterthwaite was not satisfied with that explanation. Calling +for his valet, he made his toilet with less than his usual care and ten +minutes later his big Rolls Royce was carrying him out of London as +fast as it could travel.</p> + +<p>But strangely enough it was not for Abbot's Mede he was bound, but for +a small inn some fifteen miles distant which bore the rather unusual +name of The Bells and Motley. It was with great relief that he heard +that Mr. Harley Quin was still staying there. In another minute he was +face to face with his friend.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite clasped him by the hand and began to speak at once +in an agitated manner. "I am terribly upset. You must help me. Already +I have a dreadful feeling that it may be too late—that that nice +girl may be the next to go; for she is a nice girl, nice through and +through."</p> + +<p>"If you will tell me," said Mr. Quin, smiling, "what it is all about?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite looked at him reproachfully. "You know. I am +perfectly certain that you know. But I will tell you."</p> + +<p>He poured out the story of his stay at Abbot's Mede and, as always with +Mr. Quin, he found himself taking pleasure in his narrative. He was +eloquent and subtle and meticulous as to detail.</p> + +<p>"So you see," he ended, "there must be an explanation."</p> + +<p>He looked hopefully at Mr. Quin, as a dog looks at his master.</p> + +<p>"But it is you who must solve the problem, not I," said Mr. Quin. "I do +not know these people. You do."</p> + +<p>"I knew the Barron girls forty years ago," said Mr. Satterthwaite with +pride.</p> + +<p>Mr. Quin nodded and looked sympathetic, so much so that the other went +on dreamily:</p> + +<p>"That time at Brighton now, Bottacetti-Boatupsetty; quite a silly joke +but how we laughed. Dear, dear, I was young then. Did a lot of foolish +things. I remember the maid they had with them. Alice, her name was, a +little bit of a thing—very ingenuous. I kissed her in the passage of +the hotel, I remember, and one of the girls nearly caught me doing it. +Dear, dear, how long ago that all was."</p> + +<p>He shook his head again and sighed. Then he looked at Mr. Quin. "So you +can't help me?" he said wistfully. "On other occasions—"</p> + +<p>"On other occasions you have proved successful owing entirely to your +own efforts," said Mr. Quin gravely. "I think it will be the same this +time. If I were you, I should go to Abbot's Mede now."</p> + +<p>"Quite so, quite so," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "As a matter of fact, +that is what I thought of doing. I can't persuade you to come with me?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Quin shook his head. "No," he said, "my work here is done. I am +leaving almost immediately."</p> + +<p>At Abbot's Mede, Mr. Satterthwaite was taken at once to Margery Gale. +She was sitting dry-eyed at a desk in the morning room on which were +strewn various papers. Something in her greeting touched him. She +seemed so very pleased to see him.</p> + +<p>"Roley and Marcia have just left. Mr. Satterthwaite, it is not as the +doctors think. I am convinced, absolutely convinced, that Mother was +pushed under the water and held there. She was murdered, and whoever +murdered her wants to murder me too. I am sure of that. That is why—" +She indicated the document in front of her.</p> + +<p>"I have been making my will," she explained. "A lot of the money and +some of the property does not go with the title, and there is my +father's money as well. I am leaving everything I can to Noel. I know +he will make a good use of it, and I do not trust Roley; he has always +been out for what he can get. Will you sign it as a witness?"</p> + +<p>"My dear young lady," said Mr. Satterthwaite, "you should sign a will +in the presence of two witnesses, and they should then sign themselves +at the same time."</p> + +<p>Margery brushed aside this legal pronouncement.</p> + +<p>"I don't see that it matters in the least," she declared. "Clayton +saw me sign and then she signed her name. I was going to ring for the +butler, but you will do instead."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite uttered no fresh protest; he unscrewed his fountain +pen and then, as he was about to append his signature, he paused +suddenly. The name, written just above his own recalled a flow of +memories. Alice Clayton.</p> + +<p>Something seemed to be struggling very hard to get through to him. +Alice Clayton; there was some significance about that. Something to do +with Mr. Quin was mixed up with it. Something he had said to Mr. Quin +only a very short time ago.</p> + +<p>Ah, he had it now. Alice Clayton, that was her name. <i>The little bit +of a thing.</i> People changed—yes, <i>but not like that</i>. And the Alice +Clayton he knew had had brown eyes. The room seemed whirling round him. +He felt for a chair and presently, as though from a great distance, he +heard Margery's voice speaking to him anxiously.</p> + +<p>"Are you ill? Oh, what is it? I am sure you are ill!"</p> + +<p>He was himself again. He took her hand.</p> + +<p>"My dear, I see it all now. You must prepare yourself for a great +shock. The woman upstairs whom you call Clayton is not Clayton at all. +The real Alice Clayton was drowned on the <i>Uralia</i>."</p> + +<p>Margery was staring at him. "Who—who is she then?"</p> + +<p>"I am not mistaken; I cannot be mistaken. The woman you call Clayton +is your mother's sister, Beatrice Barron. You remember telling me that +she was struck on the head by a spar? I should imagine that that blow +destroyed her memory, and, that being the case, your mother saw the +chance—"</p> + +<p>"Of pinching the title, you mean?" asked Margery bitterly. "Yes, she +would do that. It seems dreadful to say that, now she is dead, but she +was like that."</p> + +<p>"Beatrice was the elder sister," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "By your +uncle's death she would inherit everything and your mother would get +nothing. Your mother claimed the wounded girl as her <i>maid</i>, not as her +<i>sister</i>. The girl recovered from the blow and believed of course what +was told her, that she was Alice Clayton, your mother's maid. I should +imagine that, just lately, her memory has begun to return, but that +the blow on the head, given all these years ago, has at last caused +mischief on the brain."</p> + +<p>Margery was looking at him with eyes of horror. "She killed Mother and +she wanted to kill me," she breathed.</p> + +<p>"It seems so," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "In her brain there was just one +muddled idea—that her inheritance had been stolen and was being kept +from her by you and your mother."</p> + +<p>"But—but Clayton is so old."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite was silent for a minute as a vision rose up before +him—the faded old woman with gray hair and the radiant golden-haired +creature sitting in the sunshine at Cannes. Sisters! Could it really be +so? He remembered the Barron girls and their likeness to each other. +Just because two lives had developed on different tracks—</p> + +<p>He shook his head sharply, obsessed by the wonder and pity of life.</p> + +<p>He turned to Margery and said gently, "We had better go upstairs and +see her."</p> + +<p>They found Clayton sitting in the little workroom where she sewed. +She did not turn her head as they came in, for a reason that Mr. +Satterthwaite soon found out.</p> + +<p>"Heart failure," he murmured, as he touched the cold, rigid shoulder. +"Perhaps it is best that way."</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="The_Face_of_Helen"><span class="smcap">The Face of Helen</span></h2> +</div> + + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite was at the opera and sat alone in his big box on the +first tier. Outside the door was a printed card bearing his name. An +appreciator and a connoisseur of all the arts, Mr. Satterthwaite was +especially fond of good music and was a regular subscriber to Covent +Garden every year, reserving a box for Tuesdays and Fridays throughout +the season.</p> + +<p>But it was not often that he sat in it alone. He was a gregarious +little gentleman, and he liked filling his box with the élite of the +great world to which he belonged, and also with the aristocracy of +the artistic world, in which he was equally at home. He was alone +tonight because a countess had disappointed him. The Countess, besides +being a beautiful and celebrated woman, was also a good mother. Her +children had been attacked by that common and distressing disease, the +mumps, and the Countess remained at home in tearful confabulation with +exquisitely starched nurses. Her husband, who had supplied her with the +aforementioned children and a title, but who was otherwise a complete +nonentity, had seized at the chance to escape. Nothing bored him more +than music.</p> + +<p>So Mr. Satterthwaite sat alone. <i>Cavalleria Rusticana</i> and <i>Pagliacci</i> +were being given that night, and, since the first had never appealed +to him, he arrived just after the curtain went down on Santuzza's +death agony, in time to glance round the house with a practiced eye, +before everyone streamed out, bent on paying visits or fighting for +coffee or lemonade. Mr. Satterthwaite adjusted his opera glasses, +looked round the house, marked down his prey, and sallied forth with a +well-mapped-out plan of campaign ahead of him, a plan, however, which +he did not put into execution, for just outside his box he cannoned +into a tall, dark man, and recognized him with a pleasurable thrill of +excitement.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Quin," cried Mr. Satterthwaite.</p> + +<p>He seized his friend warmly by the hand, clutching him as though he +feared any minute to see him vanish into thin air. "You must share my +box," said Mr. Satterthwaite determinedly. "You are not with a party?"</p> + +<p>"No, I am sitting by myself in the stalls," responded Mr. Quin with a +smile.</p> + +<p>"Then that is settled," said Mr. Satterthwaite with a sigh of relief.</p> + +<p>His manner was almost comic, had there been anyone to observe it.</p> + +<p>"You are very kind," said Mr. Quin.</p> + +<p>"Not at all. It is a pleasure. I didn't know you were fond of music?"</p> + +<p>"There are reasons why I am attracted to <i>Pagliacci</i>."</p> + +<p>"Ah! of course," said Mr. Satterthwaite, nodding sapiently, though, if +put to it, he would have found it hard to explain just why he had used +that expression. "Of course, you would be."</p> + +<p>They went back to the box at the first summons of the bell and, leaning +over the front of it, they watched the people returning to the stalls.</p> + +<p>"That's a beautiful head," observed Mr. Satterthwaite suddenly.</p> + +<p>He indicated with his glasses a spot immediately beneath them in the +stalls circle. A girl sat there whose face they could not see—only the +pure gold of her hair that fitted with the closeness of a cap till it +merged into the white neck.</p> + +<p>"A Greek head," said Mr. Satterthwaite reverently. "Pure Greek." He +sighed happily. "It's a remarkable thing when you come to think of +it—how very few people have hair that <i>fits</i> them."</p> + +<p>"You are so observant," said Mr. Quin.</p> + +<p>"I see things," admitted Mr. Satterthwaite. "I do see things. For +instance, I picked out that head at once. We must have a look at her +face sooner or later. But it won't match, I'm sure. That would be a +chance in a thousand."</p> + +<p>Almost as the words left his lips, the lights flickered and went down, +the sharp rap of the conductor's baton was heard, and the opera began. +A new tenor, said to be a second Caruso, was singing that night. He had +been referred to by the newspapers as a Yugoslav, a Czech, an Albanian, +a Magyar, and a Bulgarian, with a beautiful impartiality. He had given +an extraordinary concert at the Albert Hall, a program of the folk +songs of his native hills, with a specially tuned orchestra. They were +in strange half-tones, and the would-be musical had pronounced them +"too marvelous." Real musicians had reserved judgment, realizing that +the ear had to be specially trained and attuned before any criticism +was possible. It was quite a relief to some people to find this evening +that Yoaschbim could sing in ordinary Italian with all the traditional +sobs and quivers.</p> + +<p>The curtain went down on the first act, and applause burst out +vociferously. Mr. Satterthwaite turned to Mr. Quin. He realized that +the latter was waiting for him to pronounce judgment, and plumed +himself a little. After all, he <i>knew</i>. As a critic he was well-nigh +infallible.</p> + +<p>Very slowly he nodded his head. "It is the real thing," he said.</p> + +<p>"You think so?"</p> + +<p>"As fine a voice as Caruso's. People will not recognize that it is so +at first, for his technique is not yet perfect. There are ragged edges, +a lack of certainty in the attack. But the voice is there—magnificent."</p> + +<p>"I went to his concert at the Albert Hall," said Mr. Quin.</p> + +<p>"Did you? I could not go."</p> + +<p>"He made a wonderful hit with a shepherd's song."</p> + +<p>"I read about it," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "The refrain ends each time +with a high note—a kind of cry. A note midway between A and B flat. +Very curious."</p> + +<p>Yoaschbim had taken three calls, bowing and smiling. The lights went +up and the people began to file out. Mr. Satterthwaite leaned over to +watch the girl with the golden head. She rose, adjusted her scarf, and +turned.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite caught his breath. There were, he knew, such faces in +the world—faces that made history—</p> + +<p>The girl moved to the gangway, her companion, a young man, beside her. +And Mr. Satterthwaite noticed how every man in the vicinity looked—and +continued to look covertly.</p> + +<p><i>Beauty!</i> said Mr. Satterthwaite to himself. <i>There is such a thing. +Not charm, nor attraction, nor magnetism, nor any of the things we talk +about so glibly—just sheer beauty. The shape of a face, the line of +an eyebrow, the curve of a jaw.</i> He quoted softly under his breath: +"<i>The face that launched a thousand ships.</i>" And for the first time he +realized the meaning of those words.</p> + +<p>He glanced across at Mr. Quin, who was watching him in what seemed such +perfect comprehension that Mr. Satterthwaite felt there was no need for +words.</p> + +<p>"I've always wondered," he said simply, "what such women were really +like."</p> + +<p>"You mean?"</p> + +<p>"The Helens, the Cleopatras, the Mary Stuarts."</p> + +<p>Mr. Quin nodded thoughtfully. "If we go out," he suggested, "we +may—see."</p> + +<p>They went out together, and their quest was successful. The pair they +were in search of were seated on a lounge halfway up the staircase. For +the first time, Mr. Satterthwaite noted the girl's companion, a dark +young man, not handsome, but with a suggestion of restless fire about +him. A face full of strange angles; jutting cheekbones, a forceful, +slightly crooked jaw, deep-set eyes that were curiously light under the +dark, overhanging brows.</p> + +<p><i>An interesting face</i>, said Mr. Satterthwaite to himself. <i>A real face. +It means something.</i></p> + +<p>The young man was leaning forward talking earnestly. The girl was +listening. Neither of them belonged to Mr. Satterthwaite's world. He +took them to be of the "Arty" class. The girl wore a rather shapeless +garment of cheap green silk. Her shoes were of soiled white satin. The +young man wore his evening clothes with an air of being uncomfortable +in them.</p> + +<p>The two men passed and repassed several times. The fourth time they +did so the couple had been joined by a third—a fair young man with a +suggestion of the clerk about him. With his coming a certain tension +had set in. The newcomer was fidgeting with his tie and seemed ill at +ease; the girl's beautiful face was turned gravely up toward him, and +her companion was scowling furiously.</p> + +<p>"The usual story," said Mr. Quin very softly, as they passed.</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Mr. Satterthwaite with a sigh. "It's inevitable, I suppose. +The snarling of two dogs over a bone. It always has been, it always +will be. And yet, one could wish for something different. Beauty—" He +stopped. Beauty, to Mr. Satterthwaite, meant something very wonderful. +He found it difficult to speak of it. He looked at Mr. Quin, who nodded +his head gravely in understanding.</p> + +<p>They went back to their seats for the second act.</p> + +<p>At the close of the performance, Mr. Satterthwaite turned eagerly to +his friend. "It is a wet night. My car is here. You must allow me to +drive you—er—somewhere."</p> + +<p>The last word was Mr. Satterthwaite's delicacy coming into play. "To +drive you home" would, he felt, have savored of curiosity. Mr. Quin had +always been singularly reticent. It was extraordinary how little Mr. +Satterthwaite knew about him.</p> + +<p>"But perhaps," continued the little man, "you have your own car +waiting?"</p> + +<p>"No," said Mr. Quin. "I have no car waiting."</p> + +<p>"Then—"</p> + +<p>But Mr. Quin shook his head. "You are most kind," he said, "but I +prefer to go my own way. Besides," he said with a rather curious smile, +"if anything should—happen, it will be for you to act. Good night, and +thank you. Once again we have seen the drama together."</p> + +<p>He had gone so quickly that Mr. Satterthwaite had no time to protest, +but he was left with a faint uneasiness stirring in his mind. To what +drama did Mr. Quin refer? <i>Pagliacci</i> or another?</p> + +<p>Masters, Mr. Satterthwaite's chauffeur, was in the habit of waiting in +a side street. His master disliked the long delay while the cars drew +up in turn before the opera house. Now, as on previous occasions, he +walked rapidly round the corner and along the street toward where he +knew he should find Masters awaiting him. Just in front of him were a +girl and a man, and even as he recognized them, another man joined them.</p> + +<p>It all broke out in a minute. A man's voice, angrily uplifted. Another +man's voice in injured protest. And then the scuffle. Blows, angry +breathing, more blows, the form of a policeman appearing majestically +from nowhere—and in another minute Mr. Satterthwaite was beside the +girl where she shrank back against the wall.</p> + +<p>"Allow me," he said. "You must not stay here."</p> + +<p>He took her by the arm and marshaled her swiftly down the street. Once +she looked back.</p> + +<p>"Oughtn't I—?" she began uncertainly.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite shook his head. "It would be very unpleasant for you +to be mixed up in it. You would probably be asked to go along to the +police station with them. I am sure neither of your—friends would wish +that."</p> + +<p>He stopped. "This is my car. If you will allow me to do so, I shall +have much pleasure in driving you home."</p> + +<p>The girl looked at him searchingly. The staid respectability of Mr. +Satterthwaite impressed her favorably. She bent her head.</p> + +<p>"Thank you," she said, and got into the car, the door of which Masters +was holding open.</p> + +<p>In reply to a question from Mr. Satterthwaite, she gave an address in +Chelsea, and he got in beside her.</p> + +<p>The girl was upset and not in the mood for talking, and Mr. +Satterthwaite was too tactful to intrude upon her thoughts. Presently, +however, she turned to him and spoke of her own accord. "I wish," she +said pettishly, "people wouldn't be so silly."</p> + +<p>"It is a nuisance," agreed Mr. Satterthwaite.</p> + +<p>His matter-of-fact manner put her at her ease, and she went on as +though feeling the need of confiding in someone. "It wasn't as +though—I mean, well, it was like this. Mr. Eastney and I have been +friends for a long time—ever since I came to London. He's taken no end +of trouble about my voice, and got me some very good introductions, +and he's been more kind to me than I can say. He's absolutely music +mad. It was very good of him to take me tonight. I'm sure he can't +really afford it. And then Mr. Burns came up and spoke to us—quite +nicely, I'm sure, and Phil, Mr. Eastney, got sulky about it. I don't +know why he should. It's a free country, I'm sure. And Mr. Burns is +always pleasant, and good-tempered. Then just as we were walking to the +Tube, he came up and joined us, and he hadn't so much as said two words +before Philip flew out at him like a madman. And—Oh! I don't like it."</p> + +<p>"Don't you?" asked Mr. Satterthwaite very softly.</p> + +<p>She blushed, but very little. There was none of the conscious siren +about her. A certain measure of pleasurable excitement in being fought +for there must be—that was only nature—but Mr. Satterthwaite decided +that a worried perplexity lay uppermost, and he had the clue to it in +another moment when she observed inconsequently, "I do hope he hasn't +hurt him."</p> + +<p><i>Now which is "him"?</i> thought Mr. Satterthwaite, smiling to himself in +the darkness.</p> + +<p>He backed his own judgment and said, "You hope Mr.—er—Eastney hasn't +hurt Mr. Burns?"</p> + +<p>She nodded. "Yes, that's what I said. It seems so dreadful. I wish I +knew."</p> + +<p>The car was drawing up.</p> + +<p>"Are you on the telephone?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"If you like, I will find out exactly what has happened, and then +telephone to you."</p> + +<p>The girl's face brightened. "Oh! that would be very kind of you. Are +you sure it's not too much bother?"</p> + +<p>"Not in the least."</p> + +<p>She thanked him again and gave him her telephone number, adding with a +touch of shyness, "My name is Gillian West."</p> + +<p>As he was driven through the night, bound on his errand, a curious +smile came to Mr. Satterthwaite's lips. He thought, <i>So that is all it +is—"The shape of a face, the curve of a jaw!"</i></p> + +<p>But he fulfilled his promise.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The following Sunday afternoon, Mr. Satterthwaite went to Kew Gardens +to admire the rhododendrons. Very long ago (incredibly long ago, it +seemed to Mr. Satterthwaite) he had driven down to Kew Gardens with +a certain young lady to see the bluebells. Mr. Satterthwaite had +arranged very carefully beforehand in his own mind exactly what he +was going to say, and the precise words he would use in asking the +young lady for her hand in marriage. He was just conning them over in +his mind, and responding to her raptures about the bluebells a little +absent-mindedly, when the shock came. The young lady stopped exclaiming +at the bluebells and suddenly confided in Mr. Satterthwaite (as a true +friend) her love for another. Mr. Satterthwaite put away the little +set speech he had prepared, and hastily rummaged for sympathy and +friendship in the bottom drawer of his mind.</p> + +<p>Such was Mr. Satterthwaite's romance—a rather tepid early Victorian +one, but it had left him with a romantic attachment to Kew Gardens, and +he would often go there to see the bluebells, or, if he had been abroad +later than usual, the rhododendrons, and would sigh to himself, and +feel rather sentimental, and really enjoy himself very much indeed in +an old-fashioned, romantic way.</p> + +<p>This particular afternoon he was strolling back past the tea houses +when he recognized a couple sitting at one of the small tables on the +grass. They were Gillian West and the fair young man, and at that same +moment they recognized him. He saw the girl flush and speak eagerly to +her companion. In another minute he was shaking hands with them both in +his correct, rather prim fashion, and had accepted the shy invitation +proffered him to have tea with them.</p> + +<p>"I can't tell you, sir," said Mr. Burns, "how grateful I am to you for +looking after Gillian the other night. She told me all about it."</p> + +<p>"Yes, indeed," said the girl. "It was ever so kind of you."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite felt pleased and interested in the pair. Their +naïveté and sincerity touched him. Also, it was to him a peep into a +world with which he was not well acquainted. These people were of a +class unknown to him.</p> + +<p>In his little dried-up way, Mr. Satterthwaite could be very +sympathetic. Very soon he was hearing all about his new friends. He +noted that Mr. Burns had become Charlie, and he was not unprepared for +the statement that the two were engaged.</p> + +<p>"As a matter of fact," said Mr. Burns with refreshing candor, "it just +happened this afternoon, didn't it, Gil?"</p> + +<p>Burns was a clerk in a shipping firm. He was making a fair salary, had +a little money of his own, and the two proposed to be married quite +soon.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite listened, and nodded, and congratulated.</p> + +<p><i>An ordinary young man</i>, he thought, <i>a very ordinary young man. Nice, +straightforward young chap, plenty to say for himself, good opinion +of himself without being conceited, nice-looking without being unduly +handsome. Nothing remarkable about him and will never set the Thames on +fire. And the girl loves him.</i></p> + +<p>Aloud he said, "And Mr. Eastney—"</p> + +<p>He purposely broke off, but he had said enough to produce an effect for +which he was not unprepared. Charlie Burns's face darkened, and Gillian +looked troubled. More than troubled, he thought. She looked afraid.</p> + +<p>"I don't like it," she said in a low voice. Her words were addressed +to Mr. Satterthwaite, as though she knew by instinct that he would +understand a feeling incomprehensible to her lover. "You see—he's done +a lot for me. He's encouraged me to take up singing, and—and helped +me with it. But I've known all the time that my voice wasn't really +good—not first-class. Of course, I've had engagements—"</p> + +<p>She stopped.</p> + +<p>"You've had a bit of trouble too," said Burns. "A girl wants someone +to look after her. Gillian's had a lot of unpleasantness, Mr. +Satterthwaite. Altogether she's had a lot of unpleasantness. She's a +good-looker, as you can see, and—well, that often leads to trouble for +a girl."</p> + +<p>Between them, Mr. Satterthwaite became enlightened as to various +happenings which were vaguely classed by Burns under the heading of +"unpleasantness." The young man who had shot himself, the extraordinary +conduct of the bank manager (who was a married man!), the violent +stranger (who must have been balmy!), the wild behavior of the elderly +artist. A trail of violence and tragedy that Gillian West had left in +her wake, recited in the commonplace tones of Charles Burns. "And it's +my opinion," he ended, "that this fellow Eastney is a bit cracked. +Gillian would have had trouble with him if I hadn't turned up to look +after her."</p> + +<p>His laugh sounded a little fatuous to Mr. Satterthwaite, and no +responsive smile came to the girl's face. She was looking earnestly at +Mr. Satterthwaite.</p> + +<p>"Phil's all right," she said slowly. "He cares for me, I know, and I +care for him like a friend—but—but not anything more. I don't know +how he'll take the news about Charlie, I'm sure. He—I'm so afraid +he'll be—"</p> + +<p>She stopped, inarticulate in face of the dangers she vaguely sensed.</p> + +<p>"If I can help you in any way," said Mr. Satterthwaite warmly, "pray +command me."</p> + +<p>He fancied Charlie Burns looked vaguely resentful, but Gillian said at +once, "Thank you."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite left his new friends after having promised to take +tea with Gillian on the following Thursday.</p> + +<p>When Thursday came, Mr. Satterthwaite felt a little thrill of +pleasurable anticipation. He thought, <i>I'm an old man—but not too old +to be thrilled by a face. A face</i>—Then he shook his head with a sense +of foreboding.</p> + +<p>Gillian was alone. Charlie Burns was to come in later. She looked much +happier, Mr. Satterthwaite thought, as though a load had been lifted +from her mind. Indeed, she frankly admitted as much.</p> + +<p>"I dreaded telling Phil about Charlie. It was silly of me. I ought to +have known Phil better. He was upset, of course, but no one could have +been sweeter. Really sweet he was. Look what he sent me this morning—a +wedding present. Isn't it magnificent?"</p> + +<p>It was indeed rather magnificent for a young man in Philip Eastney's +circumstances. A wireless set of the latest type.</p> + +<p>"We both love music so much, you see," explained the girl. "Phil said +that when I was listening to a concert on this, I should always think +of him a little. And I'm sure I shall. Because we have been such +friends."</p> + +<p>"You must be proud of your friend," said Mr. Satterthwaite gently. "He +seems to have taken the blow like a true sportsman."</p> + +<p>Gillian nodded. He saw the quick tears come into her eyes.</p> + +<p>"He asked me to do one thing for him. Tonight is the anniversary of +the day we first met. He asked me if I would stay at home quietly this +evening and listen to the wireless program—not go out with Charlie +anywhere. I said of course I would, and that I was very touched, and +that I would think of him with a lot of gratitude and affection."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite nodded, but he was puzzled. He was seldom at fault in +his delineation of character, and he would have judged Philip Eastney +quite incapable of such a sentimental request. The young man must be of +a more banal order than he supposed. Gillian evidently thought the idea +quite in keeping with her rejected lover's character. Mr. Satterthwaite +was a little—just a little—disappointed. He was sentimental himself, +and knew it, but he expected better things of the rest of the world. +Besides, sentiment belonged to his age. It had no part to play in the +modern world.</p> + +<p>He asked Gillian to sing and she complied. He told her her voice was +charming, but he knew quite well in his own mind that it was distinctly +second-class. Any success that could have come to her in the profession +she had adopted would have been won by her face, not her voice.</p> + +<p>He was not particularly anxious to see young Burns again so presently +he rose to go. It was at that moment that his attention was attracted +by an ornament on the mantelpiece which stood out among the other +rather gimcrack objects like a jewel on a dust heap.</p> + +<p>It was a curving beaker of thin green glass, long-stemmed and graceful, +and poised on the edge of it was what looked like a gigantic soap +bubble, a ball of iridescent glass. Gillian noticed his absorption.</p> + +<p>"That's an extra wedding present from Phil. It's rather pretty, I +think. He works in a sort of glass factory."</p> + +<p>"It is a beautiful thing," said Mr. Satterthwaite reverently. "The +glass blowers of Murano might have been proud of that."</p> + +<p>He went away with his interest in Philip Eastney strangely stimulated. +An extraordinarily interesting young man. And yet the girl with the +wonderful face preferred Charlie Burns. What a strange and inscrutable +universe!</p> + +<p>It had just occurred to Mr. Satterthwaite that, owing to the remarkable +beauty of Gillian West, his evening with Mr. Quin had somehow missed +fire. As a rule, every meeting with that mysterious individual had +resulted in some strange and unforeseen happening. It was with the hope +of perhaps running against the man of mystery that Mr. Satterthwaite +bent his steps toward the Arlecchino Restaurant where once, in the days +gone by, he had met Mr. Quin and which Mr. Quin had said he frequented.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite went from room to room at the Arlecchino, looking +hopefully about him, but there was no sign of Mr. Quin's dark, smiling +face. There was, however, somebody else. Sitting at a small table alone +was Philip Eastney.</p> + +<p>The place was crowded and Mr. Satterthwaite took his seat opposite the +young man. He felt a sudden strange sense of exultation, as though he +were caught up and made part of a shimmering pattern of events. He was +in this thing—whatever it was. He knew now what Mr. Quin had meant +that evening at the opera. There was a drama going on, and in it was a +part, an important part, for Mr. Satterthwaite. He must not fail to take +his cue and speak his lines.</p> + +<p>He sat down opposite Philip Eastney with the sense of accomplishing the +inevitable. It was easy enough to get into conversation. Eastney seemed +anxious to talk. Mr. Satterthwaite was, as always, an encouraging and +sympathetic listener. They talked of the war, of explosives, of poison +gases. Eastney had a lot to say about these last, for during the war +he had been engaged in their manufacture. Mr. Satterthwaite found him +really interesting.</p> + +<p>There was one gas, Eastney said, that had never been tried. One whiff +of it was deadly. He warmed to animation as he spoke.</p> + +<p>Having broken the ice, Mr. Satterthwaite gently turned the conversation +to music. Eastney's thin face lit up. He spoke with the passion and +abandon of the real music lover. They discussed Yoaschbim, and the +young man was enthusiastic. Both he and Mr. Satterthwaite agreed that +nothing on earth could surpass a really fine tenor voice. Eastney as a +boy had heard Caruso, and he had never forgotten it.</p> + +<p>"Do you know that he could sing to a wine glass and shatter it?" he +demanded.</p> + +<p>"I always thought that was a fable," said Mr. Satterthwaite, smiling.</p> + +<p>"No, it's gospel truth, I believe. The thing's quite possible. It's a +question of resonance."</p> + +<p>He went off into technical details. His face was flushed and his eyes +shone. The subject seemed to fascinate him, and Mr. Satterthwaite noted +that he seemed to have a thorough grasp of what he was talking about. +The older man realized that he was talking to an exceptional brain, a +brain that might almost be described as that of a genius. Brilliant, +erratic, undecided as yet as to the true channel to give it outlet, but +undoubtedly genius.</p> + +<p>And he thought of Charlie Burns and wondered at Gillian West.</p> + +<p>It was with quite a start that he realized how late it was getting, and +he called for his bill. Eastney looked slightly apologetic.</p> + +<p>"I'm ashamed of myself—running on so," he said. "But it was a lucky +chance sent you along here tonight. I—I needed someone to talk to this +evening."</p> + +<p>He ended his speech with a curious little laugh. His eyes were still +blazing with some subdued excitement. Yet there was something tragic +about him.</p> + +<p>"It has been quite a pleasure," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "Our +conversation has been most interesting and instructive to me."</p> + +<p>He then made his funny, courteous little bow and passed out of the +restaurant. The night was a warm one and as he walked slowly down the +street a very odd fancy came to him. He had the feeling that he was not +alone—that someone was walking by his side. In vain he told himself +that the idea was a delusion—it persisted. Someone was walking beside +him down that dark, quiet street, someone whom he could not see. He +wondered what it was that brought the figure of Mr. Quin so clearly +before his mind. He felt exactly as though Mr. Quin were there walking +beside him, and yet he had only to use his eyes to assure himself that +it was not so, that he was alone.</p> + +<p>But the thought of Mr. Quin persisted, and with it came something else, +a need, an urgency of some kind, an oppressive foreboding of calamity. +There was something he must do—and do quickly. There was something +very wrong, and it lay in his hands to put it right.</p> + +<p>So strong was the feeling that Mr. Satterthwaite forebore to fight +against it. Instead, he shut his eyes and tried to bring that mental +image of Mr. Quin nearer. If he could only have asked Mr. Quin—but +even as the thought flashed through his mind he knew it was wrong. It +was never any use asking Mr. Quin anything. "The threads are all in +your hands"—that was the kind of thing Mr. Quin would say.</p> + +<p>The threads. Threads of what? He analyzed his own feeling and +impressions carefully. That presentiment of danger, now. Whom did it +threaten?</p> + +<p>At once a picture rose up before his eyes, the picture of Gillian West +sitting alone listening to the wireless.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite flung a penny to a passing newspaper boy, and +snatched at a paper. He turned at once to the London Radio program. +Yoaschbim was broadcasting tonight, he noted with interest. He was +singing "Salve Dimora" from <i>Faust</i> and afterward a selection of his +folk songs: "The Shepherd's Song," "The Fish," "The Little Deer," etc.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite crumpled the paper together. The knowledge of what +Gillian was listening to seemed to make the picture of her clearer. +Sitting there alone—</p> + +<p>An odd request, that, of Philip Eastney's. Not like the man, not like +him at all. There was no sentimentality in Eastney. He was a man of +violent feeling, a dangerous man, perhaps—</p> + +<p>Again his thoughts brought up with a jerk. <i>A dangerous man</i>—that +meant something. "<i>The threads are all in your hands.</i>" That meeting +with Philip Eastney tonight—rather odd. A lucky chance, Eastney had +said. Was it chance? Or was it part of that interwoven design of which +Mr. Satterthwaite had once or twice been conscious this evening?</p> + +<p>He cast his mind back. There must be <i>something</i> in Eastney's +conversation, some clue there. There must, or else why this strange +feeling of urgency? What had he talked about? Singing, war work, Caruso.</p> + +<p>Caruso—Mr. Satterthwaite's thoughts went off at a tangent. Yoaschbim's +voice was very nearly equal to that of Caruso. Gillian would be sitting +listening to it now as it rang out true and powerful, echoing round the +room, setting glasses ringing—</p> + +<p>He caught his breath. Glasses ringing! Caruso, singing to a wine glass +and the wine glass breaking. Yoaschbim singing in the London studio and +in a room over a mile away the crash and tinkle of glass—not a wine +glass, a thin, green, glass beaker. A crystal soap bubble falling, a +soap bubble that perhaps was not empty—</p> + +<p>It was at that moment that Mr. Satterthwaite as judged by passers-by +suddenly went mad. He tore open the newspaper once more, took a brief +glance at the wireless announcements, and then began to run for his +life down the quiet street. At the end of it he found a crawling taxi +and, jumping into it, he yelled an address to the driver and the +information that it was life or death to get there quickly. The driver, +judging him mentally afflicted but rich, did his utmost.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite lay back, his head a jumble of fragmentary thoughts, +forgotten bits of science learned at school, phrases used by Eastney +that night. Resonance—natural periods—if the period of the force +coincides with the natural period—there was something about a +suspension bridge, soldiers marching over it, and the swing of their +stride being the same as the period of the bridge. Eastney had studied +the subject. Eastney knew. And Eastney was a genius.</p> + +<p>At 10:45 Yoaschbim was to broadcast. It was that now. Yes, but the +<i>Faust</i> had to come first. It was "The Shepherd's Song," with the great +shout after the refrain, that would—that would—do what?</p> + +<p>His mind went whirling around again. Tones, over-tones, half-tones. He +didn't know much about these things—but Eastney knew. Pray heaven he +would be in time!</p> + +<p>The taxi stopped. Mr. Satterthwaite flung himself out and raced up the +stone stairs to a second floor like a young athlete. The door of the +flat was ajar. He pushed it open and the great tenor voice welcomed +him. The words of "The Shepherd's Song" were familiar to him in a less +unconventional setting.</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">"<i>Shepherd, see thy horse's flowing mane</i>—"</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>He was in time then. He burst open the sitting-room door. Gillian was +sitting there in a tall chair by the fireplace.</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">"<i>Barya Mischa's daughter is to wed today:</i></div> + <div class="verse indent0"><i>To the wedding I must haste away.</i>"</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>She must have thought him mad. He clutched at her, crying out something +incomprehensible, and half pulled, half dragged her out till they stood +upon the stairway.</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">"<i>To the wedding I must haste away—</i></div> + <div class="verse indent0"><i>Ya-ha!</i>"</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>A wonderful high note, full-throated, powerful, hit full in the middle, +a note any singer might be proud of. And with it another sound, the +faint tinkle of broken glass.</p> + +<p>A stray cat darted past them and in through the flat door. Gillian made +a movement, but Mr. Satterthwaite held her back, speaking incoherently.</p> + +<p>"No, no—it's deadly; no smell, nothing to warn you. A mere whiff, and +it's all over. Nobody knows quite how deadly it would be. It's unlike +anything that's ever been tried before."</p> + +<p>He was repeating the things that Philip Eastney had told him over the +table at dinner.</p> + +<p>Gillian stared at him uncomprehendingly.</p> + +<p>Philip Eastney drew out his watch and looked at it. It was just +half-past eleven. For the last three quarters of an hour he had been +pacing up and down the Embankment. He looked out over the Thames and +then turned—to look into the face of his dinner companion.</p> + +<p>"That's odd," he said, and laughed. "We seem fated to run into each +other tonight."</p> + +<p>"If you call it Fate," said Mr. Satterthwaite.</p> + +<p>Philip Eastney looked at him more attentively and his own expression +changed.</p> + +<p>"Yes?" he said quietly.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite went straight to the point. "I have just come from +Miss West's flat."</p> + +<p>"Yes?"</p> + +<p>The same voice, with the same deadly quiet.</p> + +<p>"We have—taken a dead cat out of it."</p> + +<p>There was silence, then Eastney said, "Who are you?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite spoke for some time. He recited the whole history of +events.</p> + +<p>"So you see, I was in time," he ended up. He paused and added quite +gently, "Have you anything to—say?"</p> + +<p>He expected something, some outburst, some wild justification. But +nothing came.</p> + +<p>"No," said Philip Eastney quietly, and turned on his heel and walked +away.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite looked after him till his figure was swallowed up +in the gloom. In spite of himself, he had a strange fellow feeling +for Eastney, the feeling of an artist for another artist, of a +sentimentalist for a real lover, of a plain man for a genius.</p> + +<p>At last he roused himself with a start and began to walk in the same +direction as Eastney. A fog was beginning to come up. Presently he met +a policeman who looked at him suspiciously.</p> + +<p>"Did you hear a kind of splash just now?" asked the policeman.</p> + +<p>"No," said Mr. Satterthwaite.</p> + +<p>The policeman was peering out over the river.</p> + +<p>"Another of these suicides, I expect," he grunted disconsolately. "They +will do it."</p> + +<p>"I suppose," said Mr. Satterthwaite, "that they have their reasons."</p> + +<p>"Money, mostly," said the policeman. "Sometimes it's a woman," he said, +as he prepared to move away. "It's not always their fault, but some +women cause a lot of trouble."</p> + +<p>"Some women," agreed Mr. Satterthwaite softly.</p> + +<p>When the policeman had gone on, he sat down on a seat with the fog +coming up all around him, and thought about Helen of Troy, and wondered +if she were a nice, ordinary woman, blessed or cursed with a wonderful +face.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="The_Dead_Harlequin"><span class="smcap">The Dead Harlequin</span></h2> +</div> + + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite walked slowly up Bond Street enjoying the sunshine. +He was, as usual, carefully and beautifully dressed, and was bound +for the Harchester Galleries, where there was an exhibition of the +paintings of one Frank Bristow, a new and hitherto unknown artist who +showed signs of suddenly becoming the rage. Mr. Satterthwaite was a +patron of the arts.</p> + +<p>As Mr. Satterthwaite entered the Harchester Galleries, he was greeted +at once with a smile of pleased recognition. "Good morning, Mr. +Satterthwaite, I thought we should see you before long. You know +Bristow's work? Fine—very fine indeed. Quite unique of its kind."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite purchased a catalogue and stepped through the open +archway into the long room where the artist's work was displayed. +They were watercolors, executed with such extraordinary technique and +finish that they resembled colored etchings. Mr. Satterthwaite walked +slowly round the walls, scrutinizing and on the whole approving. He +thought that this young man deserved to arrive. Here were originality, +vision, and a most severe and exacting technique. There were crudities, +of course. That was only to be expected—but there was also something +closely allied to genius. Mr. Satterthwaite paused before a little +masterpiece representing Westminster Bridge with its crowd of buses, +trams, and hurrying pedestrians. A tiny thing and wonderfully perfect. +It was called, he noted, "The Ant Heap." He passed on and quite +suddenly drew in his breath with a gasp, his imagination held and +riveted.</p> + +<p>The picture was called "The Dead Harlequin." The fore-front of it +represented a floor of inlaid squares of black and white marble. +In the middle of the floor lay Harlequin on his back with his arms +outstretched in his motley of black and red. Behind him was a window +and outside that window, gazing in at the figure on the floor, was what +appeared to be the same man silhouetted against the red glow of the +setting sun.</p> + +<p>The picture excited Mr. Satterthwaite for two reasons. The first reason +was that he recognized, or thought that he recognized, the face of the +man in the picture. It bore a distinct resemblance to a certain Mr. +Quin, an acquaintance whom Mr. Satterthwaite had encountered under +somewhat mystifying circumstances.</p> + +<p>"Surely I can't be mistaken," he murmured. "If it <i>is</i> so—what does it +mean?"</p> + +<p>For it had been Mr. Satterthwaite's experience that every appearance of +Mr. Quin had some distinct significance attaching to it.</p> + +<p>There was, as already mentioned, a second reason for Mr. +Satterthwaite's interest. He recognized the scene of the picture. "The +Terrace Room at Charnley," said Mr. Satterthwaite, "curious—and very +interesting."</p> + +<p>He looked with more attention at the picture, wondering what exactly +had been in the artist's mind. One Harlequin dead on the floor, another +Harlequin looking through the window—or was it the same Harlequin? He +moved slowly along the walls, gazing at other pictures with unseeing +eyes, with his mind always busy on the same subject. He was excited. +Life, which had seemed a little drab this morning, was drab no longer. +He knew quite certainly that he was on the threshold of exciting and +interesting events. He crossed to the table where sat Mr. Cobb, a +dignitary of the Harchester Galleries, whom he had known for many years.</p> + +<p>"I have a fancy for buying Number Thirty-nine," he said, "if it is not +already sold."</p> + +<p>Mr. Cobb consulted a ledger. "The pick of the bunch," he murmured. +"Quite a little gem, isn't it? No, it is not sold." He quoted a price. +"It is a good investment, Mr. Satterthwaite. You will have to pay three +times as much for it this time next year."</p> + +<p>"That is always said on these occasions," said Mr. Satterthwaite, +smiling.</p> + +<p>"Well, and haven't I been right?" demanded Mr. Cobb. "I don't believe, +if you were to sell your collection, Mr. Satterthwaite, that a single +picture would fetch less than you gave for it."</p> + +<p>"I will buy this picture," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "I will give you a +check now."</p> + +<p>"You won't regret it. We believe in Bristow."</p> + +<p>"He is a young man?"</p> + +<p>"Twenty-seven or -eight, I should say."</p> + +<p>"I should like to meet him," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "Perhaps he will +come and dine with me one night?"</p> + +<p>"I can give you his address. I am sure he would leap at the chance. +Your name stands for a good deal in the artistic world."</p> + +<p>"You flatter me," said Mr. Satterthwaite, and was going on when Mr. +Cobb interrupted.</p> + +<p>"Here he is now. I will introduce you to him right away."</p> + +<p>He rose from behind his table. Mr. Satterthwaite accompanied him to +where a big clumsy young man was leaning against the wall surveying the +world at large from behind the barricade of a ferocious scowl.</p> + +<p>Mr. Cobb made the necessary introductions and Mr. Satterthwaite made a +formal and gracious little speech.</p> + +<p>"I have just had the pleasure of acquiring one of your pictures, 'The +Dead Harlequin.'"</p> + +<p>"Oh! Well! You won't lose by it," said Mr. Bristow, ungraciously. "It's +a bit of damned good work, although I say it."</p> + +<p>"I can see that," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "Your work interests me very +much, Mr. Bristow. It is extraordinarily mature for so young a man. I +wonder if you would give me the pleasure of dining with me one night? +Are you engaged this evening?"</p> + +<p>"As a matter of fact, I am not," said Mr. Bristow, still with no +overdone appearance of graciousness.</p> + +<p>"Then shall we say eight o'clock?" said Mr. Satterthwaite. "Here is my +card with the address on it."</p> + +<p>"Oh, all right," said Mr. Bristow. "Thanks," he added, as a somewhat +obvious afterthought.</p> + +<p><i>A young man who has a poor opinion of himself and is afraid that the +world should share it.</i> Such was Mr. Satterthwaite's summing up as he +stepped out into the sunshine of Bond Street, and Mr. Satterthwaite's +judgment of his fellowmen was seldom far astray.</p> + +<p>Frank Bristow arrived about five minutes past eight to find his host +and another guest awaiting him. The other guest was introduced as +Colonel Monckton. They went into dinner almost immediately. There was +a fourth place laid at the oval mahogany table and Mr. Satterthwaite +uttered a word of explanation.</p> + +<p>"I half expected my friend Mr. Quin might drop in," he said. "I wonder +if you have ever met him. Mr. Harley Quin?"</p> + +<p>"I never meet people," growled Bristow.</p> + +<p>Colonel Monckton stared at the artist with the detached interest he +might have accorded to a new species of jellyfish. Mr. Satterthwaite +exerted himself to keep the ball of conversation rolling amicably.</p> + +<p>"I took a special interest in that picture of yours because I thought I +recognized the scene of it as being the Terrace Room at Charnley. Was I +right?" As the artist nodded, he went on: "That is very interesting. I +have stayed at Charnley several times myself in the past. Perhaps you +know some of the family."</p> + +<p>"No, I don't!" said Bristow. "That sort of family wouldn't care to know +me. I went there in a charabanc."</p> + +<p>"Dear me," said Colonel Monckton for the sake of saying something. "In +a charabanc! Dear me!"</p> + +<p>Frank Bristow scowled at him. "Why not?" he demanded ferociously.</p> + +<p>Poor Colonel Monckton was taken aback. He looked reproachfully at Mr. +Satterthwaite as though to say, "These primitive forms of life may be +interesting to you as a naturalist, but why drag <i>me</i> in?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, beastly things, charabancs!" he said. "They jolt you so going over +the bumps."</p> + +<p>"If you can't afford a Rolls Royce you have got to go in charabancs," +said Bristow fiercely.</p> + +<p>Colonel Monckton stared at him. Mr. Satterthwaite thought, <i>Unless I +can soon manage to put this young man at his ease we are going to have +a very distressing evening.</i></p> + +<p>"Charnley always fascinated me," he said. "I have been there only once +since the tragedy. A grim house—and a ghostly one."</p> + +<p>"That's true," said Bristow.</p> + +<p>"There are actually two authentic ghosts," said Monckton. "They say +that Charles I walks up and down the terrace with his head under his +arm—I have forgotten why, I'm sure. Then there is the Weeping Lady +with the Silver Ewer who is always seen after one of the Charnleys +dies."</p> + +<p>"Tosh," said Bristow scornfully.</p> + +<p>"They have certainly been a very ill-fated family," said Mr. +Satterthwaite hurriedly. "Four holders of the title have died a violent +death, and the late Lord Charnley committed suicide."</p> + +<p>"A ghastly business," said Monckton. "I was there when it happened."</p> + +<p>"Let me see, that must be fourteen years ago," said Mr. Satterthwaite. +"The house has been shut up ever since."</p> + +<p>"I don't wonder at that," said Monckton. "It must have been a terrible +shock for a young girl. They had been married a month, just home from +their honeymoon. Big fancy dress ball to celebrate their home-coming. +Just as the guests were starting to arrive Charnley locked himself into +the Oak Parlor and shot himself. That sort of thing isn't done. I beg +your pardon?"</p> + +<p>He turned his head sharply to the left and then looked across at Mr. +Satterthwaite with an apologetic laugh. "I am beginning to get the +jimjams, Satterthwaite. I thought for a moment there was someone +sitting in that empty chair and that he said something to me."</p> + +<p>"Yes," he went on after a minute or two. "It was a pretty ghastly shock +to Alix Charnley. She was one of the prettiest girls you could see +anywhere and cram full of what people call the joy of living, and now +they say she is like a ghost herself. Not that I have seen her for +years. I believe she lives abroad most of the time."</p> + +<p>"And the boy?"</p> + +<p>"The boy is at Eton. What he will do when he comes of age I don't know. +I don't think, somehow, that he will reopen the old place."</p> + +<p>"It would make a good People's Pleasure Park," said Bristow.</p> + +<p>Colonel Monckton looked at him with cold abhorrence.</p> + +<p>"No, no, you don't really mean that," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "You +wouldn't have painted that picture if you did. Tradition and atmosphere +are intangible things. They take centuries to build up and if you +destroyed them you couldn't rebuild them again in twenty-four hours."</p> + +<p>He rose. "Let us go into the smoking room. I have some photographs +there of Charnley which I should like to show you."</p> + +<p>One of Mr. Satterthwaite's hobbies was amateur photography. He was +also the proud author of a book, <i>Homes of My Friends</i>. The friends +in question were all rather exalted, and the book itself showed Mr. +Satterthwaite forth in rather a more snobbish light than was really +fair to him.</p> + +<p>"That is a photograph I took of the Terrace Room last year," he said. +He handed it to Bristow. "You see it is taken at almost the same angle +as is shown in your picture. That is rather a wonderful rug—it is a +pity the photograph doesn't show coloring."</p> + +<p>"I remember it," said Bristow, "a marvelous bit of color. It glowed +like a flame. All the same it looked a bit incongruous there. The wrong +size for that big room with its black and white squares. There is no +rug anywhere else in the room. It spoils the whole effect—it was like +a gigantic bloodstain."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps that gave you your idea for your picture?" said Mr. +Satterthwaite.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps it did," said Bristow thoughtfully. "On the face of it, one +would naturally stage a tragedy in the little paneled room leading out +of it."</p> + +<p>"The Oak Parlor," said Monckton. "Yes, that is the haunted room right +enough. There is a Priests' hiding-hole there—a movable panel by the +fireplace. Tradition has it that Charles I was concealed there once. +There were two deaths from dueling in that room. And it was there, as I +say, that Reggie Charnley shot himself."</p> + +<p>He took the photograph from Bristow's hand.</p> + +<p>"Why, that is the Bokhara rug," he said, "worth a couple of thousand +pounds, I believe. When I was there it was in the Oak Parlor—the right +place for it. It looks silly on that great expanse of marble flags."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite was looking at the empty chair which he had drawn up +beside him. Then he said thoughtfully, "I wonder when it was moved."</p> + +<p>"It must have been recently. Why, I remember having a conversation +about it on the very day of the tragedy. Charnley was saying it really +ought to be kept under glass."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite shook his head. "The house was shut up immediately +after the tragedy and everything was left exactly as it was."</p> + +<p>Bristow broke in with a question. He had laid aside his aggressive +manner. "Why did Lord Charnley shoot himself?" he asked.</p> + +<p>Colonel Monckton shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "No one ever +knew," he said vaguely.</p> + +<p>"I suppose," said Mr. Satterthwaite slowly, "that it <i>was</i> suicide."</p> + +<p>The Colonel looked at him in blank astonishment. "Suicide," he said, +"why, of course it was suicide. My dear fellow, I was there in the +house myself."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite looked toward the empty chair at his side and, +smiling to himself as though at some hidden joke the others could not +see, he said quietly, "Sometimes one sees things more clearly years +afterward than one could possibly at the time."</p> + +<p>"Nonsense," spluttered Monckton, "arrant nonsense! How can you possibly +see things better when they are vague in your memory instead of clear +and sharp?"</p> + +<p>But Mr. Satterthwaite was reinforced from an unexpected quarter.</p> + +<p>"I know what you mean," said the artist. "I should say that possibly +you were right. It is a question of proportion, isn't it? And more +than proportion probably. Relativity and all that sort of thing."</p> + +<p>"If you ask me," said the Colonel, "all this Einstein business is a +lot of dashed nonsense. So are spiritualists and the spook of one's +grandmother!" He glared round fiercely. "Of course it was suicide," he +went on. "Didn't I practically see the thing happen with my own eyes?"</p> + +<p>"Tell us about it," said Mr. Satterthwaite, "so that we shall see it +with our eyes also."</p> + +<p>With a somewhat mollified grunt the Colonel settled himself more +comfortably in his chair.</p> + +<p>"The whole thing was extraordinarily unexpected," he began. "Charnley +had been his usual normal self. There was a big party staying in the +house for this ball. No one could ever have guessed he would go and +shoot himself just as the guests began arriving."</p> + +<p>"It would have been better taste if he had waited until they had gone," +said Mr. Satterthwaite.</p> + +<p>"Of course it would. Damned bad taste—to do a thing like that."</p> + +<p>"Uncharacteristic," said Mr. Satterthwaite.</p> + +<p>"Yes," admitted Monckton, "it wasn't like Charnley."</p> + +<p>"And yet it <i>was</i> suicide?"</p> + +<p>"Of course it was suicide. Why, there were three or four of us there at +the top of the stairs. Myself, the Ostrander girl, Algie Darcy—oh, and +one or two others. Charnley passed along the hall below and went into +the Oak Parlor. The Ostrander girl said there was a ghastly look on his +face and his eyes were staring—but of course that is nonsense—she +couldn't even see his face from where we were—but he did walk in a +hunched-up way as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. +One of the girls called to him—she was somebody's governess, I think, +whom Lady Charnley had included in the party out of kindness. She was +looking for him with a message. She called out, 'Lord Charnley, Lady +Charnley wants to know—' He paid no attention and went into the Oak +Parlor and slammed the door and we heard the key turn in the lock. +Then, one minute after, <i>we heard the shot</i>.</p> + +<p>"We rushed down to the hall. There is another door from the Oak Parlor +leading into the Terrace Room. We tried that but it was locked too. +In the end we had to break the door down. Charnley was lying on the +floor—dead—with a pistol close beside his right hand. Now what could +that have been but suicide? Accident? Don't tell me. There is only +one other possibility—murder—and you can't have murder without a +murderer. You admit that, I suppose."</p> + +<p>"The murderer might have escaped," suggested Mr. Satterthwaite.</p> + +<p>"That is impossible. If you have a bit of paper and a pencil I will +draw a plan of the place. There are two doors into the Oak Parlor, one +into the hall and one into the Terrace Room. Both these doors were +locked on the inside <i>and the keys were in the locks</i>."</p> + +<p>"The window?"</p> + +<p>"Shut, and the shutters fastened across it."</p> + +<p>There was a pause.</p> + +<p>"So that is that," said Colonel Monckton triumphantly.</p> + +<p>"It certainly seems to be," said Mr. Satterthwaite sadly.</p> + +<p>"Mind you," said the Colonel, "although I was laughing just now at the +spiritualists, I don't mind admitting that there was a deuced rummy +atmosphere about the place—about that room in particular. There are +several bullet holes in the panels of the walls, the result of the +duels that took place in that room, and there is a queer stain on +the floor that always comes back though they have replaced the wood +several times. I suppose there will be another bloodstain on the floor +now—poor Charnley's blood."</p> + +<p>"Was there much blood?" asked Mr. Satterthwaite.</p> + +<p>"Very little—curiously little—so the doctor said."</p> + +<p>"Where did he shoot himself, through the head?"</p> + +<p>"No, through the heart."</p> + +<p>"That is not the easy way to do it," said Bristow. "Frightfully +difficult to know where one's heart is. I should never do it that way +myself."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite shook his head. He was vaguely dissatisfied. He had +hoped to get at something—he hardly knew what.</p> + +<p>Colonel Monckton went on. "It is a spooky place, Charnley. Of course +<i>I</i> didn't see anything."</p> + +<p>"You didn't see the Weeping Lady with the Silver Ewer?"</p> + +<p>"No, I did not, sir," said the Colonel emphatically, "but I expect +every servant in the place swore they did."</p> + +<p>"Superstition was the curse of the Middle Ages," said Bristow. "There +are still traces of it here and there, but thank goodness, we are +getting free from it."</p> + +<p>"Superstition," mused Mr. Satterthwaite, his eyes turned again to the +empty chair. "Sometimes, don't you think—it might be useful?"</p> + +<p>Bristow stared at him. "Useful, that's a queer word."</p> + +<p>"Well, I hope you are convinced now, Satterthwaite," said the Colonel.</p> + +<p>"Oh, quite," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "On the face of it, it seems +odd—so purposeless for a newly married man, young, rich, happy, +celebrating his home-coming—curious—but I agree there is no getting +away from the facts." He repeated softly "the facts" and frowned.</p> + +<p>"I suppose the interesting thing is a thing we none of us will ever +know," said Monckton, "the story behind it all. Of course there were +rumors—all sorts of rumors. You know the kind of things people say."</p> + +<p>"But no one <i>knew</i> anything," said Mr. Satterthwaite thoughtfully.</p> + +<p>"It's not a best-seller mystery, is it?" remarked Bristow. "No one +gained by the man's death."</p> + +<p>"No one except an unborn child," said Mr. Satterthwaite.</p> + +<p>Monckton gave a sharp chuckle. "Rather a blow to poor Hugo Charnley," +he observed. "As soon as it was known that there was going to be a +child he had the graceful task of sitting tight and waiting to see if +it would be a girl or boy. Rather an anxious wait for his creditors +too. In the end a boy it was and a disappointment for the lot of them."</p> + +<p>"Was the widow very disconsolate?" asked Bristow.</p> + +<p>"Poor child," said Monckton, "I shall never forget her. She didn't cry +or break down or anything. She was like something—frozen. As I say, +she shut up the house shortly afterward and as far as I know it has +never been reopened since."</p> + +<p>"So we are left in the dark as to motive," said Bristow with a slight +laugh. "Another man or another woman, it must have been one or the +other, eh?"</p> + +<p>"It seems like it," said Mr. Satterthwaite.</p> + +<p>"And the betting is strongly on another woman," continued Bristow, +"since the fair widow has not married again. I hate women," he added +dispassionately.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite smiled a little and Frank Bristow saw the smile +and pounced upon it. "You may smile," he said, "but I do. They upset +everything. They interfere. They get between you and your work. They—I +only once met a woman who was—well, interesting."</p> + +<p>"I thought there would be one," said Mr. Satterthwaite.</p> + +<p>"Not in the way you mean. I—I just met her casually. As a matter of +fact—it was in a train. After all," he added defiantly, "why shouldn't +one meet people in trains?"</p> + +<p>"Certainly, certainly," added Mr. Satterthwaite soothingly, "a train is +as good a place as anywhere else."</p> + +<p>"It was coming down from the North. We had the carriage to ourselves. +I don't know why, but we began to talk. I don't know her name and I +don't suppose I shall ever meet her again. I don't know that I want to. +It might be—a pity." He paused, struggling to express himself. "She +wasn't quite real, you know. Shadowy. Like one of the people who come +out of the hills in Gaelic fairy tales."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite nodded gently. His imagination pictured the scene +easily enough. The very positive and realistic Bristow and a figure +that was silvery and ghostly—shadowy, as Bristow had said.</p> + +<p>"I suppose if something very terrible had happened, so terrible as to +be almost unbearable, one might get like that. One might run away from +reality into a half-world of one's own and then, of course, after a +time, one wouldn't be able to get back."</p> + +<p>"Was that what had happened to her?" asked Mr. Satterthwaite curiously.</p> + +<p>"I don't know," said Bristow. "She didn't tell me anything, I am only +guessing. One has to guess if one is going to get anywhere."</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Mr. Satterthwaite slowly. "One has to guess."</p> + +<p>He looked up as the door opened. He looked up quickly and expectantly +but the butler's words disappointed him.</p> + +<p>"A lady, sir, has called to see you on very urgent business. Miss +Aspasia Glen."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite rose in some astonishment. He knew the name of +Aspasia Glen. Who in London did not? First advertised as the Woman with +the Scarf, she had given a series of matinées single-handed that had +taken London by storm. With the aid of her scarf she had impersonated +rapidly various characters. In turn the scarf had been the coif of a +nun, the shawl of a mill worker, the headdress of a peasant, and a +hundred other things, and in each impersonation Aspasia Glen had been +totally and utterly different. As an artist Mr. Satterthwaite paid full +reverence to her. As it happened, he had never made her acquaintance. +A call upon him at this unusual hour intrigued him greatly. With a few +words of apology to the others, he left the room and crossed the hall +to the drawing room.</p> + +<p>Miss Glen was sitting in the very center of a large settee upholstered +in gold brocade. So poised, she dominated the room. Mr. Satterthwaite +perceived at once that she meant to dominate the situation. Curiously +enough, his first feeling was one of repulsion. He had been a sincere +admirer of Aspasia Glen's art. Her personality, as conveyed to him +over the footlights, had been appealing and sympathetic. Her effects +there had been wistful and suggestive rather than commanding. But now, +face to face with the woman herself, he received a totally different +impression. There was something hard—bold—forceful about her. She +was tall and dark, possibly about thirty-five years of age. She was +undoubtedly very good-looking and she clearly relied upon the fact.</p> + +<p>"You must forgive me this unconventional call, Mr. Satterthwaite," she +said. Her voice was full and rich and seductive.</p> + +<p>"I won't say that I have wanted to know you for a long time, but I <i>am</i> +glad of the excuse. As for coming tonight"—she laughed—"well, when I +want a thing, I simply can't wait. When I want a thing, I simply <i>must</i> +have it."</p> + +<p>"Any excuse that has brought me such a charming lady guest must be +welcomed by me," said Mr. Satterthwaite in an old-fashioned gallant +manner.</p> + +<p>"How nice you are to me," said Aspasia Glen.</p> + +<p>"My dear lady," said Mr. Satterthwaite, "may I thank you here and now +for the pleasure you have so often given me—in my seat in the stalls."</p> + +<p>She smiled delightfully at him.</p> + +<p>"I am coming straight to the point. I was at the Harchester Galleries +today. I saw a picture there I simply couldn't live without. I wanted +to buy it and I couldn't because you had already bought it. So—" +She paused. "I do want it so," she went on. "Dear Mr. Satterthwaite, +I simply <i>must</i> have it. I brought my checkbook." She looked at him +hopefully. "Everyone tells me you are so frightfully kind. People <i>are</i> +kind to me, you know. It is very bad for me—but there it is."</p> + +<p>So these were Aspasia Glen's methods. Mr. Satterthwaite was inwardly +coldly critical of this ultrafemininity and of this spoiled-child pose. +It ought to appeal to him, he supposed, but it didn't. Aspasia Glen had +made a mistake. She had judged him as an elderly dilettante, easily +flattered by a pretty woman. But Mr. Satterthwaite behind his gallant +manner had a shrewd and critical mind. He saw people pretty well as +they were, not as they wished to appear to him. He saw before him not a +charming woman, pleading for a whim, but a ruthless egoist determined +to get her own way for some reason which was obscure to him. And he +knew quite certainly that Aspasia Glen was not going to get her own +way. He was not going to give up the picture of "The Dead Harlequin" to +her. He sought rapidly in his mind for the best way of circumventing +her without overt rudeness.</p> + +<p>"I am sure," he said, "that everyone gives you your own way as often as +they can and is only too delighted to do so."</p> + +<p>"Then you are really going to let me have the picture?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite shook his head slowly and regretfully. "I am afraid +that is impossible. You see—" He paused. "I bought that picture for a +lady. It is a present."</p> + +<p>"Oh! but surely—"</p> + +<p>The telephone on the table rang sharply. With a murmured word of +excuse, Mr. Satterthwaite took up the receiver. A voice spoke to him, +a small, cold voice that sounded very far away.</p> + +<p>"Can I speak to Mr. Satterthwaite, please?"</p> + +<p>"It is Mr. Satterthwaite speaking."</p> + +<p>"I am Lady Charnley, Alix Charnley. I daresay you don't remember me, +Mr. Satterthwaite; it is a great many years since we met."</p> + +<p>"My dear Alix. Of course I remember you."</p> + +<p>"There is something I wanted to ask you. I was at the Harchester +Galleries at an exhibition of pictures today. There was one called 'The +Dead Harlequin'—perhaps you recognized it—it was the Terrace Room +at Charnley. I—I want to have that picture. It was sold to you." She +paused. "Mr. Satterthwaite, for reasons of my own I want that picture. +Will you resell it to me?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite thought, <i>Why, this is a miracle</i>. As he spoke into +the receiver he was thankful that Aspasia Glen could only hear one +side of the conversation. "If you will accept my gift, dear lady, it +will make me very happy." He heard a sharp exclamation behind him and +hurried on. "I bought it for you. I did indeed. But listen, my dear +Alix, I want to ask you to do me a great favor if you will."</p> + +<p>"Of course. Mr. Satterthwaite, I am so <i>very</i> grateful."</p> + +<p>He went on: "I want you to come round now to my house, at once."</p> + +<p>There was a slight pause and then she answered quietly, "I will come at +once."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite put down the receiver and turned to Miss Glen. She +said quickly and angrily, "That was the picture you were talking about?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Mr. Satterthwaite, "the lady to whom I am presenting it is +coming round to this house in a few minutes."</p> + +<p>Suddenly Aspasia Glen's face broke once more into smiles. "You will +give me a chance of persuading her to turn the picture over to me?"</p> + +<p>"I will give you a chance of persuading her."</p> + +<p>Inwardly he was strangely excited. He was in the midst of a drama that +was shaping itself to some foredoomed end. He, the looker-on, was +playing a star part. He turned to Miss Glen.</p> + +<p>"Will you come into the other room with me? I should like you to meet +some friends of mine."</p> + +<p>He held the door open for her and, crossing the hall, opened the door +of the smoking room.</p> + +<p>"Miss Glen," he said, "let me introduce to you an old friend of mine, +Colonel Monckton. Mr. Bristow, the painter of the picture you admire so +much." Then he started as a third figure rose from the chair which he +had left empty beside his own.</p> + +<p>"I think you expected me this evening," said Mr. Quin. "During your +absence I introduced myself to your friends. I am so glad I was able to +drop in."</p> + +<p>"My dear friend," said Mr. Satterthwaite, "I—I have been carrying +on as well as I am able but—" He stopped before the slight sardonic +glance of Mr. Quin's dark eyes. "Let me introduce you. Mr. Harley Quin, +Miss Aspasia Glen."</p> + +<p>Was it his fancy—or did she shrink back slightly. A curious expression +flitted over her face. Suddenly Bristow broke in boisterously: "I have +got it."</p> + +<p>"Got what?"</p> + +<p>"Got hold of what was puzzling me. There is a likeness, there is a +distinct likeness." He was staring curiously at Mr. Quin. "You see it?" +He turned to Mr. Satterthwaite. "Don't you see a distinct likeness to +the Harlequin of my picture—the man looking in through the window?"</p> + +<p>It was no fancy this time. He distinctly heard Miss Glen draw in her +breath sharply and even saw that she stepped back one pace.</p> + +<p>"I told you that I was expecting someone," said Mr. Satterthwaite. He +spoke with an air of triumph. "I must tell you that my friend Mr. Quin +is a most extraordinary person. He can unravel mysteries. He can make +you see things."</p> + +<p>"Are you a medium, sir?" demanded Colonel Monckton, eyeing Mr. Quin +doubtfully.</p> + +<p>The latter smiled and slowly shook his head. "Mr. Satterthwaite +exaggerates," he said quietly. "Once or twice when I have been with him +he has done some extraordinarily good deductive work. Why he puts the +credit down to me I can't say. His modesty, I suppose."</p> + +<p>"No, no," said Mr. Satterthwaite excitedly. "It isn't. You make me see +things—things that I ought to have seen all along—that I actually +have seen—but without knowing that I saw them."</p> + +<p>"It sounds to me deuced complicated," said Colonel Monckton.</p> + +<p>"Not really," said Mr. Quin. "The trouble is that we are not content +just to see things—we will tack the wrong interpretation onto the +things we see."</p> + +<p>Aspasia Glen turned to Frank Bristow. "I want to know," she said +nervously, "what put the idea of painting that picture into your head?"</p> + +<p>Bristow shrugged his shoulders. "I don't quite know," he confessed. +"Something about the place—about Charnley, I mean—took hold of my +imagination. The big empty room, the terrace outside, the idea of +ghosts and things, I suppose. I have just been hearing the tale of the +last Lord Charnley who shot himself. Supposing you are dead, and your +spirit lives on? It must be odd, you know. You might stand outside on +the terrace looking in at the window at your own dead body and you +would see everything."</p> + +<p>"What do you mean?" said Aspasia Glen. "<i>See</i> everything?"</p> + +<p>"Well, you would see what happened. You would see—"</p> + +<p>The door opened and the butler announced Lady Charnley.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite went to meet her. He had not seen her for nearly +thirteen years. He remembered her as she once was, an eager, glowing +girl. And now he saw—a Frozen Lady. Very fair, very pale, with an air +of drifting rather than walking, a snowflake driven at random by an icy +breeze. Something unreal about her. So cold, so far away.</p> + +<p>"It was very good of you to come," said Mr. Satterthwaite.</p> + +<p>He led her forward. She made a half gesture of recognition toward Miss +Glen and then paused as the other made no response.</p> + +<p>"I am so sorry," she murmured, "but surely I have met you somewhere, +haven't I?"</p> + +<p>"Over the footlights perhaps," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "This is Miss +Aspasia Glen, Lady Charnley."</p> + +<p>"I am very pleased to meet you, Lady Charnley," said Aspasia Glen.</p> + +<p>Her voice had suddenly a slight transatlantic tinge to it. Mr. +Satterthwaite was reminded of one of her various stage impersonations.</p> + +<p>"Colonel Monckton you know," continued Mr. Satterthwaite, "and this is +Mr. Bristow."</p> + +<p>He saw a sudden faint tinge of color in her cheeks.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Bristow and I have met too," she said and smiled a little. "In a +train."</p> + +<p>"And Mr. Harley Quin."</p> + +<p>He watched her closely, but this time there was no flicker of +recognition. He set a chair for her and then seating himself he cleared +his throat and spoke a little nervously: "I—this is rather an unusual +little gathering. It centers round this picture. I—I think that if we +liked we could—clear things up."</p> + +<p>"You are not going to hold a séance, Satterthwaite?" asked Colonel +Monckton. "You are very odd this evening."</p> + +<p>"No," said Mr. Satterthwaite, "not exactly a séance. But my friend, Mr. +Quin, believes, and I agree, that one can by looking back over the past +see things as they were and not as they appeared to be."</p> + +<p>"The past?" said Lady Charnley.</p> + +<p>"I am speaking of your husband's suicide, Alix. I know it hurts you—"</p> + +<p>"No," said Alix Charnley, "it doesn't hurt me. Nothing hurts me now."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite thought of Frank Bristow's words: "<i>She was not quite +real, you know. Shadowy. Like one of the people who come out of the +hills in Gaelic fairy tales.</i>"</p> + +<p>"Shadowy," he had called her. That described her exactly. A shadow, a +reflection of something else. Where then was the real Alix? And his +mind answered quickly, "<i>In the past. Divided from us by fourteen years +of time.</i>"</p> + +<p>"My dear," he said, "you frighten me. You are like the Weeping Lady +with the Silver Ewer."</p> + +<p>Crash! The coffee cup on the table by Aspasia Glen's elbow fell +shattered to the floor. Mr. Satterthwaite waved aside her apologies. +He thought, <i>We are getting nearer, we are getting nearer every +minute—but nearer to what?</i></p> + +<p>"Let us take our minds back to that night fourteen years ago," he +said. "Lord Charnley killed himself. For what reason? No one knows."</p> + +<p>Lady Charnley stirred slightly in her chair.</p> + +<p>"Lady Charnley knows," said Frank Bristow abruptly.</p> + +<p>"Nonsense," said Colonel Monckton, then stopped, frowning at her +curiously.</p> + +<p>She was looking across at the artist. It was as though he drew the +words out of her. She spoke, nodding her head slowly, and her voice was +like a snowflake, cold and soft.</p> + +<p>"Yes, you are quite right. <i>I know.</i> That is why as long as I live I +can never go back to Charnley. That is why when my boy Dick wants me to +open the place up and live there again I tell him it can't be done."</p> + +<p>"Will you tell us the reason, Lady Charnley?" asked Mr. Quin.</p> + +<p>She looked at him. Then, as though hypnotized, she spoke as quietly and +naturally as a child. "I will tell you if you like. Nothing seems to +matter very much now. I found a letter among his papers and I destroyed +it."</p> + +<p>"What letter?" said Mr. Quin.</p> + +<p>"The letter from the girl—from that poor child. She was the Merriams' +nursery governess. He had—he had made love to her—yes, while he was +engaged to me, just before we were married. And she—she was going to +have a child too. She wrote saying so, and that she was going to tell +me about it. So, you see, he shot himself."</p> + +<p>She looked round at them wearily and dreamily, like a child who has +repeated a lesson it knows too well.</p> + +<p>Colonel Monckton blew his nose. "My God," he said, "so that was it. +Well, that explains things with a vengeance."</p> + +<p>"Does it?" said Mr. Satterthwaite. "It doesn't explain one thing. <i>It +doesn't explain why Mr. Bristow painted that picture.</i>"</p> + +<p>"What do you mean?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite looked across at Mr. Quin as though for encouragement +and apparently got it, for he proceeded. "Yes, I know I sound mad to +all of you, but that picture is the focus of the whole thing. We are +all here tonight because of that picture. That picture <i>had</i> to be +painted—that is what I mean."</p> + +<p>"You mean the uncanny influence of the Oak Parlor," began Colonel +Monckton.</p> + +<p>"No," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "Not the Oak Parlor. The Terrace Room. +That is it! The spirit of the dead man standing outside the window and +looking in and seeing his own dead body on the floor."</p> + +<p>"Which he couldn't have done," said the Colonel, "because the body was +in the Oak Parlor."</p> + +<p>"Supposing it wasn't," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "Supposing it was +exactly where Mr. Bristow saw it, saw it imaginatively, I mean, on the +black and white flags in front of the window."</p> + +<p>"You are talking nonsense," said Colonel Monckton. "If it was there, we +shouldn't have found it in the Oak Parlor."</p> + +<p>"Not unless someone carried it there," said Mr. Satterthwaite.</p> + +<p>"And in that case how could we have seen Charnley going in at the door +of the Oak Parlor?" inquired Colonel Monckton.</p> + +<p>"Well, you didn't see his face, did you?" asked Mr. Satterthwaite. +"What I mean is, you saw a man going into the Oak Parlor in fancy +dress, I suppose."</p> + +<p>"Brocade things and a wig," said Monckton.</p> + +<p>"Just so, and you thought it was Lord Charnley because the girl called +out to him as Lord Charnley."</p> + +<p>"And because when we broke in a few minutes later there was only Lord +Charnley there dead. You can't get away from that, Satterthwaite."</p> + +<p>"No," said Mr. Satterthwaite, discouraged. "No—unless there was a +hiding-place of some kind."</p> + +<p>"Weren't you saying something about there being a Priests' hole in that +room?" put in Frank Bristow.</p> + +<p>"Oh!" cried Mr. Satterthwaite. "Supposing—" He waved a hand for +silence and sheltered his forehead with his other hand and then spoke +slowly and hesitatingly.</p> + +<p>"I have got an idea—it may be just an idea but I think it hangs +together. Supposing someone shot Lord Charnley. Shot him in the Terrace +Room. Then he—and another person—dragged the body into the Oak +Parlor. They laid it down there with the pistol by its right hand. +Now we go on to the next step. It must seem absolutely certain that +Lord Charnley has committed suicide. I think that could be done very +easily. The man in his brocade and wig passes along the hall by the +Oak Parlor door and someone, to make sure of things, calls out to him +as Lord Charnley from the top of the stairs. He goes in and locks both +doors and fires a shot into the woodwork. There were bullet holes +already in that room if you remember; one more wouldn't be noticed. He +then hides quietly in the secret chamber. The doors are broken open +and people rush in. It seems certain that Lord Charnley has committed +suicide. No other hypothesis is even entertained."</p> + +<p>"Well, I think that is balderdash," said Colonel Monckton. "You forget +that Charnley had a motive right enough for suicide."</p> + +<p>"A letter found afterward," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "A lying, cruel +letter written by a very clever and unscrupulous little actress who +meant one day to be Lady Charnley herself."</p> + +<p>"You mean?"</p> + +<p>"I mean the girl in league with Hugo Charnley," said Mr. Satterthwaite. +"You know, Monckton, everyone knows, that that man was a blackguard. He +thought that he was certain to come into the title." He turned sharply +to Lady Charnley. "What was the name of the girl who wrote that letter?"</p> + +<p>"Monica Ford," said Lady Charnley.</p> + +<p>"Was it Monica Ford, Monckton, who called out to Lord Charnley from the +top of the stairs?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, now you come to speak of it, I believe it was."</p> + +<p>"Oh, it's impossible," said Lady Charnley. "I—I went to her about it. +She told me it was all true. I only saw her that once afterward but +surely she couldn't have been acting the whole time."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite looked across the room at Aspasia Glen. "I think she +could," he said quietly. "I think she had in her the makings of a very +accomplished actress."</p> + +<p>"There is one thing you haven't got over," said Frank Bristow. "There +would be blood on the floor of the Terrace Room. Bound to be. They +couldn't clear that up in a hurry."</p> + +<p>"<i>No</i>," admitted Mr. Satterthwaite, "but there is one thing they could +do—a thing that would only take a second or two—they could throw over +the bloodstains the Bokhara rug. Nobody ever saw the Bokhara rug in +the Terrace Room before that night."</p> + +<p>"I believe you are right," said Monckton, "but all the same, those +bloodstains would have to be cleared up some time?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Mr. Satterthwaite, "in the middle of the night. A woman +with a jug and basin could go down the stairs and clear up the +bloodstains quite easily."</p> + +<p>"But supposing someone saw her?"</p> + +<p>"It wouldn't matter," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "I am speaking now of +things as they <i>are</i>. I said a woman with a jug and basin. But if I had +said a Weeping Lady with a Silver Ewer, that is what they would have +<i>appeared</i> to be." He got up and went across to Aspasia Glen. "That +is what you did, wasn't it?" he said. "They call you the Woman with +the Scarf now, but it was that night you played your first part, the +Weeping Lady with the Silver Ewer. That is why you knocked the coffee +cup off that table just now. You were afraid when you saw that picture. +You thought someone knew."</p> + +<p>Lady Charnley stretched out a white, accusing hand.</p> + +<p>"Monica Ford," she breathed. "I recognize you now."</p> + +<p>Aspasia Glen sprang to her feet with a cry. She pushed little Mr. +Satterthwaite aside with a shove of the hand and stood shaking in front +of Mr. Quin.</p> + +<p>"So I was right. Someone <i>did</i> know! Oh, I haven't been deceived by +this tomfoolery. This pretense of working things out." She pointed +at Mr. Quin. "<i>You</i> were there. <i>You</i> were there outside the window +looking in. You saw what we did, Hugo and I. I <i>knew</i> there was someone +looking in; I felt it all the time. And yet when I looked up there was +nobody there. I knew someone was watching us. I thought once I caught a +glimpse of a face at the window. It has frightened me all these years. +And then I saw that picture with you standing at the window and I +recognized your face. You have known all these years. Why did you break +silence now? That is what I want to know."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps so that the dead may rest in peace," said Mr. Quin.</p> + +<p>Suddenly Aspasia Glen made a rush for the door and stood there flinging +a few defiant words over her shoulder.</p> + +<p>"Do what you like. God knows there are witnesses enough to what I have +been saying. I don't care, I don't care. I loved Hugo and I helped him +with the ghastly business and he chucked me afterward. He died last +year. You can set the police on my tracks if you like but, as that +little dried-up fellow there said, I am a pretty good actress. They +will find it hard to find me." She crashed the door behind her and a +moment later they heard the slam of the front door also.</p> + +<p>"Reggie," cried Lady Charnley, "Reggie." The tears were streaming down +her face. "Oh, my dear, my dear, I can go back to Charnley now. I can +live there with Dickie. I can tell him what his father was, the finest, +the most splendid man in all the world."</p> + +<p>"We must consult very seriously as to what must be done in the matter," +said Colonel Monckton. "Alix, my dear, if you will let me take you +home, I shall be glad to have a few words with you on the subject."</p> + +<p>Lady Charnley rose. She came across to Mr. Satterthwaite and laying +both hands on his shoulders she kissed him very gently.</p> + +<p>"It is so wonderful to be alive again after being so long dead," +she said. "It was like being dead, you know. Thank you, dear Mr. +Satterthwaite." She went out of the room with Colonel Monckton. Mr. +Satterthwaite gazed after them. A grunt from Frank Bristow, whom he had +forgotten, made him turn sharply round.</p> + +<p>"She is a lovely creature," said Bristow moodily. "But she's not nearly +so interesting as she was," he said gloomily.</p> + +<p>"There speaks the artist," said Mr. Satterthwaite.</p> + +<p>"Well, she isn't," said Mr. Bristow. "I suppose I should only get the +cold shoulder if I ever went butting in at Charnley. I don't want to go +where I am not wanted."</p> + +<p>"My dear young man," said Mr. Satterthwaite, "if you will think a +little less of the impression you are making on other people, you will, +I think, be wiser and happier. You would also do well to disabuse your +mind of some very old-fashioned notions, one of which is that birth has +any significance at all in our modern conditions. You are one of those +large-proportioned young men whom women always consider good-looking, +and you have possibly, if not certainly, genius. Just say that over +to yourself ten times before you go to bed every night and in three +months' time go and call on Lady Charnley at Charnley. That is my +advice to you, and I am an old man with considerable experience of the +world."</p> + +<p>A very charming smile suddenly spread over the artist's face. "You +have been thunderingly good to me," he said suddenly. He seized Mr. +Satterthwaite's hand and wrung it in a powerful grip. "I am no end +grateful. I must be off now. Thanks very much for one of the most +extraordinary evenings I have ever spent."</p> + +<p>He looked round as though to say good-by to someone else and then +started. "I say, sir, your friend has gone. I never saw him go. He is +rather a queer bird, isn't he?"</p> + +<p>"He goes and comes very suddenly," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "That is one +of his characteristics. One doesn't always see him come and go."</p> + +<p>"Like Harlequin," said Frank Bristow, "he is invisible," and laughed +heartily at his own joke.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="The_Bird_With_the_Broken_Wing"><span class="smcap">The Bird With the Broken Wing</span></h2> +</div> + + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite looked out of the window. It was raining steadily. He +shivered. Very few country houses, he reflected, were really properly +heated. It cheered him to think that in a few hours' time he would be +speeding toward London. Once one had passed sixty years of age, London +was really much the best place.</p> + +<p>He was feeling a little old and pathetic. Most of the members of the +house party were so young. Four of them had just gone off into the +library to do table turning. They had invited him to accompany them but +he had declined. He failed to derive any amusement from the monotonous +counting of the letters of the alphabet and the usual meaningless +jumble of letters that resulted.</p> + +<p>Yes, London was the best place for him. He was glad that he had +declined Madge Keeley's invitation when she had rung up to invite him +over to Laidell half an hour ago. An adorable young person, certainly, +but London was best.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite shivered again and remembered that the fire in the +library was usually a good one. He opened the door and adventured +cautiously into the darkened room.</p> + +<p>"If I'm not in the way—"</p> + +<p>"Was that N or M? We shall have to count again. No, of course not, +Mr. Satterthwaite. Do you know, the most exciting things have been +happening. The spirit says her name is Ada Spiers and John here is +going to marry someone called Gladys Bun almost immediately."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite sat down in a big easy chair in front of the fire. +His eyelids drooped over his eyes and he dozed. From time to time he +returned to consciousness, hearing fragments of speech.</p> + +<p>"It can't be P A B Z L—not unless he's a Russian. John, you're +shoving. I <i>saw</i> you. I believe it's a new spirit come."</p> + +<p>Another interval of dozing. Then a name jerked him wide awake.</p> + +<p>"Q U I N. Is that right?" "Yes, it's rapped once for Yes." "Quin. Have +you a message for someone here? Yes. For me? For John? For Sarah? For +Evelyn? No—but there's no one else. Oh! it's for Mr. Satterthwaite, +perhaps? It says, 'Yes.' Mr. Satterthwaite, it's a message for you."</p> + +<p>"What does it say?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite was broad awake now, sitting taut and erect in his +chair, his eyes shining.</p> + +<p>The table rocked and one of the girls counted. "L A I—it can't +be—that doesn't make sense. No word begins L A I."</p> + +<p>"Go on," said Mr. Satterthwaite, and the command in his voice was so +sharp that he was obeyed without question.</p> + +<p>"L A I D E L—and another L—Oh! that seems to be all."</p> + +<p>"Go on."</p> + +<p>"Tell us some more, please."</p> + +<p>A pause.</p> + +<p>"There doesn't seem to be any more. The table's gone quite dead. How +silly."</p> + +<p>"No," said Mr. Satterthwaite thoughtfully. "I don't think it's silly."</p> + +<p>He rose and left the room. He went straight to the telephone. Presently +he was through.</p> + +<p>"Can I speak to Miss Keeley? Is that you, Madge, my dear? I want to +change my mind, if I may, and accept your kind invitation. It is not so +urgent as I thought that I should get back to town. Yes—yes—I will +arrive in time for dinner."</p> + +<p>He hung up the receiver, a strange flush on his withered cheeks. Mr. +Quin—the mysterious Mr. Harley Quin. Mr. Satterthwaite counted over on +his fingers the times he had been brought into contact with that man +of mystery. Where Mr. Quin was concerned—<i>things happened</i>! What had +happened or was going to happen—at Laidell?</p> + +<p>Whatever it was, there was work for him, Mr. Satterthwaite, to do. In +some way or other, he would have an active part to play. He was sure +of that.</p> + +<p>Laidell was a large house. Its owner, David Keeley, was one of those +quiet men with indeterminate personalities who seem to count as part +of the furniture. Their inconspicuousness has nothing to do with brain +power—David Keeley was a most brilliant mathematician and had written +a book totally incomprehensible to ninety-nine hundredths of humanity. +But like so many men of brilliant intellect, he radiated no bodily +vigor or magnetism. It was a standing joke that David Keeley was a real +"invisible man." Footmen passed him by with the vegetables, and guests +forgot to say how do you do or good-by.</p> + +<p>His daughter Madge was very different. A fine upstanding young woman, +bursting with energy and life. Thorough, healthy, and normal, and +extremely pretty.</p> + +<p>It was she who received Mr. Satterthwaite when he arrived. "How nice of +you to come—after all."</p> + +<p>"Very delightful of you to let me change my mind. Madge, my dear, +you're looking very well."</p> + +<p>"Oh! I'm always well."</p> + +<p>"Yes, I know. But it's more than that. You look—well, blooming +is the word I have in mind. Has anything happened, my dear? +Anything—well—special?"</p> + +<p>She laughed—blushed a little. "It's too bad, Mr. Satterthwaite. You +always guess things."</p> + +<p>He took her hand. "So it's that, is it? Mr. Right has come along?"</p> + +<p>It was an old-fashioned term, but Madge did not object to it. She +rather liked Mr. Satterthwaite's old-fashioned ways.</p> + +<p>"I suppose so—yes. But nobody's supposed to know. It's a secret. But +I don't really mind your knowing, Mr. Satterthwaite. You're always so +nice and sympathetic."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite thoroughly enjoyed romance at second hand. He was +sentimental and Victorian. "I mustn't ask who the lucky man is? Well, +then all I can say is that I hope he is worthy of the honor you are +conferring on him."</p> + +<p><i>Rather a duck, old Mr. Satterthwaite</i>, thought Madge.</p> + +<p>"Oh! we shall get on awfully well together, I think," she said. "You +see, we like doing the same things, and that's so awfully important, +isn't it? We've really got a lot in common—and we know all about each +other and all that. It's really been coming on for a long time. That +gives one such a nice safe feeling, doesn't it?"</p> + +<p>"Undoubtedly," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "But in my experience one can +never really know all about anyone else. That is part of the interest +and charm of life."</p> + +<p>"Oh! I'll risk it," said Madge, laughing, and they went up to dress for +dinner.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite was late. He had not brought a valet, and having his +things unpacked for him by a stranger always flurried him a little. He +came down to find everyone assembled, and in the modern style Madge +merely said:</p> + +<p>"Oh! here's Mr. Satterthwaite. I'm starving. Let's go in."</p> + +<p>She led the way with a tall gray-haired woman—a woman of striking +personality. She had a very clear, rather incisive, voice and her face +was clear-cut and rather beautiful.</p> + +<p>"How d'you do, Satterthwaite," said Mr. Keeley.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite jumped. "How do you do," he said. "I'm afraid I +didn't see you."</p> + +<p>"Nobody does," said Mr. Keeley sadly.</p> + +<p>They went in. The table was a low oval of mahogany. Mr. Satterthwaite +was placed between his young hostess and a short, dark girl—a very +hearty girl with a loud voice and a ringing, determined laugh that +expressed more the determination to be cheerful at all costs than any +real mirth. Her name seemed to be Doris and she was the type of young +woman Mr. Satterthwaite most disliked. She had, he considered, no +artistic justification for existence.</p> + +<p>On Madge's other side was a man of about thirty whose likeness to the +gray-haired woman proclaimed them mother and son.</p> + +<p>Next to him—</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite caught his breath.</p> + +<p>He didn't know what it was exactly. It was not beauty. It was something +else—something much more elusive and intangible than beauty.</p> + +<p>She was listening to Mr. Keeley's rather ponderous dinner-table +conversation, her head bent a little sideways. She was there, it seemed +to Mr. Satterthwaite—and yet she was not there! She was, somehow, +a great deal less substantial than anyone else seated round the oval +table. Something in the droop of her body sideways was beautiful—was +more than beautiful. She looked up—her eyes met Mr. Satterthwaite's +for the moment across the table—and the word he wanted leaped to his +mind.</p> + +<p><i>Enchantment</i>—that was it. She had the quality of enchantment. She +might have been one of those creatures who are only half human—one of +the Hidden People from the Hollow Hills. She made everyone else look +rather too real.</p> + +<p>But at the same time, in a queer way, she stirred his pity. It was as +though semi-humanity handicapped her. He sought for a phrase and found +it. <i>A bird with a broken wing</i>, thought Mr. Satterthwaite.</p> + +<p>Satisfied, he turned his mind back to the subject of Girl Guides and +hoped that the girl Doris had not noticed his abstraction. When she +turned to the man on the other side of her—a man Mr. Satterthwaite had +hardly noticed—he himself turned to Madge.</p> + +<p>"Who is the lady sitting next to your father?" he asked in a low voice.</p> + +<p>"Mrs. Graham? Oh! no, you mean Mabelle. Don't you know her? Mabelle +Annesley. She was a Clydesley—one of the ill-fated Clydesleys."</p> + +<p>He started. The ill-fated Clydesleys. He remembered. A brother had +shot himself, a sister had been drowned, another had perished in an +earthquake. A queer, doomed family. This girl must be the youngest of +them.</p> + +<p>His thoughts were recalled suddenly. Madge's hand touched his under the +table. Everyone else was talking. She gave a faint inclination of her +head to her left.</p> + +<p>"That's him," she murmured ungrammatically.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite nodded quickly in comprehension. So this young +Graham was the man of Madge's choice. Well, she could hardly have done +better as far as appearances went—and Mr. Satterthwaite was a shrewd +observer. A pleasant, likeable, rather matter-of-fact young fellow. +They'd make a nice pair—no nonsense about either of them—good, +healthy, sociable young folk.</p> + +<p>Laidell was run on old-fashioned lines. The ladies left the dining +room first. Mr. Satterthwaite moved up to Graham and began to talk +to him. His estimate of the young man was confirmed, yet there was +something that struck him as being not quite true to type. Roger Graham +was distrait, his mind seemed far away, his hand shook as he replaced +the glass on the table.</p> + +<p><i>He's got something on his mind</i>, thought Mr. Satterthwaite acutely. +<i>Not nearly as important as he thinks it is, I daresay. All the same, I +wonder what it is.</i></p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite was in the habit of swallowing a couple of digestive +pastilles after meals. Having neglected to bring them down with him, he +went up to his room to fetch them.</p> + +<p>On his way down to the drawing room, he passed along the long corridor +on the ground floor. About halfway along it was a room known as the +terrace room. As Mr. Satterthwaite looked through the open doorway in +passing, he stopped short.</p> + +<p>Moonlight was streaming into the room. The latticed panes gave it a +queer rhythmic pattern. A figure was sitting on the low windowsill, +drooping a little sideways and softly twanging the strings of a +ukulele—not in a jazz rhythm, but in a far older rhythm, the beat of +fairy horses riding on fairy hills.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite stood fascinated. She wore a dress of dull dark blue +chiffon, ruched and pleated so that it looked like the feathers of a +bird. She bent over the instrument crooning to it.</p> + +<p>He came into the room—slowly, step by step. He was close to her when +she looked up and saw him. She didn't start, he noticed, or seem +surprised.</p> + +<p>"I hope I'm not intruding," he began.</p> + +<p>"Please—sit down."</p> + +<p>He sat near her on a polished oak chair. She hummed softly under her +breath.</p> + +<p>"There's a lot of magic about tonight," she said. "Don't you think so?"</p> + +<p>Yes, there was a lot of magic about.</p> + +<p>"They wanted me to fetch my uke," she explained. "And as I passed here, +I thought it would be so lovely to be alone here—in the dark and the +moon."</p> + +<p>"Then I—" Mr. Satterthwaite half rose, but she stopped him.</p> + +<p>"Don't go. You—you fit in, somehow. It's queer, but you do."</p> + +<p>He sat down again.</p> + +<p>"It's been a queer sort of evening," she said. "I was out in the woods +late this afternoon, and I met a man—such a strange sort of man—tall +and dark, like a lost soul. The sun was setting, and the light of it +through the trees made him look like a kind of Harlequin."</p> + +<p>"Ah!" Mr. Satterthwaite leaned forward—his interest quickened.</p> + +<p>"I wanted to speak to him—he—he looked so like somebody I know. But +I lost him in the trees."</p> + +<p>"I think I know him," said Mr. Satterthwaite.</p> + +<p>"Do you? He is—interesting, isn't he?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, he is interesting."</p> + +<p>There was a pause. Mr. Satterthwaite was perplexed. There was +something, he felt, that he ought to do—and he didn't know what it +was. But surely—surely, it had to do with this girl. He said rather +clumsily, "Sometimes—when one is unhappy—one wants to get away—"</p> + +<p>"Yes. That's true." She broke off suddenly. "Oh! I see what you mean. +But you're wrong. It's just the other way round. I wanted to be alone +because I'm happy."</p> + +<p>"Happy?"</p> + +<p>"Terribly happy."</p> + +<p>She spoke quite quietly, but Mr. Satterthwaite had a sudden sense +of shock. What this strange girl meant by being happy wasn't +the same as Madge Keeley would have meant, by the same words. +Happiness, for Mabelle Annesley, meant some kind of intense and vivid +ecstasy—something that was not only human, but more than human. He +shrank back a little.</p> + +<p>"I—didn't know," he said clumsily.</p> + +<p>"Of course you couldn't. And it's not—the actual thing—I'm not +happy yet—but I'm going to be." She leaned forward. "Do you know +what it's like to stand in a wood—a big wood with dark shadows and +trees very close all round you—a wood you might never get out of—and +then, suddenly—just in front of you, you see the country of your +dreams—shining and beautiful—you've only got to step out from the +trees and the darkness and you've found it?"</p> + +<p>"So many things look beautiful," said Mr. Satterthwaite, "before we've +reached them. Some of the ugliest things in the world look the most +beautiful."</p> + +<p>There was a step on the floor. Mr. Satterthwaite turned his head. A +fair man with a stupid, rather wooden, face stood there. He was the man +Mr. Satterthwaite had hardly noticed at the dinner table.</p> + +<p>"They're waiting for you, Mabelle," he said.</p> + +<p>She got up; the expression had gone out of her face; her voice was flat +and calm. "I'm coming, Gerard," she said. "I've been talking to Mr. +Satterthwaite."</p> + +<p>She went out of the room, Mr. Satterthwaite following. He turned his +head over his shoulder as he went and caught the expression on her +husband's face, a hungry despairing look. <i>Enchantment</i>, thought Mr. +Satterthwaite. <i>He feels it right enough. Poor fellow—poor fellow.</i></p> + +<p>The drawing room was well lighted. Madge and Doris Coles were +vociferous in reproaches. "Mabelle, you little beast—you've been ages."</p> + +<p>She sat on a low stool, tuned the ukulele, and sang. They all joined +in. <i>Is it possible</i>, thought Mr. Satterthwaite, <i>that so many idiotic +songs could have been written about My Baby.</i></p> + +<p>But he had to admit that the syncopated, wailing tunes were stirring. +Though, of course, they weren't a patch on the old-fashioned waltz.</p> + +<p>The air got very smoky. The syncopated rhythm went on.</p> + +<p><i>No conversation</i>, thought Mr. Satterthwaite. <i>No good music. No +peace.</i> He wished the world had not become definitely so noisy.</p> + +<p>Suddenly Mabelle Annesley broke off, smiling across the room at him, +and began to sing a song of Grieg's.</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">"<i>My swan—my fair one—</i>"</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>It was a favorite of Mr. Satterthwaite's. He liked the note of +ingenuous surprise at the end.</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">"<i>Wert only a swan then? A swan then?</i>"</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>After that, the party broke up. Madge offered drinks, while her father +picked up the discarded ukulele and began twanging it absent-mindedly. +The party exchanged good nights, drifted nearer and nearer to the door. +Everyone talked at once. Gerard Annesley slipped away unostentatiously, +leaving the others.</p> + +<p>Outside the drawing room door, Mr. Satterthwaite bade Mrs. Graham a +ceremonious good night. There were two staircases, one close at hand, +the other at the end of a long corridor. It was by the latter that +Mr. Satterthwaite reached his room. Mrs. Graham and her son passed up +the stairs near at hand, where the quiet Gerard Annesley had already +preceded them.</p> + +<p>"You'd better get your ukulele, Mabelle," said Madge. "You'll forget it +in the morning if you don't. You've got to make such an early start."</p> + +<p>"Come on, Mr. Satterthwaite," said Doris Coles, seizing him +boisterously by one arm. "Early to bed—etcetera."</p> + +<p>Madge took him by the other arm and all three ran down the corridor to +peals of Doris's laughter. They paused at the end to wait for David +Keeley, who was following at a much more sedate pace, turning out +electric lights as he came. The four of them went upstairs together.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite was just preparing to descend to the dining room for +breakfast on the following morning when there was a light tap on the +door and Madge Keeley entered. Her face was dead white and she was +shivering all over.</p> + +<p>"Oh! Mr. Satterthwaite."</p> + +<p>"My dear child, what's happened?" He took her hand.</p> + +<p>"Mabelle—Mabelle Annesley—"</p> + +<p>"Yes?"</p> + +<p>What had happened? What? Something terrible—he knew that. Madge could +hardly get the words out.</p> + +<p>"She—she hanged herself last night. On the back of her door. Oh! it's +too horrible." She broke down—sobbing.</p> + +<p>Hanged herself. Impossible. Incomprehensible!</p> + +<p>He said a few soothing, old-fashioned words to Madge and hurried +downstairs. He found David Keeley looking perplexed and incompetent.</p> + +<p>"I've telephoned to the police, Satterthwaite. Apparently that's +got to be done. So the doctor said. He's just finished examining +the—the—Good Lord, it's a beastly business. She must have been +desperately unhappy—to do it that way. Queer, that song last night. +Swan Song, eh? She looked rather like a swan—a black swan."</p> + +<p>Yes.</p> + +<p>"Swan Song," repeated Keeley. "Shows it was in her mind, eh?"</p> + +<p>"It would seem so—yes, certainly it would seem so."</p> + +<p>He hesitated, then asked if he might see—if, that is—</p> + +<p>His host comprehended the stammering request. "If you want to—I'd +forgotten you have a penchant for human tragedies."</p> + +<p>He led the way up the broad staircase. Mr. Satterthwaite followed him. +At the head of the stairs was the room occupied by Roger Graham, and +opposite it, on the other side of the passage, his mother's room. The +latter door was ajar and a faint wisp of smoke floated through it.</p> + +<p>A momentary surprise invaded Mr. Satterthwaite's mind. He had not +judged Mrs. Graham to be a woman who smoked so early in the day. +Indeed, he had had the idea that she did not smoke at all.</p> + +<p>They went along the passage to the end door but one. David Keeley +entered the room and Mr. Satterthwaite followed him.</p> + +<p>The room was not a very large one and showed signs of a man's +occupation. A door in the wall led into a second room. A bit of cut +rope still dangled from a hook high up on the door. On the bed—</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite stood for a minute looking down on the heap of +huddled chiffon. He noticed that it was ruched and pleated like the +plumage of a bird. At the face, after one glance, he did not look again.</p> + +<p>He glanced from the door with its dangling rope to the communicating +door through which they had come.</p> + +<p>"Was that open?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. At least the maid says so."</p> + +<p>"Annesley slept in there? Didn't he hear anything?"</p> + +<p>"He says—nothing."</p> + +<p>"Almost incredible," murmured Mr. Satterthwaite. He looked back at the +form on the bed.</p> + +<p>"Where is he?"</p> + +<p>"Annesley? He's downstairs with the doctor."</p> + +<p>They went downstairs to find an inspector of police had arrived. Mr. +Satterthwaite was agreeably surprised to recognize in him an old +acquaintance, Inspector Winkfield. The Inspector went upstairs with the +doctor and a few minutes later a request came that all members of the +house party should assemble in the drawing room.</p> + +<p>The blinds had been drawn and the whole room had a funereal aspect. +Doris Coles looked frightened and subdued. Every now and then she +dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. Madge was resolute and alert, +her feelings fully under control by now. Mrs. Graham was composed, +as always, her face grave and impassive. The tragedy seemed to have +affected her son more keenly than anyone. He looked a positive wreck +this morning. David Keeley, as usual, had subsided into the background.</p> + +<p>The bereaved husband sat alone, a little apart from the others. There +was a queer dazed look about him, as though he could hardly realize +what had taken place.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite, outwardly composed, was inwardly seething with the +importance of a duty shortly to be performed.</p> + +<p>Inspector Winkfield, followed by Doctor Morris, came in and shut +the door behind him. He cleared his throat and spoke. "This is a +very sad occurrence—very sad, I'm sure. It's necessary, under the +circumstances, that I should ask everybody a few questions. You'll +not object, I'm sure. I'll begin with Mr. Annesley. You'll forgive my +asking, sir, but had your good lady ever threatened to take her life?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite opened his lips impulsively, then closed them again. +There was plenty of time. Better not speak too soon. "I—no, I don't +think so."</p> + +<p>His voice was so hesitating, so peculiar, that everyone shot a covert +glance at him.</p> + +<p>"You're not sure, sir?"</p> + +<p>"Yes—I'm—quite sure. She didn't."</p> + +<p>"Ah! Were you aware that she was unhappy in any way?"</p> + +<p>"No, I—No, I wasn't."</p> + +<p>"She said nothing to you? About feeling depressed, for instance?"</p> + +<p>"I—no, nothing."</p> + +<p>Whatever the Inspector thought, he said nothing. Instead he proceeded +to his next point. "Will you describe to me briefly the events of last +night?"</p> + +<p>"We—all went up to bed. I fell asleep immediately and heard nothing. +The housemaid's scream aroused me this morning. I rushed into the +adjoining room and found my wife—and found her—"</p> + +<p>His voice broke. The Inspector nodded.</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes, that's quite enough. We needn't go into that. When did you +last see your wife the night before?"</p> + +<p>"I—downstairs."</p> + +<p>"Downstairs?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, we all left the drawing room together. I went straight up, +leaving the others talking in the hall."</p> + +<p>"And did you see your wife again? Didn't she say good night when she +came up to bed?"</p> + +<p>"I was asleep when she came up."</p> + +<p>"But she only followed you a few minutes later. That's right, isn't it, +sir?" He looked at David Keeley, who nodded.</p> + +<p>"She hadn't come up half an hour later."</p> + +<p>Annesley spoke stubbornly. The Inspector's eyes strayed gently to Mrs. +Graham. "She didn't stay in your room talking, madam?"</p> + +<p>Did Mr. Satterthwaite fancy it, or was there a slight pause before Mrs. +Graham said, with her customary quiet decision of manner, "No, I went +straight into my room and closed the door. I heard nothing."</p> + +<p>"And you say, sir," the Inspector had shifted his attention back to +Annesley, "that you slept and heard nothing. The communicating door was +open, was it not?"</p> + +<p>"I—I believe so. But my wife would have entered her room by the other +door from the corridor."</p> + +<p>"Even so, sir, there would have been certain sounds—a choking noise, a +drumming of heels on the door—"</p> + +<p>"<i>No.</i>"</p> + +<p>It was Mr. Satterthwaite who spoke, impetuously, unable to stop +himself. Every eye turned toward him in surprise. He himself became +nervous, stammered, and turned pink.</p> + +<p>"I—I beg your pardon, Inspector. But I must speak. You are on the +wrong tack—the wrong tack altogether. Mrs. Annesley did not kill +herself—I am sure of it. She was murdered."</p> + +<p>There was a dead silence, then Inspector Winkfield said quietly, "What +leads you to say that, sir?"</p> + +<p>"I—it is a feeling. A very strong feeling."</p> + +<p>"But I think, sir, there must be more than that to it. There must be +some particular reason."</p> + +<p>Well, of course there <i>was</i> a particular reason. There was the +mysterious message from Mr. Quin. But you couldn't tell a police +inspector that. Mr. Satterthwaite cast about desperately, and found +something.</p> + +<p>"Last night, when we were talking together, she said she was very +happy. Very happy—just that. That wasn't like a woman thinking of +committing suicide."</p> + +<p>He was triumphant. He added, "She went back to the drawing room to +fetch her ukulele, so that she wouldn't forget it in the morning. That +didn't look like suicide either."</p> + +<p>"No," admitted the Inspector. "No, perhaps it didn't." He turned to +David Keeley. "Did she take the ukulele upstairs with her?"</p> + +<p>The mathematician tried to remember. "I think—yes, she did. She went +upstairs carrying it in her hand. I remember seeing it just as she +turned the corner of the staircase before I turned off the light down +here."</p> + +<p>"Oh!" cried Madge. "But it's here now." She pointed dramatically to +where the ukulele lay on a table.</p> + +<p>"That's curious," said the Inspector. He stepped swiftly across and +rang the bell.</p> + +<p>A brief order sent the butler in search of the housemaid whose business +it was to do the rooms in the morning. She came and was quite positive +in her answer. The ukulele had been there first thing that morning when +she had dusted.</p> + +<p>Inspector Winkfield dismissed her and then said curtly, "I would like +to speak to Mr. Satterthwaite in private, please. Everyone else may go. +But no one is to leave the house."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite twittered into speech as soon as the door had closed +behind the others. "I—I am sure, Inspector, that you have the case +excellently in hand. Excellently. I just felt that—having, as I say, a +very strong feeling—"</p> + +<p>The Inspector arrested further speech with an upraised hand. "You're +quite right, Mr. Satterthwaite. The lady was murdered."</p> + +<p>"You knew it?" Mr. Satterthwaite was chagrined.</p> + +<p>"There were certain things that puzzled Doctor Morris." He looked +across at the doctor, who had remained, and the doctor assented to his +statement with a nod of the head. "We made a thorough examination. The +rope that was round her neck wasn't the rope that she was strangled +with—it was something much thinner that did the job, something more +like a wire. It had cut right into the flesh. The mark of the rope was +superimposed on it. She was strangled and then hung up on that door +afterward to make it look like suicide."</p> + +<p>"But who—?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," said the Inspector. "Who? That's the question. What about the +husband sleeping next door, who never said good night to his wife and +who heard nothing? I should say we hadn't far to look. Must find out +what terms they were on. That's where you can be useful to us, Mr. +Satterthwaite. You've the <i>ongtray</i> here, and you can get the hang of +things in a way we can't. Find out what relations there were between +the two."</p> + +<p>"I hardly like—" began Mr. Satterthwaite, stiffening.</p> + +<p>"It won't be the first murder mystery you've helped us with. I remember +the case of Mrs. Strangeways. You've got a flair for that sort of +thing, sir. An absolute flair."</p> + +<p>Yes, it was true—he <i>had</i> a flair. He said quietly, "I will do my +best, Inspector."</p> + +<p>Had Gerard Annesley killed his wife? Had he? Mr. Satterthwaite recalled +that look of misery last night. He loved her—and he was suffering. +Suffering will drive a man to strange deeds.</p> + +<p>But there was something else—some other factor. Mabelle had spoken +of herself as coming out of a wood—she was looking forward to +happiness—not a quiet, rational happiness—but a happiness that was +irrational—a wild ecstasy—</p> + +<p>If Gerard Annesley had spoken the truth, Mabelle had not come to her +room till at least half an hour later than he had done. Yet David +Keeley had seen her going up those stairs. There were two other rooms +occupied in that wing. There was Mrs. Graham's and there was her son's.</p> + +<p>Her son's. But he and Madge—</p> + +<p>Surely Madge would have guessed. But Madge wasn't the guessing kind. +All the same, no smoke without fire—</p> + +<p>Smoke!</p> + +<p>Ah! he remembered. <i>A wisp of smoke curling out through Mrs. Graham's +bedroom door.</i></p> + +<p>He acted on impulse. Straight up the stairs he went and into her room. +It was empty. He closed the door behind him and locked it.</p> + +<p>He went across to the grate. A heap of charred fragments. Very gingerly +he raked them over with his finger. His luck was in. In the very center +were some unburned fragments—fragments of letters.</p> + +<p>Very disjointed fragments, but they told him something of value:</p> + +<p><i>Life can be wonderful, Roger darling. I never knew—all my life has +been a dream till I met you, Roger—Gerard knows, I think—I am sorry, +but what can I do? Nothing is real to me but you, Roger. We shall be +together, soon.</i></p> + +<p><i>What are you going to tell him at Laidell, Roger? You write +strangely—but I am not afraid—</i></p> + +<p>Very carefully, Mr. Satterthwaite put the fragments into an envelope +from the writing-table. He went to the door, unlocked it, and opened it +to find himself face to face with Mrs. Graham.</p> + +<p>It was an awkward moment, and Mr. Satterthwaite was momentarily out of +countenance. He did what was, perhaps, the best thing, attacked the +situation with simplicity.</p> + +<p>"I have been searching your room, Mrs. Graham. I have found +something—a packet of letters imperfectly burned."</p> + +<p>A wave of alarm passed over her face. It was gone in a flash but it had +been there.</p> + +<p>"Letters from Mrs. Annesley to your son."</p> + +<p>She hesitated for a minute, then said quietly, "That is so. I thought +they would be better burned."</p> + +<p>"For what reason?"</p> + +<p>"My son is engaged to be married. These letters—if they had been +brought into publicity through the poor girl's suicide—might have +caused much pain and trouble."</p> + +<p>"Your son could burn his own letters."</p> + +<p>She had no answer ready for that. Mr. Satterthwaite pursued his +advantage.</p> + +<p>"You found these letters in his room, brought them into your room, and +burned them. Why? You were afraid, Mrs. Graham."</p> + +<p>"I am not in the habit of being afraid, Mr. Satterthwaite."</p> + +<p>"No—but this was a desperate case."</p> + +<p>"Desperate?"</p> + +<p>"Your son might have been in danger of arrest—for murder."</p> + +<p>"Murder!"</p> + +<p>He saw her face go white; he went on quickly: "You heard Mrs. Annesley +go into your son's room last night. Had he told her of his engagement? +No, I see he hadn't. He told her then. They quarreled, and he—"</p> + +<p>"That's a lie!"</p> + +<p>They had been so absorbed in their duel of words that they had not +heard approaching footsteps. Roger Graham had come up behind them +unperceived by either.</p> + +<p>"It's all right, Mother. Don't—worry. Come into my room, Mr. +Satterthwaite."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite followed him into his room. Mrs. Graham had turned +away and did not attempt to follow them. Roger Graham shut the door.</p> + +<p>"Listen, Mr. Satterthwaite. You think I killed Mabelle. You think +I strangled her—here—and took her along and hung her up on that +door—later—when everyone was asleep?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite stared at him. Then he said surprisingly, "No, I do +not think so."</p> + +<p>"Thank God for that. I couldn't have killed Mabelle. I—I loved her. Or +didn't I? I don't know. It's a tangle that I can't explain. I'm fond +of Madge—I always have been. And she's such a good sort. We suit each +other. But Mabelle was different. It was—I can't explain it—a sort of +enchantment. I was, I think, afraid of her."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite nodded.</p> + +<p>"It was madness—a kind of bewildering ecstasy. But it was impossible. +It wouldn't have worked. That sort of thing—doesn't last. I know what +it means now to have a spell cast over you."</p> + +<p>"Yes, it must have been like that," said Mr. Satterthwaite thoughtfully.</p> + +<p>"I—I wanted to get out of it all. I was going to tell Mabelle—last +night."</p> + +<p>"But you didn't?"</p> + +<p>"No, I didn't," said Graham slowly. "I swear to you, Mr. Satterthwaite, +that I never saw her after I said good night downstairs."</p> + +<p>"I believe you," said Mr. Satterthwaite.</p> + +<p>He got up. It was not Roger Graham who had killed Mabelle Annesley. He +could have fled from her, but he could not have killed her. He had been +afraid of her, afraid of that wild, intangible, fairylike quality of +hers. He had known enchantment—and turned his back on it. He had gone +for the safe, sensible thing that he had known "would work" and had +relinquished the intangible dream that might lead him he knew not where.</p> + +<p>He was a sensible young man, and, as such, uninteresting to Mr. +Satterthwaite, who was an artist and a connoisseur in life.</p> + +<p>He left Roger Graham in his room and went downstairs. The drawing room +was empty. Mabelle's ukulele lay on a stool by the window. He took it +up and twanged it absent-mindedly. He knew nothing of the instrument, +but his ear told him that it was abominably out of tune. He turned a +key experimentally.</p> + +<p>Doris Coles came into the room. She looked at him reproachfully. "Poor +Mabelle's uke," she said.</p> + +<p>Her clear condemnation made Mr. Satterthwaite feel obstinate.</p> + +<p>"Tune it for me," he said, and added, "if you can."</p> + +<p>"Of course I can," said Doris, wounded at the suggestion of +incompetence in any direction.</p> + +<p>She took it from him, twanged a string, turned a key briskly—and the +string snapped.</p> + +<p>"Well, I never. Oh! I see—but how extraordinary. It's the wrong +string—a size too big. It's an A string. How stupid to put that on. Of +course it snaps when you try to tune it up. How stupid people are."</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "They are—even when they try to be +clever."</p> + +<p>His tone was so odd that she stared at him. He took the ukulele from +her and removed the broken string. He went out of the room holding it +in his hand. In the library he found David Keeley.</p> + +<p>"Here," he said.</p> + +<p>He held out the string. Keeley took it. "What's this?"</p> + +<p>"A broken ukulele string." He paused and then went on: "<i>What did you +do with the other one?</i>"</p> + +<p>"The other one?"</p> + +<p>"<i>The one you strangled her with.</i> You were very clever, weren't you? +It was done very quickly—just in that moment we were all laughing and +talking in the hall.</p> + +<p>"Mabelle came back into this room for her ukulele. You had taken the +string off as you fiddled with it just before. You caught her round +the throat with it and strangled her. Then you came out and locked the +door and joined us. Later, in the dead of night, you came down and—and +disposed of the body by hanging it on the door of her room. And you put +another string on the ukulele—<i>but it was the wrong string</i>, that's +why you were stupid."</p> + +<p>There was a pause.</p> + +<p>"But why did you do it?" said Mr. Satterthwaite. "In God's name, <i>why</i>?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Keeley laughed, a funny giggling little laugh that made Mr. +Satterthwaite feel rather sick.</p> + +<p>"It was so very simple," he said. "That's why! And then—nobody ever +noticed me. Nobody ever noticed what I was doing. I thought—I thought +I'd have the laugh on them."</p> + +<p>And again he gave that furtive little giggle and looked at Mr. +Satterthwaite with mad eyes.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite was glad that at that moment Inspector Winkfield came +into the room.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>It was twenty-four hours later, on his way to London, that Mr. +Satterthwaite awoke from a doze to find a tall dark man sitting +opposite to him in the railway carriage. He was not altogether +surprised.</p> + +<p>"My dear Mr. Quin!"</p> + +<p>"Yes—I am here."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite said slowly, "I can hardly face you. I am ashamed. I +failed."</p> + +<p>"Are you so sure of that?"</p> + +<p>"I did not save her."</p> + +<p>"But you discovered the truth?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, that is true. One or other of those young men might have been +accused—might even have been found guilty. So, at any rate, I saved +a man's life. But she—she—that strange, enchanting creature—" His +voice broke off.</p> + +<p>Mr. Quin looked at him.</p> + +<p>"Is death the greatest evil that can happen to anyone?"</p> + +<p>"I—well—perhaps—No."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite remembered—Madge and Roger Graham—Mabelle's face in +the moonlight—its serene unearthly happiness—</p> + +<p>"No," he admitted. "No—perhaps death is not the greatest evil."</p> + +<p>He remembered the ruffled blue chiffon of her dress that had seemed to +him like the plumage of a bird, a bird with a broken wing.</p> + +<p>When he looked up, he found himself alone. Mr. Quin was no longer +there. But he had left something behind.</p> + +<p>On the seat was a roughly-carved bird fashioned out of some dim blue +stone. It had, possibly, no great artistic merit. But it had something +else.</p> + +<p>It had the vague quality of enchantment.</p> + +<p>So said Mr. Satterthwaite—and Mr. Satterthwaite was a connoisseur.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="The_Man_From_the_Sea"><span class="smcap">The Man From the Sea</span></h2> +</div> + + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite was feeling old. That might not have been surprising +since, in the estimation of many people, he <i>was</i> old. Careless +youths said to their partners, "Old Satterthwaite? Oh! he must be a +hundred—or at any rate about eighty." And even the kindest of girls +said indulgently, "Oh! Satterthwaite. Yes, he's quite old. He <i>must</i> be +sixty." Which was almost worse, since he was sixty-nine.</p> + +<p>In his own view, however, he was not old. Sixty-nine was an interesting +age—an age of infinite possibilities—an age when at last the +experience of a lifetime was beginning to tell. But to feel old—that +was different—a tired, discouraged state of mind when one was inclined +to ask oneself depressing questions. What was he, after all? A little +dried-up, elderly man, with neither chick nor child, with no human +belongings, only a valuable art collection which seemed at the moment +strangely unsatisfying. No one to care whether he lived or died—</p> + +<p>At this point in his meditations Mr. Satterthwaite pulled himself up +short. What he was thinking was morbid and unprofitable. He knew well +enough, who better, that the chances were that a wife would have hated +him or, alternatively, that he would have hated her, that children +would have been a constant source of worry and anxiety and that demand +upon his time and affection would have worried him considerably.</p> + +<p>To be safe and comfortable, said Mr. Satterthwaite firmly—that was the +thing.</p> + +<p>The last thought reminded him of a letter he had received that +morning. He drew it from his pocket and reread it, savoring its +contents pleasurably. To begin with, it was from a duchess, and Mr. +Satterthwaite liked hearing from duchesses. It is true that the letter +began by demanding a large subscription for charity and but for that +would probably never have been written, but the terms in which it was +couched were so agreeable that Mr. Satterthwaite was able to gloss over +the first fact.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p><i>So you've deserted the Riviera. What is this island of yours like? +Cheap? Cannotti put up his prices shamefully this year, and I shan't +go to the Riviera again. I might try your island next year if you +report favorably, though I should hate five days on a boat. Still, +anywhere you recommend is sure to be pretty comfortable—too much +so. You'll get to be one of those people who do nothing but coddle +themselves and think of their comfort. There's only one thing that +will save you, Satterthwaite, and that is your inordinate interest in +other people's affairs—</i></p> +</div> + +<p>As Mr. Satterthwaite folded the letter, a vision came up vividly +before him of the duchess. Her meannesses, her unexpected and alarming +kindness, her caustic tongue, her indomitable spirit.</p> + +<p>Spirit! Everyone needed spirit. He drew out another letter with +a German stamp upon it—written by a young singer in whom he had +interested himself. It was a grateful, affectionate letter.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p><i>How can I thank you, dear Mr. Satterthwaite? It seems too wonderful +to think that in a few days I shall be singing Isolde.—</i></p> +</div> + +<p>A pity that she was to make her debut as Isolde. A charming, +hard-working child, Olga, with a beautiful voice, but no temperament. +He hummed to himself. "<i>Nay, order him! Pray understand it! I command +it. I, Isolde.</i>" No, the child hadn't got it in her—the spirit—the +indomitable will—all expressed in that final "<i>Ich, Isolde!</i>"</p> + +<p>Well, at any rate he had done something for somebody. This island +depressed him—why, oh! why had he deserted the Riviera which he +knew so well, and where he was so well known? Nobody here took any +interest in him. Nobody seemed to realize that here was <i>the</i> Mr. +Satterthwaite—the friend of duchesses and countesses and singers and +writers. No one in the island was of any social importance or of any +artistic importance either. Most people had been there seven, fourteen, +or twenty-one years running, and valued themselves and were valued +accordingly.</p> + +<p>With a deep sigh Mr. Satterthwaite proceeded down from the hotel to +the small, straggling harbor below. His way lay along an avenue of +bougainvillea—a vivid mass of flaunting scarlet, that made him feel +older and grayer than ever.</p> + +<p>"I'm getting old," he murmured. "I'm getting old and tired."</p> + +<p>He was glad when he had passed the bougainvillea and was walking down +the white street with the blue sea at the end of it. A disreputable +dog was standing in the middle of the road, yawning and stretching +himself in the sun. Having prolonged his stretch to the utmost limits +of ecstasy, he sat down and treated himself to a really good scratch. +He then rose, shook himself, and looked round for any other good things +that life might have to offer.</p> + +<p>There was a dump of rubbish by the side of the road and to this he went +sniffing in pleasurable anticipation. True enough, his nose had not +deceived him! A smell of such rich putrescence that it surpassed even +his anticipations! He sniffed with growing appreciation, then, suddenly +abandoning himself, he lay on his back and rolled frenziedly on the +delicious dump. Clearly the world this morning was a dog paradise!</p> + +<p>Tiring at last, he regained his feet and strolled out once more +into the middle of the road. And then, without the least warning, a +ramshackle car careened wildly round the corner, caught him full and +square, and passed on unheeding.</p> + +<p>The dog rose to his feet, stood a minute regarding Mr. Satterthwaite, +a vague dumb reproach in its eyes, then fell over. Mr. Satterthwaite +went up to him and bent down. The dog was dead. He went on his way, +wondering at the sadness and cruelty of life. What a queer dumb look +of reproach had been in the dog's eyes. "Oh! world," it seemed to say. +"Oh! Wonderful world in which I have trusted. Why have you done this +to me?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite went on, past the palm trees and the straggling white +houses, past the black lava beach where the surf thundered and where +once, long ago, a well-known English swimmer had been carried out to +sea and drowned, past the rock pools where children and elderly ladies +bobbed up and down and called it bathing, along the steep road that +winds upward to the top of the cliff. For there on the edge of the +cliff was a house, appropriately named La Paz. A white house with faded +green shutters tightly closed, a tangled beautiful garden, and a walk +between cypress trees that led to a plateau on the edge of the cliff +where you looked down—down—down—to the deep blue sea below.</p> + +<p>It was to this spot that Mr. Satterthwaite was bound. He had developed +a great love for the garden of La Paz. He had never entered the villa. +It seemed always to be empty. Manuel, the Spanish gardener, wished one +good morning with a flourish, and gallantly presented ladies with a +bouquet and gentlemen with a single flower as a buttonhole, his dark +face wreathed in smiles.</p> + +<p>Sometimes Mr. Satterthwaite made up stories in his own mind about the +owner of the villa. His favorite was a Spanish dancer, once world-famed +for her beauty, who hid herself here so that the world should never +know that she was no longer beautiful.</p> + +<p>He pictured her coming out of the house at dusk and walking through the +garden. Sometimes he was tempted to ask Manuel for the truth, but he +resisted the temptation. He preferred his fancies.</p> + +<p>After exchanging a few words with Manuel and graciously accepting an +orange rosebud, Mr. Satterthwaite passed on down the cypress walk +to the sea. It was rather wonderful sitting there—on the edge of +nothing—with that sheer drop below one. It made him think of <i>Tristan +and Isolde</i>, of the beginning of the third act with Tristan and +Kurwenal—that lonely waiting, and of Isolde rushing up from the sea +and Tristan dying in her arms. (No, little Olga would never make an +Isolde. Isolde of Cornwall, that royal hater and royal lover—) He +shivered. He felt old, chilly, alone. What had he had out of life? +Nothing—nothing. Not as much as that dog in the street.</p> + +<p>It was an unexpected sound that roused him from his reverie. Footsteps +coming along the cypress walk were inaudible; the first he knew of +somebody's presence was the English monosyllable "Damn."</p> + +<p>He looked round to find a young man staring at him in obvious surprise +and disappointment. Mr. Satterthwaite recognized him at once as an +arrival of the day before who had more or less intrigued him. Mr. +Satterthwaite called him a young man—because in comparison to most of +the die-hards in the hotel he <i>was</i> a young man, but he would certainly +never see forty again and was probably drawing appreciably near to +his half century. Yet, in spite of that, the term young man fitted +him—Mr. Satterthwaite was usually right about such things—there was +an impression of immaturity about him. As there is a touch of puppyhood +about many a full-grown dog, so it was with the stranger.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite thought, <i>This chap has really never grown up—not +properly, that is</i>.</p> + +<p>And yet there was nothing Peter Pannish about him. He was sleek—almost +plump, he had the air of one who has always done himself exceedingly +well in the material sense and denied himself no pleasure or +satisfaction. He had brown eyes—rather round—fair hair turning +gray—a little mustache and rather a florid face.</p> + +<p>The thing that had puzzled Mr. Satterthwaite was what had brought him +to the island. He could imagine him shooting things, hunting things, +playing polo or golf or tennis, making love to pretty women. But in +the island there was nothing to hunt or shoot, no games except golf +croquet, and the nearest approach to a pretty woman was represented by +elderly Miss Baba Kindersley. There were, of course, artists, to whom +the beauty of the scenery made appeal, but Mr. Satterthwaite was quite +certain that the young man was not an artist. He was clearly marked +with the stamp of the Philistine.</p> + +<p>While he was revolving these things in his mind, the other spoke, +realizing somewhat belatedly that his single ejaculation so far might +be open to criticism.</p> + +<p>"I beg your pardon," he said with some embarrassment. "As a matter of +fact, I was—well, startled. I didn't expect anyone to be here."</p> + +<p>He smiled disarmingly. He had a charming smile—friendly—appealing.</p> + +<p>"It is rather a lonely spot," agreed Mr. Satterthwaite, and he moved +politely a little farther up the bench. The other accepted the mute +invitation and sat down.</p> + +<p>"I don't know about lonely," he said. "There always seems to be +<i>someone</i> here."</p> + +<p>There was a tinge of latent resentment in his voice. Mr. Satterthwaite +wondered why. He read the other as a friendly soul. Why this insistence +on solitude? A rendezvous, perhaps? No—not that. He looked again +with carefully veiled scrutiny at his companion. Where had he seen +that particular expression before quite lately? That look of dumb, +bewildered resentment.</p> + +<p>"You've been up here before then?" said Mr. Satterthwaite, more for the +sake of saying something than for anything else.</p> + +<p>"I was up here last night—after dinner."</p> + +<p>"Really? I thought the gates were always locked."</p> + +<p>There was a moment's pause and then, almost sullenly, the young man +said, "I climbed over the wall."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite looked at him with real attention now. He had a +sleuthlike habit of mind and he was aware that his companion had +only arrived on the preceding afternoon. He had had little time to +discover the beauties of the villa by daylight and he had so far +spoken to nobody. Yet after dark he had made straight for La Paz. +Why? Almost involuntarily Mr. Satterthwaite turned his head to look +at the green-shuttered villa, but it was as ever serenely lifeless, +close-shuttered. No, the solution of the mystery was not there.</p> + +<p>"And you actually found someone here then?"</p> + +<p>The other nodded. "Yes. Must have been from the other hotel. He had on +fancy dress."</p> + +<p>"Fancy dress?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. A kind of Harlequin rig."</p> + +<p>"What?"</p> + +<p>The query fairly burst from Mr. Satterthwaite's lips. His companion +turned to stare at him in surprise.</p> + +<p>"They often do have fancy dress shows at the hotels, I suppose?"</p> + +<p>"Oh! quite," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "Quite, quite, quite."</p> + +<p>He paused breathlessly, then added, "You must excuse my excitement. Do +you happen to know anything about catalysis?"</p> + +<p>The young man stared at him. "Never heard of it. What is it?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite quoted gravely: "<i>A chemical reaction depending for +its success on the presence of a certain substance which itself remains +unchanged</i>."</p> + +<p>"Oh!" said the young man uncertainly.</p> + +<p>"I have a certain friend—his name is Mr. Quin, and he can best be +described in the terms of catalysis. His presence is a sign that things +are going to happen; because he is there strange revelations come to +light, discoveries are made. And yet—he himself takes no part in the +proceedings. I have a feeling that it was my friend you met here last +night."</p> + +<p>"He's a very sudden sort of chap then. He gave me quite a shock. One +minute he wasn't there and the next minute he was! Almost as though he +came up out of the sea."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite looked along the little plateau and down the sheer +drop below.</p> + +<p>"That's nonsense, of course," said the other. "But it's the feeling he +gave me. Of course, really, there isn't the foothold for a fly." He +looked over the edge. "A straight, clear drop. If you went over—well, +that would be the end right enough."</p> + +<p>"An ideal spot for a murder, in fact," said Mr. Satterthwaite +pleasantly.</p> + +<p>The other stared at him, almost as though for the moment he did not +follow. Then he said vaguely, "Oh! yes—of course."</p> + +<p>He sat there, making little dabs at the ground with his stick and +frowning. Suddenly Mr. Satterthwaite got the resemblance he had been +seeking. That dumb, bewildered questioning. <i>So had the dog looked +who was run over.</i> His eyes and this young man's eyes asked the same +pathetic question with the same reproach. "<i>Oh! world that I have +trusted—what have you done to me?</i>"</p> + +<p>He saw other points of resemblance between the two, the same +pleasure-loving, easy-going existence, the same joyous abandon to +the delights of life, the same absence of intellectual questioning. +Enough for both to live in the moment—the world was a good place, a +place of carnal delights—sun, sea, sky—a discreet garbage heap. And +then—what? A car had hit the dog. What had hit the man?</p> + +<p>The subject of these cogitations broke in at this point, speaking, +however, more to himself than to Mr. Satterthwaite. "One wonders," he +said, "what it's all for."</p> + +<p>Familiar words—words that usually brought a smile to Mr. +Satterthwaite's lips, with their unconscious betrayal of the innate +egoism of humanity, which insists on regarding every manifestation +of life as directly designed for its delight or its torment. He did +not answer, and presently the stranger said with a slight, rather +apologetic laugh:</p> + +<p>"I've heard it said that every man should build a house, plant a tree, +and have a son." He paused and then added, "I believe I planted an +acorn once—"</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite stirred slightly. His curiosity was aroused—that +ever-present interest in the affairs of other people of which the +duchess had accused him was roused. It was not difficult. Mr. +Satterthwaite had a very feminine side to his nature; he was as good +a listener as any woman, and he knew the right moment to put in a +prompting word. Presently he was hearing the whole story.</p> + +<p>Anthony Cosdon, that was the stranger's name, and his life had been +much as Mr. Satterthwaite had imagined it. He was a bad hand at telling +a story but his listener supplied the gaps easily enough. A very +ordinary life—an average income, a little soldiering, a good deal of +sport whenever sport offered, plenty of friends, plenty of pleasant +things to do, a sufficiency of women. The kind of life that practically +inhibits thought of any description and substitutes sensation. To speak +frankly, an animal's life. <i>But there are worse things than that</i>, +thought Mr. Satterthwaite from the depths of his experience. <i>Oh! many +worse things than that.</i> This world had seemed a very good place to +Anthony Cosdon. He had grumbled because everyone always grumbled, but +it had never been a serious grumble. And then—<i>this</i>.</p> + +<p>He came to it at last—rather vaguely and incoherently. Hadn't felt +quite the thing—nothing much. Saw his doctor, and the doctor had +persuaded him to go to a Harley Street man. And then—the incredible +truth. They'd tried to hedge about it—spoke of great care—a quiet +life, but they hadn't been able to disguise that that was all +eyewash—letting him down lightly. It boiled down to this—six months. +That's what they gave him. Six months.</p> + +<p>He turned those bewildered brown eyes on Mr. Satterthwaite. It was, of +course, rather a shock to a fellow. One didn't—one didn't somehow, +know what to <i>do</i>.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite nodded gravely and understandingly.</p> + +<p>It was a bit difficult to take in all at once, Anthony Cosdon went on. +How to put in the time. Rather a rotten business waiting about to get +pipped. He didn't feel really ill—not yet. Though that might come +later, so the specialist had said—in fact it was bound to. It seemed +such nonsense to be going to die when one didn't in the least want to. +The best thing, he had thought, would be to carry on as usual. But +somehow that hadn't worked.</p> + +<p>Here Mr. Satterthwaite interrupted him. Wasn't there, he hinted +delicately, any woman?</p> + +<p>But apparently there wasn't. There were women, of course, but not that +kind. His crowd was a very cheery crowd. They didn't, so he implied, +like corpses. He didn't wish to make a kind of walking funeral of +himself. It would have been embarrassing for everybody. So he had come +abroad.</p> + +<p>"You came to these islands? But why?" Mr. Satterthwaite was hunting for +something, something intangible but delicate that eluded him and yet +which he was sure was there. "You've been here before, perhaps?"</p> + +<p>"Yes." He admitted it almost unwillingly. "Years ago when I was a +youngster."</p> + +<p>And suddenly, almost unconsciously so it seemed, he shot a quick glance +backward over his shoulder in the direction of the villa.</p> + +<p>"I remembered this place," he said, nodding at the sea. "<i>One step to +eternity!</i>"</p> + +<p>"And that is why you came up here last night," finished Mr. +Satterthwaite calmly.</p> + +<p>Anthony Cosdon shot him a dismayed glance. "Oh! I say—really—" he +protested.</p> + +<p>"Last night you found someone here. This afternoon you have found me. +Your life has been saved—twice."</p> + +<p>"You may put it that way if you like—but damn it all, it's <i>my</i> life. +I've a right to do what I like with it."</p> + +<p>"That is a cliché," said Mr. Satterthwaite wearily.</p> + +<p>"Of course I see your point," said Anthony Cosdon generously. +"Naturally you've got to say what you can. I'd try to dissuade a +fellow myself, even though I knew deep down that he was right. And you +know that I'm right. A clean, quick end is better than a lingering +one—causing trouble and expense and bother to all. In any case it's +not as though I had anyone in the world belonging to me—"</p> + +<p>"If you had?" asked Mr. Satterthwaite sharply.</p> + +<p>Cosdon drew a deep breath. "I don't know. Even then, I think, this way +would be best. But anyway—I haven't—"</p> + +<p>He stopped abruptly. Mr. Satterthwaite eyed him curiously. Incurably +romantic, he suggested again that there was, somewhere, some woman. But +Cosdon negatived it. He oughtn't, he said, to complain. He had had, on +the whole, a very good life. It was a pity it was going to be over so +soon, that was all. But at any rate he had had, he supposed, everything +worth having. Except a son. He would have liked a son. He would like to +know now that he had a son living after him. Still, he reiterated the +fact, he had had a very good life.</p> + +<p>It was at this point that Mr. Satterthwaite lost patience. Nobody, he +pointed out, who was still in the larval stage, could claim to know +anything of life at all. Since the words "larval stage" clearly meant +nothing at all to Cosdon, he proceeded to make his meaning clearer.</p> + +<p>"You have not begun to live yet. You are still at the beginning of +life."</p> + +<p>Cosdon laughed. "Why, my hair's gray. I'm forty—"</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite interrupted him. "That has nothing to do with it. +Life is a compound of physical and mental experience. I, for instance, +am sixty-nine, and I am really sixty-nine. I have known, either at +first or second hand, nearly all the experiences life has to offer. +You are like a man who talks of a full year and has seen nothing but +snow and ice! The flowers of spring, the languorous days of summer, +the falling leaves of autumn—he knows nothing of them—not even that +there are such things. And you are going to turn your back on even the +opportunity of knowing them."</p> + +<p>"You seem to forget," said Anthony Cosdon dryly, "that in any case, I +have only six months."</p> + +<p>"Time, like everything else, is relative," said Mr. Satterthwaite. +"That six months might be the longest and most varied experience of +your whole life."</p> + +<p>Cosdon looked unconvinced. "In my place," he said, "you would do the +same."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite shook his head. "No," he said simply. "In the first +place, I doubt if I should have the courage. It needs courage, and I am +not at all a brave individual. And in the second place—"</p> + +<p>"Well?"</p> + +<p>"I always want to know what is going to happen tomorrow."</p> + +<p>Cosdon rose suddenly with a laugh. "Well, sir, you've been very good in +letting me talk to you. I hardly know why—Anyway, there it is. I've +said a lot too much. Forget it."</p> + +<p>"And tomorrow, when an accident is reported, I am to leave it at that? +To make no suggestions of suicide?"</p> + +<p>"That's as you like. I'm glad you realize one thing—that you can't +prevent me."</p> + +<p>"My dear young man," said Mr. Satterthwaite placidly, "I can hardly +attach myself to you like the proverbial limpet. Sooner or later +you would give me the slip and accomplish your purpose. But you are +frustrated at any rate for this afternoon. You would hardly like to go +to your death leaving me under the possible imputation of having pushed +you over."</p> + +<p>"That is true," said Cosdon. "If you insist on remaining here—"</p> + +<p>"I do," said Mr. Satterthwaite firmly.</p> + +<p>Cosdon laughed good-humoredly. "Then the plan must be deferred for +the moment. In which case I will go back to the hotel. See you later +perhaps."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite was left looking at the sea.</p> + +<p>"And now," he said to himself softly, "what next? There must be a next. +I wonder—"</p> + +<p>He got up. For a while he stood at the edge of the plateau looking down +at the dancing water beneath. But he found no inspiration there, and +turning slowly he walked back along the path between the cypresses and +into the quiet garden. He looked at the shuttered, peaceful house and +he wondered as he had often wondered before who had lived there and +what had taken place within those placid walls. On a sudden impulse +he walked up some crumbling stone steps and laid a hand on one of the +faded green shutters.</p> + +<p>To his surprise it swung back at his touch. He hesitated a moment, then +pushed it boldly open. The next minute he stepped back with a little +exclamation of dismay. A woman stood in the window facing him. She wore +black and had a black lace mantilla draped over her head.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite floundered wildly in Italian interspersed with +German—the nearest he could get in the hurry of the moment to Spanish. +He was desolated and ashamed, he explained haltingly. The Signora must +forgive. He thereupon retreated hastily, the woman not having spoken +one word.</p> + +<p>He was halfway across the courtyard when she spoke—two sharp words +like a pistol crack. "Come back!"</p> + +<p>It was a barked-out command such as might have been addressed to a dog, +yet so absolute was the authority it conveyed that Mr. Satterthwaite +had swung round hurriedly and trotted back to the window almost +automatically before it occurred to him to feel any resentment. He +obeyed like a dog. The woman was still standing motionless at the +window. She looked him up and down appraising him with perfect calmness.</p> + +<p>"You are English," she said. "I thought so."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite started off on a second apology. "If I had known you +were English," he said, "I could have expressed myself better just +now. I offer my most sincere apologies for my rudeness in trying the +shutter. I am afraid I can plead no excuse save curiosity. I had a +great wish to see what the inside of this charming house was like."</p> + +<p>She laughed suddenly, a deep rich laugh. "If you really want to see +it," she said, "you had better come in."</p> + +<p>She stood aside, and Mr. Satterthwaite, feeling pleasurably excited, +stepped into the room. It was dark, since the shutters of the other +windows were closed, but he could see that it was scantily and rather +shabbily furnished and that the dust lay thick everywhere.</p> + +<p>"Not here," she said. "I do not use this room."</p> + +<p>She led the way and he followed her, out of the room across a passage +and into a room the other side. Here the windows gave on the sea and +the sun streamed in. The furniture like that of the other room was poor +in quality, but there were some worn rugs that had been good in their +time, a large screen of Spanish leather and bowls of fresh flowers.</p> + +<p>"You will have tea with me," said Mr. Satterthwaite's hostess. She +added, reassuringly, "It is perfectly good tea and will be made with +boiling water."</p> + +<p>She went out of the door and called out something in Spanish, then she +returned and sat down on a sofa opposite her guest. For the first time, +Mr. Satterthwaite was able to study her appearance.</p> + +<p>The first effect she had upon him was to make him feel even more gray +and shriveled and elderly than usual by contrast with her own forceful +personality. She was a tall woman, very sunburned, dark and handsome, +though no longer young. When she was in the room the sun seemed to be +shining twice as brightly as when she was out of it, and presently +a curious feeling of warmth and aliveness began to steal over Mr. +Satterthwaite. It was as though he stretched out thin, shriveled hands +to a reassuring flame. He thought, <i>She's so much vitality herself that +she's got a lot left over for other people.</i></p> + +<p>He recalled the command in her voice when she had stopped him and +wished that his protégée Olga could be imbued with a little of that +force. He thought, <i>What an Isolde she'd make! And yet she probably +hasn't got the ghost of a singing voice. Life is badly arranged.</i> He +was, all the same, a little afraid of her. He did not like domineering +women.</p> + +<p>She had clearly been considering him as she sat with her chin in her +hands, making no pretense about it. At last she nodded as though she +had made up her mind.</p> + +<p>"I am glad you came," she said at last. "I needed someone very badly to +talk to this afternoon. And you are used to that, aren't you?"</p> + +<p>"I don't quite understand."</p> + +<p>"I meant people tell you things. You knew what I meant! Why pretend?"</p> + +<p>"Well—perhaps—"</p> + +<p>She swept on, regardless of anything he had been going to say. "One +could say anything to you. That is because you are half a woman. You +know what we feel—what we think—the queer, queer things we do."</p> + +<p>Her voice died away. Tea was brought by a large, smiling Spanish girl. +It was good tea—China—Mr. Satterthwaite sipped it appreciatively.</p> + +<p>"You live here?" he inquired conversationally.</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"But not altogether. The house is usually shut up, is it not? At least +so I have been told."</p> + +<p>"I am here a good deal, more than anyone knows. I only use these rooms."</p> + +<p>"You have had the house long?"</p> + +<p>"It has belonged to me for twenty-two years—and I lived here for a +year before that."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite said rather inanely, or so he felt, "That is a very +long time."</p> + +<p>"The year? Or the twenty-two years?"</p> + +<p>His interest stirred, Mr. Satterthwaite said gravely, "That depends."</p> + +<p>She nodded. "Yes, it depends. They are two separate periods. They have +nothing to do with each other. Which is long? Which is short? Even now +I cannot say."</p> + +<p>She was silent for a minute, brooding. Then she said with a little +smile, "It is such a long time since I have talked with anyone—such a +long time! I do not apologize. You came to my shutter. You wished to +look through my window. And that is what you are always doing, is it +not? Pushing aside the shutter and looking through the window into the +truth of people's lives. If they will let you. And often if they will +not let you! It would be difficult to hide anything from you. You would +guess—and guess right."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite had an odd impulse to be perfectly sincere. "I am +sixty-nine," he said. "Everything I know of life I know at second hand. +Sometimes that is very bitter to me. And yet, because of it, I know a +good deal."</p> + +<p>She nodded thoughtfully. "I know. Life is very strange. I cannot +imagine what it must be like to be that—always a looker-on."</p> + +<p>Her tone was wondering. Mr. Satterthwaite smiled. "No, you would not +know. Your place is in the center of the stage. You will always be the +prima donna."</p> + +<p>"What a curious thing to say."</p> + +<p>"But I am right. Things have happened to you—will always happen to +you. Sometimes, I think, there have been tragic things. Is that so?"</p> + +<p>Her eyes narrowed. She looked across at him.</p> + +<p>"If you are here long, somebody will tell you of the English swimmer +who was drowned at the foot of this cliff. They will tell you how young +and strong he was, how handsome, and they will tell you that his young +wife looked down from the top of the cliff and saw him drowning."</p> + +<p>"Yes, I have already heard that story."</p> + +<p>"That man was my husband. This was his villa. He brought me out here +with him when I was eighteen, and a year later, he died—driven by the +surf on the black rocks, cut and bruised and mutilated, battered to +death."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite gave a shocked exclamation. She leaned forward, her +burning eyes focused on his face. "You spoke of a tragedy. Can you +imagine a greater tragedy than that? For a young wife, only a year +married, to stand helpless while the man she loved fought for his +life—and lost it—horribly."</p> + +<p>"Terrible," said Mr. Satterthwaite. He spoke with real emotion. +"Terrible. I agree with you. Nothing in life could be so dreadful."</p> + +<p>Suddenly she laughed. Her head went back. "You are wrong," she said. +"There is something more terrible. And that is for a young wife to +stand there and hope and long for her husband to drown."</p> + +<p>"But, good God," cried Mr. Satterthwaite, "you don't mean—"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I do. That's what it was really. I knelt there—knelt down on the +cliff and prayed. The Spanish servants thought I was praying for his +life to be saved. I wasn't. I was praying that I might wish him to be +spared. I was saying one thing over and over again, 'God, help me not +to wish him dead. God, help me not to wish him dead.' But it wasn't +any good. All the time I hoped—hoped—and my hope came true."</p> + +<p>She was silent for a minute or two and then she said, very gently, in +quite a different voice, "That is a terrible thing, isn't it? It's the +sort of thing one can't forget. I was so terribly happy when I knew he +was really dead and couldn't come back to torture me any more."</p> + +<p>"My child," said Mr. Satterthwaite, shocked.</p> + +<p>"I know. I was too young to have that happen to me. Those things +should happen to one when one is older—when one is more prepared +for—for beastliness. Nobody knew, you know, what he was really like. +I thought he was wonderful when I first met him and was so happy and +proud when he asked me to marry him. But things went wrong almost at +once. He was angry with me—nothing I could do pleased him—and yet I +tried so hard. And then he began to like hurting me. And above all to +terrify me. That's what he enjoyed most. He thought out all sort of +things—dreadful things. I won't tell you. I suppose, really he must +have been a little mad. I was alone here, in his power, and cruelty +began to be his hobby." Her eyes widened and darkened. "The worst was +my baby. I was going to have a baby. Because of some of the things he +did to me—it was born dead. My little baby. I nearly died too—but I +didn't. I wished I had."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite made an inarticulate sound.</p> + +<p>"And then I was delivered—in the way I've told you. Some girls who +were staying at the hotel dared him. That's how it happened. All the +Spaniards told him it was madness to risk the sea just there. But he +was very vain—he wanted to show off. And I—I saw him drown—and was +glad. God oughtn't to let such things happen."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite stretched out his little dry hand and took hers. She +squeezed it hard as a child might have done. The maturity had fallen +away from her face. He saw her without difficulty as she had been at +nineteen.</p> + +<p>"At first it seemed too good to be true. The house was mine and I could +live in it. And no one could hurt me any more! I was an orphan, you +know, I had no near relations, no one to care what became of me. That +simplified things. I lived on here—in this villa—and it seemed like +heaven. Yes, like heaven. I've never been so happy since, and never +shall again. Just to wake up and know that everything was all right—no +pain, no terror, no wondering what he was going to do to me next. Yes, +it was heaven."</p> + +<p>She paused a long time, and Mr. Satterthwaite said at last, "And then?"</p> + +<p>"I suppose human beings aren't ever satisfied. At first, just being +free was enough. But after a while I began to get—well, lonely, I +suppose. I began to think about my baby that died. If only I had had +my baby! I wanted it as a baby, and also as a plaything. I wanted +dreadfully something or someone to play with. It sounds silly and +childish, but there it was."</p> + +<p>"I understand," said Mr. Satterthwaite gravely.</p> + +<p>"It's difficult to explain the next bit. It just—well, happened, you +see. There was a young Englishman staying at the hotel. He strayed into +the garden by mistake. I was wearing Spanish dress and he took me for +a Spanish girl. I thought it would be rather fun to pretend I was one, +so I played up. His Spanish was very bad but he could just manage a +little. I told him the villa belonged to an English lady who was away. +I said she had taught me a little English, and I pretended to speak +broken English. It was such fun—such fun—even now I can remember what +fun it was. He began to make love to me. We agreed to pretend that the +villa was our home, that we were just married and coming to live there. +I suggested that we should try one of the shutters—the one you tried +this evening. It was open and inside the room was dusty and uncared +for. We crept in. It was exciting and wonderful. We pretended it was +our own house."</p> + +<p>She broke off suddenly, looked appealingly at Mr. Satterthwaite.</p> + +<p>"It all seemed lovely—like a fairy tale. And the lovely thing about +it, to me, was that it wasn't true. It wasn't real."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite nodded. He saw her, perhaps, more clearly than +she saw herself—that frightened lonely child entranced with her +make-believe that was so safe because it wasn't real.</p> + +<p>"He was, I suppose, a very ordinary young man. Out for adventure, but +quite sweet about it. We went on pretending."</p> + +<p>She stopped, looked at Mr. Satterthwaite, and said again, "You +understand? We went on pretending—"</p> + +<p>She went on again in a minute. "He came up again the next morning to +the villa. I saw him from my bedroom through the shutter. Of course +he didn't dream I was inside. He still thought I was a little Spanish +peasant girl. He stood there looking about him. He'd asked me to meet +him. I'd said I would but I never meant to.</p> + +<p>"He just stood there looking worried. I think he was worried about me. +It was nice of him to be worried about me. He <i>was</i> nice—"</p> + +<p>She paused again.</p> + +<p>"The next day he left. I've never seen him again.</p> + +<p>"My baby was born nine months later. I was wonderfully happy all the +time. To be able to have a baby so peacefully with no one to hurt you +or make you miserable. I wished I'd remembered to ask my English boy +his Christian name. I would have called the baby after him. It seemed +unkind not to. It seemed rather unfair. He'd given me the thing I +wanted most in the world, and he would never even know about it! But +of course I told myself that he wouldn't look at it that way—that to +know would probably only worry and annoy him. I had been just a passing +amusement for him, that was all."</p> + +<p>"And the baby?" asked Mr. Satterthwaite.</p> + +<p>"He was splendid. I called him John. Splendid. I wish you could see him +now. He's twenty. He's going to be a mining engineer. He's been the +best and dearest son in the world to me. I told him his father had died +before he was born."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite stared at her. A curious story. And somehow, a story +that was not completely told. There was, he felt sure, something else.</p> + +<p>"Twenty years is a long time," he said thoughtfully. "You've never +contemplated marrying again?"</p> + +<p>She shook her head. A slow, burning blush spread over her tanned cheeks.</p> + +<p>"The child was enough for you—always?"</p> + +<p>She looked at him. Her eyes were softer than he had yet seen them.</p> + +<p>"Such queer things happen!" she murmured. "Such queer, queer things. +You wouldn't believe them—No, I'm wrong, <i>you</i> might, perhaps. I +didn't love John's father, not at the time. I don't think I even knew +what love was. I assumed, as a matter of course, that the child would +be like me. But he wasn't. He mightn't have been my child at all. He +was like his father—he was like no one but his father. I learned to +know that man—through his child. Through the child, I learned to love +him. I love him now. I always shall love him. You may say that it's +imagination, that I've built up an ideal, but it isn't so. I love the +man, the real human man. I'd know him if I saw him tomorrow—even +though it's over twenty years since we met. Loving him has made me into a +woman. I love him as a woman loves a man. For twenty years I've lived +loving him. I shall die loving him."</p> + +<p>She stopped abruptly—then challenged her listener. "Do you think I'm +mad—to say these strange things?"</p> + +<p>"Oh! my dear," said Mr. Satterthwaite. He took her hand again.</p> + +<p>"You do understand?"</p> + +<p>"I think I do. But there's something more, isn't there? Something that +you haven't yet told me?"</p> + +<p>Her brow clouded over. "Yes, there's something. It was clever of you to +guess. I knew at once you weren't the sort one can hide things from. +But I don't want to tell you—and the reason I don't want to tell you +is because it's best for you not to know."</p> + +<p>He looked at her. Her eyes met his bravely and defiantly.</p> + +<p>He said to himself, <i>This is the test. All the clues are in my hand. I +ought to be able to know. If I reason rightly I shall know.</i></p> + +<p>There was a pause, then he said slowly, "Something's gone wrong."</p> + +<p>He saw her eyelids give the faintest quiver and knew himself to be on +the right track. "Something's gone wrong—suddenly—after all these +years."</p> + +<p>He felt himself groping—groping—in the dark recesses of her mind +where she was trying to hide her secret from him. "The boy—it's to do +with him. You wouldn't mind about anything else."</p> + +<p>He heard the very faint gasp she gave and knew he had probed +correctly. A cruel business but necessary. It was her will against +his. She had got a dominant, ruthless will, but he too had a will +hidden beneath his meek manner. And he had behind him the heaven-sent +assurance of a man who is doing his proper job. He felt a passing +contemptuous pity for men whose business it was to track down such +crudities as crime. This detective business of the mind, this +assembling of clues, this delving for the truth, this wild joy as one +drew nearer to the goal—Her very passion to keep the truth from him +helped him. He felt her stiffen defiantly as he drew nearer and nearer.</p> + +<p>"It is better for me not to know, you say. Better for <i>me</i>? But you +are not a very considerate woman. You would not shrink from putting a +stranger to a little temporary inconvenience. It is more than that, +then? If you tell me, you make me an accomplice before the fact. That +sounds like crime. Fantastic! I could not associate crime with you. Or +only one sort of crime. A crime against yourself."</p> + +<p>Her lids drooped in spite of herself, veiled her eyes. He leaned +forward and caught her wrist.</p> + +<p>"It <i>is</i> that, then! You are thinking of taking your life."</p> + +<p>She gave a low cry. "How did you know? How did you know?"</p> + +<p>"But why? You are not tired of life. I never saw a woman less tired of +it—more radiantly alive."</p> + +<p>She got up, went to the window, pushing back a strand of her dark hair +as she did so.</p> + +<p>"Since you have guessed so much, I might as well tell you the truth. +I should not have let you in this evening. I might have known that +you would see too much. You are that kind of man. You were right +about the cause. It's the boy. He knows nothing. But last time he +was home, he spoke tragically of a friend of his, and I discovered +something. If he finds out that he is illegitimate it will break his +heart. He is proud—horribly proud! There is a girl. Oh! I won't go +into details. But he is coming very soon—and he wants to know all +about his father—he wants details. The girl's parents naturally want +to know. When he discovers the truth, he will break with her, exile +himself, ruin his life. Oh! I know the things you would say. He is +young, foolish, wrong-headed to take it like that! All true perhaps. +But does it matter what people ought to be? They are what they are. +<i>It will break his heart.</i> But if, before he comes, there has been an +accident, everything will be swallowed up in grief for me. He will look +through my papers, find nothing, and be annoyed that I told him so +little. But he will not suspect the truth. It is the best way. One must +pay for happiness, and I have had so much—oh! so much happiness. And +in reality the price will be easy too. A little courage—to take the +leap—perhaps a moment or so of anguish."</p> + +<p>"But, my dear child—"</p> + +<p>"Don't argue with me." She flared round on him. "I won't listen to +conventional arguments. My life is my own. Up to now, it has been +needed—for John. But he needs it no longer. He wants a mate—a +companion—he will turn to her all the more willingly because I am no +longer there. My life is useless, but my death will be of use. And I +have the right to do what I like with my own life."</p> + +<p>"Are you sure?"</p> + +<p>The sternness of his tone surprised her. She stammered slightly. "If it +is no good to anyone—and I am the best judge of that—"</p> + +<p>He interrupted her again. "Not necessarily."</p> + +<p>"What do you mean?"</p> + +<p>"Listen. I will put a case to you. A man comes to a certain place—to +commit suicide, shall we say? But by chance he finds another man +there, so he fails in his purpose and goes away—to live. The second +man has saved the first man's life, not by being necessary to him or +prominent in his life but just by the mere physical fact of having been +in a certain place at a certain moment. You take your life today and +perhaps, some five, six, seven years hence, someone will go to death or +disaster simply for lack of your presence in a given spot or place. It +may be a runaway horse coming down a street that swerves aside at sight +of you and so fails to trample a child that is playing in the gutter. +That child may live to grow up and be a great musician, or discover a +cure for cancer. Or it may be less melodramatic than that. He may just +grow up to ordinary everyday happiness."</p> + +<p>She stared at him. "You are a strange man. These things you say—I have +never thought of them."</p> + +<p>"You say your life is your own," went on Mr. Satterthwaite. "But can +you dare to ignore the chance that you are taking part in a gigantic +drama under the orders of a divine Producer? Your cue may not come till +the end of the play—it may be totally unimportant, a mere walking-on +part, but upon it may hang the issues of the play, if you do not give +the cue to another player. The whole edifice may crumple. You, as +you, may not matter to anyone in the world, but you as a person in a +particular place may matter unimaginably."</p> + +<p>She sat down, still staring. "What do you want me to do?" she said +simply.</p> + +<p>It was Mr. Satterthwaite's moment of triumph. He issued orders. "I +want you at least to promise me one thing—to do nothing rash for +twenty-four hours."</p> + +<p>She was silent a moment or two and then she said, "I promise."</p> + +<p>"There is one other thing—a favor."</p> + +<p>"Yes?"</p> + +<p>"Leave the shutter of the room I came in by unfastened, and keep vigil +there tonight."</p> + +<p>She looked at him curiously, but nodded assent.</p> + +<p>"And now," said Mr. Satterthwaite, slightly conscious of anticlimax, "I +really must be going. God bless you, my dear."</p> + +<p>He made a rather embarrassed exit. The stalwart Spanish girl met him in +the passage and opened a side door for him, staring curiously at him +the while.</p> + +<p>It was just growing dark as he reached the hotel. There was a solitary +figure sitting on the terrace. Mr. Satterthwaite made straight for +it. He was excited and his heart was beating quite fast. He felt that +tremendous issues lay in his hands. One false move—</p> + +<p>But he tried to conceal his agitation and to speak naturally and +casually to Anthony Cosdon.</p> + +<p>"A warm evening," he observed. "I quite lost count of time sitting up +there on the cliff."</p> + +<p>"Have you been up there all this time?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite nodded. The swing door into the hotel opened to let +someone through, and a beam of light fell suddenly on the other's +face, illuminating its look of dull suffering, of uncomprehending dumb +endurance.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite thought, <i>It's worse for him than it would be for me. +Imagination, conjecture, speculation—they can do a lot for you. You +can, as it were, ring the changes upon pain. The uncomprehending blind +suffering of an animal—that's terrible.</i></p> + +<p>Cosdon spoke suddenly in a harsh voice. "I'm going for a stroll after +dinner. You—you understand? The third time's lucky. For God's sake +don't interfere. I know your interference will be well-meaning and all +that—but take it from me, it's useless."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite drew himself up. "I never interfere," he said, +thereby giving the lie to the whole purpose and object of his existence.</p> + +<p>"I know what you think—" went on Cosdon, but he was interrupted.</p> + +<p>"You must excuse me, but there I beg to differ from you," said Mr. +Satterthwaite. "Nobody knows what another person is thinking. They may +imagine they do, but they are nearly always wrong."</p> + +<p>"Well, perhaps that's so." Cosdon was doubtful, slightly taken aback.</p> + +<p>"Your life is your own," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "Nobody can alter +or influence the use you mean to make of it. Let us talk of a less +painful subject. That old villa, for instance. It has a curious charm, +withdrawn, sheltered from the world, shielding heaven knows what +mystery. It tempted me to do a doubtful action. I tried one of the +shutters."</p> + +<p>"You did?" Cosdon turned his head sharply. "But it was fastened, of +course?"</p> + +<p>"No," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "It was open." He added gently, "The +third shutter from the end."</p> + +<p>"Why," Cosdon burst out, "that was the one—"</p> + +<p>He broke off suddenly, but Mr. Satterthwaite had seen the light that +had sprung up in his eyes. He rose—satisfied.</p> + +<p>Some slight tinge of anxiety still remained with him. Using his +favorite metaphor of a drama, he hoped that he had spoken his few lines +correctly. For they were very important lines.</p> + +<p>But thinking it over, his artistic judgment was satisfied. On his way +up to the cliff, Cosdon would try that shutter. It was not in human +nature to resist. A memory of twenty-odd years ago had brought him to +this spot; the same memory would take him to the shutter. And afterward?</p> + +<p>"I shall know in the morning," said Mr. Satterthwaite, and proceeded to +change methodically for his evening meal.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>It was somewhere round ten o'clock that Mr. Satterthwaite set foot once +more in the garden of La Paz. Manuel bade him a smiling "Good morning," +and handed him a single rosebud which Mr. Satterthwaite put carefully +into his buttonhole. Then he went on to the house. He stood there for +some minutes looking up at the peaceful white walls, the trailing +orange creeper, and the faded green shutters. So silent, so peaceful. +Had the whole thing been a dream?</p> + +<p>But at that moment one of the windows opened and the lady who occupied +Mr. Satterthwaite's thoughts came out. She came straight to him with +a buoyant, swaying walk, like someone carried on a great wave of +exultation. Her eyes were shining, her color high. She looked like a +figure of joy on a frieze. There was no hesitation about her, no doubt +or tremors. Straight to Mr. Satterthwaite she came, put her hands on +his shoulders, and kissed him—not once but many times. Large, dark, +red roses, very velvety—that is how he thought of it afterward. +Sunshine, summer, birds singing—that was the atmosphere into which he +felt himself caught up. Warmth, joy, and tremendous vigor.</p> + +<p>"I'm so happy," she said. "You darling! How did you know? How <i>could</i> +you know? You're like the good magician in the fairy tales."</p> + +<p>She paused, a sort of breathlessness of happiness upon her.</p> + +<p>"We're going over today—to the Consul—to get married. When John +comes, his father will be here. We'll tell him there was some +misunderstanding in the past. Oh! he won't ask questions. Oh! I'm so +happy—so happy—so happy."</p> + +<p>Happiness did indeed surge from her like a tide. It lapped round Mr. +Satterthwaite in a warm, exhilarating flood.</p> + +<p>"It's so wonderful to Anthony to find he has a son. I never dreamed +he'd mind or care." She looked confidently into Mr. Satterthwaite's +eyes. "Isn't it strange how things come right and end all beautifully?"</p> + +<p>He had his clearest vision of her yet. A child—still a child—with her +love of make-believe—her fairy tales that ended beautifully with two +people "living happily ever afterward."</p> + +<p>He said gently, "If you bring this man of yours happiness in these last +months, you will indeed have done a very beautiful thing."</p> + +<p>Her eyes opened wide—surprised. "Oh!" she said. "You don't think I'd +let him die, do you? After all these years—when he's come to me. I've +known lots of people whom doctors have given up and who are alive +today. Die? Of course he's not going to die!"</p> + +<p>He looked at her—her strength, her beauty, her vitality—her +indomitable courage and will. He too had known doctors to be mistaken. +The personal factor—you never knew how much and how little it counted.</p> + +<p>She said again, with scorn and amusement in her voice, "You don't think +I'd let him die, do you?"</p> + +<p>"No," said Mr. Satterthwaite at last, very gently. "Somehow, my dear, I +don't think you will."</p> + +<p>Then, at last, he walked down the cypress path to the bench overlooking +the sea and found there the person he was expecting to see. Mr. Quin +rose and greeted him—the same as ever, dark, saturnine, smiling and +sad.</p> + +<p>"You expected me?" he asked.</p> + +<p>And Mr. Satterthwaite answered, "Yes, I expected you."</p> + +<p>They sat together on the bench.</p> + +<p>"I have an idea that you have been playing Providence once more to +judge by your expression," said Mr. Quin presently.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite looked at him reproachfully. "As if you didn't know +all about it."</p> + +<p>"You always accuse me of omniscience," said Mr. Quin, smiling.</p> + +<p>"If you know nothing, why were you here the night before +last—waiting?" countered Mr. Satterthwaite.</p> + +<p>"Oh! that—"</p> + +<p>"Yes, that."</p> + +<p>"I had a—commission to perform."</p> + +<p>"For whom?"</p> + +<p>"You have sometimes fancifully named me an advocate for the dead."</p> + +<p>"The dead," said Mr. Satterthwaite, a little puzzled. "I don't +understand."</p> + +<p>Mr. Quin pointed a long lean finger down at the blue depths below. "A +man was drowned down there twenty-two years ago."</p> + +<p>"I know—but I don't see—"</p> + +<p>"Supposing that, after all, that man loved his young wife. Love can +make devils of men as well as angels. She had a girlish adoration for +him, but he could never touch the womanhood in her—and that drove him +mad. He tortured her because he loved her. Such things happen. You know +that as well as I do."</p> + +<p>"Yes," admitted Mr. Satterthwaite. "I have seen such things—but +rarely—very rarely."</p> + +<p>"And you have also seen, more commonly, that there is such a thing as +remorse—the desire to make amends—at all costs to make amends."</p> + +<p>"Yes, but death came too soon."</p> + +<p>"Death!" There was contempt in Mr. Quin's voice. "You believe in a life +after death, do you not? And who are you to say that the same wishes, +the same desires, may not operate in that other life? If the desire is +strong enough—a messenger may be found."</p> + +<p>His voice trailed away.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite got up, trembling a little. "I must get back to the +hotel," he said. "If you are going that way—"</p> + +<p>But Mr. Quin shook his head. "No," he said. "I shall go back the way I +came."</p> + +<p>When Mr. Satterthwaite looked back over his shoulder, he saw his friend +walking toward the edge of the cliff.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="Harlequins_Lane"><span class="smcap">Harlequin's Lane</span></h2> +</div> + + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite was never quite sure what took him to stay with the +Denmans. They were not of his kind—that is to say, they belonged +neither to the great world, nor to the more interesting artistic +circles. They were Philistines, and dull Philistines at that. Mr. +Satterthwaite had met them first at Biarritz, had accepted an +invitation to stay with them, had come, had been bored, and yet +strangely enough had come again and yet again.</p> + +<p>Why? He was asking himself that question on this twenty-first of June, +as he sped out of London in his Rolls Royce.</p> + +<p>John Denman was a man of forty, a solid, well-established figure, +respected in the business world. His friends were not Mr. +Satterthwaite's friends, his ideas even less so. He was a man clever in +his own line but devoid of imagination outside it.</p> + +<p><i>Why am I doing this thing?</i> Mr. Satterthwaite asked himself once +more—and the only answer that came seemed to him so vague and so +inherently preposterous that he almost put it aside. For the only +reason that presented itself was the fact that one of the rooms in the +house (a comfortable, well-appointed house) stirred his curiosity. That +room was Mrs. Denman's own sitting room.</p> + +<p>It was hardly an expression of her personality because, so far as Mr. +Satterthwaite could judge, she had no personality. He had never met +a woman so completely expressionless. She was, he knew, a Russian by +birth. John Denman had been in Russia at the outbreak of the European +War; he had fought with the Russian troops, had narrowly escaped +with his life at the outbreak of the revolution, and had brought +this Russian girl with him, a penniless refugee. In face of strong +disapproval from his parents he had married her.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Denman's room was in no way remarkable. It was well and solidly +furnished with good Hepplewhite furniture—a trifle more masculine +than feminine in atmosphere. But in it there was one incongruous item: +a Chinese lacquer screen—a thing of creamy yellow and pale rose. Any +museum might have been glad to own it. It was a collector's piece, rare +and beautiful.</p> + +<p>It was out of place against that solid English background. It should +have been the keynote of the room with everything arranged to harmonize +subtly with it. And yet Mr. Satterthwaite could not accuse the Denmans +of lack of taste. Everything else in the house was in perfectly blended +accord.</p> + +<p>He shook his head. The thing, trivial though it was—puzzled him. +Because of it, so he verily believed, he had come again and again to +the house. It was, perhaps, a woman's fantasy—but that solution did +not satisfy him as he thought of Mrs. Denman—a quiet, hard-featured +woman, speaking English so correctly that no one would ever have +guessed her a foreigner.</p> + +<p>The car drew up at his destination and he got out, his mind still +dwelling on the problem of the Chinese screen. The name of the Denmans' +house was Ashmead, and it occupied some five acres of Melton Heath, +which is thirty miles from London, stands five hundred feet above sea +level, and is, for the most part, inhabited by those who have ample +incomes.</p> + +<p>The butler received Mr. Satterthwaite suavely. Mr. and Mrs. Denman +were both out—at a rehearsal—they hoped Mr. Satterthwaite would make +himself at home until they returned.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite nodded and proceeded to carry out these injunctions +by stepping into the garden. After a cursory examination of the flower +beds, he strolled down a shady walk and presently came to a door in +the wall. It was unlocked and he passed through it and came out into a +narrow lane.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite looked to left and right. A very charming lane, +shady and green, with high hedges—a rural lane that twisted and +turned in good old-fashioned style. He remembered the stamped address: +<i>Ashmead, Harlequin's Lane</i>—remembered, too, a local name for it that +Mrs. Denman had once told him.</p> + +<p>"Harlequin's Lane," he murmured to himself softly. "I wonder—"</p> + +<p>He turned a corner.</p> + +<p>Not at the time, but afterward, he wondered why this time he felt no +surprise at meeting that elusive friend of his: Mr. Harley Quin. The +two men clasped hands.</p> + +<p>"So <i>you're</i> down here," said Mr. Satterthwaite.</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Mr. Quin. "I'm staying in the same house as you are."</p> + +<p>"Staying there?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. Does it surprise you?"</p> + +<p>"No," said Mr. Satterthwaite slowly. "Only—well, you never stay +anywhere for long, do you?"</p> + +<p>"Only as long as is necessary," said Mr. Quin gravely.</p> + +<p>"I see," said Mr. Satterthwaite.</p> + +<p>They walked on in silence for some minutes.</p> + +<p>"This lane—" began Mr. Satterthwaite, and stopped.</p> + +<p>"Belongs to me," said Mr. Quin.</p> + +<p>"I thought it did," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "Somehow I thought it must. +There's the other name for it, too, the local name. They call it the +'Lovers' Lane.' You know that?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Quin nodded. "But surely," he said gently, "there is a 'Lovers' +Lane' in every village."</p> + +<p>"I suppose so," said Mr. Satterthwaite, and he sighed a little.</p> + +<p>He felt suddenly rather old and out of things, a little dried-up +wizened old fogey of a man. Each side of him were the hedges, very +green and alive.</p> + +<p>"Where does this lane end, I wonder?" he asked suddenly.</p> + +<p>"It ends—<i>here</i>," said Mr. Quin.</p> + +<p>They came round a last bend. The lane ended in a piece of waste ground, +and almost at their feet a great pit opened. In it were tin cans +gleaming in the sun, and other cans that were too red with rust to +gleam, old boots, fragments of newspapers, a hundred and one odds and +ends that were no longer of account to anybody.</p> + +<p>"A rubbish heap," exclaimed Mr. Satterthwaite, and breathed deeply and +indignantly.</p> + +<p>"Sometimes there are very wonderful things on a rubbish heap," said Mr. +Quin.</p> + +<p>"I know, I know," cried Mr. Satterthwaite, and quoted with just a trace +of self-consciousness: "<i>'Bring me the two most beautiful things in the +city,' said God.</i> You know how it goes, eh?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Quin nodded.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite looked up at the ruins of a small cottage perched on +the brink of the wall of cliff.</p> + +<p>"Hardly a pretty view for a house," he remarked.</p> + +<p>"I fancy this wasn't a rubbish heap in those days," said Mr. Quin. "I +believe the Denmans lived there when they were first married. They +moved into the big house when the old people died. The cottage was +pulled down when they began to quarry the rock here—but nothing much +was done, as you can see."</p> + +<p>They turned and began retracing their steps.</p> + +<p>"I suppose," said Mr. Satterthwaite, smiling, "that many couples come +wandering down this lane on these warm summer evenings."</p> + +<p>"Probably."</p> + +<p>"Lovers," said Mr. Satterthwaite. He repeated the word thoughtfully +and quite without the normal embarrassment of the Englishman. Mr. Quin +had that effect upon him. "Lovers. You have done a lot for lovers, Mr. +Quin."</p> + +<p>The other bowed his head without replying.</p> + +<p>"You have saved them from sorrow—from worse than sorrow, from death. +You have been an advocate for the dead themselves."</p> + +<p>"You are speaking of yourself—of what <i>you</i> have done—not of me."</p> + +<p>"It is the same thing," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "You know it is," he +urged, as the other did not speak. "You have acted—through me. For +some reason or other you do not act directly—yourself."</p> + +<p>"Sometimes I do," said Mr. Quin.</p> + +<p>His voice held a new note. In spite of himself Mr. Satterthwaite +shivered a little. The afternoon, he thought, must be growing chilly. +And yet the sun seemed as bright as ever.</p> + +<p>At that moment a girl turned the corner ahead of them and came into +sight. She was a very pretty girl, fair-haired and blue-eyed, wearing a +pink cotton frock. Mr. Satterthwaite recognized her as Molly Stanwell, +whom he had met down here before.</p> + +<p>She waved a hand in welcome to him. "John and Anna have just gone +back," she cried. "They thought you must have come, but they simply had +to be at the rehearsal."</p> + +<p>"Rehearsal of what?" inquired Mr. Satterthwaite.</p> + +<p>"This masquerade thing—I don't quite know what you'd call it. There +is singing and dancing and all sorts of things in it. Mr. Manly (do +you remember him down here?), he has quite a good tenor voice, is to +be Pierrot, and I am Pierrette. Two professionals are coming down for +the dancing—Harlequin and Columbine, you know. And then there is a +big chorus of girls. Lady Roscheimer is so keen on training village +girls to sing. She's really getting the thing up for that. The music +is rather lovely—but very modern—next to no tune anywhere. Claude +Wickam. Perhaps you know him?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite nodded, for, as has been mentioned before, it was his +métier to know everybody. He knew about that aspiring genius Claude +Wickam, and about Lady Roscheimer, who was fat and had a penchant +for young men of the artistic persuasion. And he knew all about Sir +Leopold Roscheimer, who liked his wife to be happy and, most rare among +husbands, did not mind her being happy in her own way.</p> + +<p>They found Claude Wickam at tea with the Denmans, cramming his mouth +indiscriminately with anything handy, talking rapidly, and waving long +white hands that had a double-jointed appearance. His short-sighted +eyes peered through large horn-rimmed spectacles.</p> + +<p>John Denman, upright, slightly florid with the faintest possible +tendency to sleekness, listened with an air of bored attention. On the +appearance of Mr. Satterthwaite, the musician transferred his remarks +to him. Anna Denman sat behind the tea things, quiet and expressionless +as usual.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite stole a covert glance at her. Tall, gaunt, very thin, +with the skin tightly stretched over high cheekbones, black hair parted +in the middle, a skin that was weather-beaten. An out-of-door woman +who cared nothing for the use of cosmetics. A Dutch Doll of a woman, +wooden, lifeless—and yet—</p> + +<p>He thought, <i>There</i> should <i>be meaning behind that face, and yet there +isn't. That's what's all wrong. Yes, all wrong.</i> And to Claude Wickam +he said, "I beg your pardon? You were saying?"</p> + +<p>Claude Wickam, who liked the sound of his own voice, began all over +again. Russia, he said, that was the only country in the world worth +being interested in. They experimented. With lives, if you like, but +still they experimented. "Magnificent!" He crammed a sandwich into his +mouth with one hand, and added a bite of the chocolate éclair he was +waving about in the other. "Take," he said (with his mouthful), "the +Russian Ballet." Remembering his hostess, he turned to her. What did +<i>she</i> think of the Russian Ballet?</p> + +<p>The question was obviously only a prelude to the important point—what +Claude Wickam thought of the Russian Ballet—but her answer was +unexpected and threw him completely out of his stride.</p> + +<p>"I have never seen it."</p> + +<p>"What?" He gazed at her open-mouthed. "But—surely—"</p> + +<p>Her voice went on level and emotionless. "Before my marriage, I was a +dancer. So now—"</p> + +<p>"A busman's holiday," said her husband.</p> + +<p>"Dancing." She shrugged her shoulders. "I know all the tricks of it. It +does not interest me."</p> + +<p>"Oh!"</p> + +<p>It took but a moment for Claude to recover his aplomb.</p> + +<p>"Talking of lives," said Mr. Satterthwaite, "and experimenting in them, +the Russian nation made one costly experiment."</p> + +<p>Claude Wickam swung round on him. "I know what you are going to say," +he cried. "Kharsanova! The immortal, the only Kharsanova! You saw her +dance?"</p> + +<p>"Three times," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "Twice in Paris, once in London. +I shall—not forget it."</p> + +<p>He spoke in an almost reverent voice.</p> + +<p>"I saw her too," said Claude Wickam. "I was ten years old. An uncle +took me. God! I shall never forget it."</p> + +<p>He threw a piece of bun fiercely into a flower bed.</p> + +<p>"There is a statuette of her in a museum in Berlin," said Mr. +Satterthwaite. "It is marvelous. That impression of fragility—as +though you could break her with a flip of the thumbnail. I have seen +her as Columbine, in the Swan, as the dying Nymph." He paused, shaking +his head. "There was genius. It will be long years before such another +is born. She was young too. Destroyed ignorantly and wantonly in the +first days of the Revolution."</p> + +<p>"Fools! Madmen! Apes!" said Claude Wickam. He choked with a mouthful of +tea.</p> + +<p>"I studied with Kharsanova," said Mrs. Denman. "I remember her well."</p> + +<p>"She was wonderful?" said Mr. Satterthwaite.</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Mrs. Denman quietly. "She was wonderful."</p> + +<p>Claude Wickam departed, and John Denman drew a deep sigh of relief, at +which his wife laughed.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite nodded. "I know what you think. But in spite of +everything, the music that that boy writes <i>is</i> music."</p> + +<p>"I suppose it is," said Denman.</p> + +<p>"Oh! undoubtedly. How long it will be—well, that is different."</p> + +<p>John Denman looked at him curiously. "You mean?"</p> + +<p>"I mean that success has come early. And that is dangerous. Always +dangerous." He looked across at Mr. Quin. "You agree with me?"</p> + +<p>"You are always right," said Mr. Quin.</p> + +<p>"We will come upstairs to my room," said Mrs. Denman. "It is pleasant +there."</p> + +<p>She led the way, and they followed her. Mr. Satterthwaite drew a deep +breath as he caught sight of the Chinese screen. He looked up to find +Mrs. Denman watching him.</p> + +<p>"You are the man who is always right," she said, nodding her head +slowly at him. "What do you make of my screen?"</p> + +<p>He felt that in some way the words were a challenge to him, and he +answered almost haltingly, stumbling over the words a little. "Why, +it's—it's beautiful. More, it's unique."</p> + +<p>"You're right." Denman had come up behind him. "We bought it early +in our married life. Got it for about a tenth of its value, but even +then—well, it crippled us for over a year. You remember, Anna?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Mrs. Denman, "I remember."</p> + +<p>"In fact, we'd no business to buy it at all—not then. Now, of course, +it's different. There was some very good lacquer going at Christie's +the other day. Just what we need to make this room perfect. All +Chinese together. Clear out the other stuff. Would you believe it, +Satterthwaite, my wife wouldn't hear of it?"</p> + +<p>"I like this room as it is," said Mrs. Denman.</p> + +<p>There was a curious look on her face. Again Mr. Satterthwaite felt +challenged and defeated. He looked round him, and for the first time he +noticed the absence of all personal touch. There were no photographs, +no flowers, no knickknacks. It was not like a woman's room at all. Save +for that one incongruous factor of the Chinese screen it might have +been a sample room shown at some big furnishing-house.</p> + +<p>He found her smiling at him.</p> + +<p>"Listen," she said. She bent forward, and for a moment she seemed +less English, more definitely foreign. "I speak to you, for you will +understand. We bought that screen with more than money—with love. For +love of it, because it was beautiful and unique, we went without other +things, things we needed and missed. These other Chinese pieces my +husband speaks of, those we should buy with money only, we should not +pay away anything of ourselves."</p> + +<p>Her husband laughed. "Oh! have it your own way," he said, but with a +trace of irritation in his voice. "But it's all wrong against this +English background. This other stuff, it's good enough of its kind, +genuine, solid, no fake about it—but mediocre. Good plain late +Hepplewhite."</p> + +<p>She nodded. "Good, solid, genuine English," she murmured softly.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite stared at her. He caught a meaning behind these +words. The English room—the flaming beauty of the Chinese screen—No, +it was gone again.</p> + +<p>"I met Miss Stanwell in the lane," he said conversationally. "She +tells me she is going to be Pierrette in this show tonight."</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Denman. "And she's awfully good, too."</p> + +<p>"She has clumsy feet," said Anna.</p> + +<p>"Nonsense," said her husband. "All women are alike, Satterthwaite. +Can't bear to hear another woman praised. Molly is a very good-looking +girl, and so of course every woman has to have their knife into her."</p> + +<p>"I spoke of dancing," said Anna Denman. She sounded faintly surprised. +"She is very pretty, yes, but her feet move clumsily. You cannot tell +me anything else, because I know about dancing."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite intervened tactfully. "You have two professional +dancers coming down, I understand?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. For the ballet proper. Prince Oranoff is bringing them down in +his car."</p> + +<p>"Sergius Oranoff?"</p> + +<p>The question came from Anna Denman. Her husband turned and looked at +her.</p> + +<p>"You know him?"</p> + +<p>"I used to know him—in Russia."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite thought that John Denman looked disturbed.</p> + +<p>"Will he know you?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. He will know me."</p> + +<p>She laughed—a low, almost triumphant laugh. There was nothing of +the Dutch Doll about her face now. She nodded reassuringly at her +husband. "Serge. So he is bringing down the two dancers. He was always +interested in dancing."</p> + +<p>"I remember."</p> + +<p>John Denman spoke abruptly, then turned and left the room. Mr. Quin +followed him. Anna Denman crossed to the telephone and asked for a +number. She arrested Mr. Satterthwaite with a gesture as he was about +to follow the example of the other two men.</p> + +<p>"Can I speak to Lady Roscheimer. Oh! it is you. This is Anna Denman +speaking. Has Prince Oranoff arrived yet? What? <i>What?</i> Oh! my dear! +But how ghastly."</p> + +<p>She listened for a few moments longer, then replaced the receiver. She +turned to Mr. Satterthwaite.</p> + +<p>"There has been an accident. There would be with Sergius Ivanovitch +driving. Oh! he has not altered in all these years. The girl was not +badly hurt, but bruised and shaken, too much to dance tonight. The +man's arm is broken. Serge Ivanovitch himself is unhurt. The devil +looks after his own, perhaps."</p> + +<p>"And what about tonight's performance?"</p> + +<p>"Exactly, my friend. Something must be done about it."</p> + +<p>She sat thinking. Presently she looked at him. "I am a bad hostess, Mr. +Satterthwaite. I do not entertain you."</p> + +<p>"I assure you that it is not necessary. There's one thing though, Mrs. +Denman, that I would very much like to know."</p> + +<p>"Yes?"</p> + +<p>"How did you come across Mr. Quin?"</p> + +<p>"He is often down here," she said slowly. "I think he owns land in this +part of the world."</p> + +<p>"He does, he does. He told me so this afternoon," said Mr. +Satterthwaite.</p> + +<p>"He is—" She paused. Her eyes met Mr. Satterthwaite's. "I think you +know what he is better than I do," she finished.</p> + +<p>"I?"</p> + +<p>"Is it not so?"</p> + +<p>He was troubled. His neat little soul found her disturbing. He felt +that she wished to force him further than he was prepared to go, that +she wanted him to put into words that which he was not prepared to +admit to himself.</p> + +<p>"<i>You</i> know!" she said. "I think you know most things, Mr. +Satterthwaite."</p> + +<p>Here was incense, yet for once it failed to intoxicate him. He shook +his head in unwonted humility. "What can anyone know?" he asked. "So +little—so very little."</p> + +<p>She nodded in assent. Presently she spoke again, in a queer, brooding +voice, without looking at him.</p> + +<p>"Supposing I were to tell you something—you would not laugh? No, +I do not think you would laugh. Supposing, then, that to carry on +one's"—she paused—"one's trade, one's profession, one were to make +use of a fantasy—one were to pretend to oneself something that did not +exist—that one were to imagine a certain person. It is a pretense, you +understand, a make-believe—nothing more. But one day—"</p> + +<p>"Yes?" said Mr. Satterthwaite. He was keenly interested.</p> + +<p>"The fantasy came true! The thing one imagined—the impossible thing, +the thing that could not be—was real! Is that madness? Tell me, Mr. +Satterthwaite. Is that madness—or do you believe it too?"</p> + +<p>"I—" Queer how he could not get the words out. How they seemed to +stick somewhere at the back of his throat.</p> + +<p>"Folly," said Anna Denman. "Folly."</p> + +<p>She swept out of the room and left Mr. Satterthwaite with his +confession of faith unspoken.</p> + +<p>He came down to dinner to find Mrs. Denman entertaining a guest, a +tall, dark man approaching middle age.</p> + +<p>"Prince Oranoff—Mr. Satterthwaite."</p> + +<p>The two men bowed. Mr. Satterthwaite had the feeling that some +conversation had been broken off on his entry which would not be +resumed. But there was no sense of strain. The Russian conversed +easily and naturally on those subjects which were nearest to Mr. +Satterthwaite's heart. He was a man of very fine artistic taste, and +they soon found that they had many friends in common. John Denman +joined them, and the talk became localized. Oranoff expressed regret +for the accident.</p> + +<p>"It was not my fault. I like to drive fast—yes, but I am a good +driver. It was Fate—chance"—he shrugged his shoulders—"the masters +of all of us."</p> + +<p>"There speaks the Russian in you, Sergius Ivanovitch," said Mrs. Denman.</p> + +<p>"And finds an echo in you, Anna Mikalovna," he threw back quickly.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite looked from one to the other of the three of them. +John Denman, fair, aloof, English, and the other two, dark, thin, +strangely alike. Something rose in his mind—what was it? Ah! he had +it now. The first act of the <i>Walküre</i>. Sigmund and Sieglinde—so +alike—and the alien Hunding. Conjectures began to stir in his brain. +Was this the meaning of the presence of Mr. Quin? One thing he believed +in firmly—wherever Mr. Quin showed himself, there lay drama. Was this +it here—the old hackneyed three-cornered tragedy?</p> + +<p>He was vaguely disappointed. He had hoped for better things.</p> + +<p>"What's been arranged, Anna?" asked Denman. "The thing will have to be +put off, I suppose. I heard you ringing the Roscheimers up."</p> + +<p>She shook her head. "No—there is no need to put it off."</p> + +<p>"But you can't do it without the ballet?"</p> + +<p>"You certainly couldn't have a Harlequinade without Harlequin and +Columbine," agreed Anna Denman dryly. "I'm going to be Columbine, John."</p> + +<p>"You?" He was astonished—disturbed, Mr. Satterthwaite thought.</p> + +<p>She nodded composedly. "You need not be afraid, John. I shall not +disgrace you. You forget—it was my profession once."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite thought, <i>What an extraordinary thing a voice is. The +things it says—and the things it leaves unsaid and means! I wish I +knew—</i></p> + +<p>"Well," said John Denman grudgingly. "That solves one half of the +problem. What about the other? Where will you find Harlequin?"</p> + +<p>"I <i>have</i> found him—there!"</p> + +<p>She gestured toward the open doorway where Mr. Quin had just appeared. +He smiled back at her.</p> + +<p>"Good Lord, Quin," said John Denman. "Do you know anything of this +game? I should never have imagined it."</p> + +<p>"Mr. Quin is vouched for by an expert," said his wife. "Mr. +Satterthwaite will answer for him."</p> + +<p>She smiled at Mr. Satterthwaite, and the little man found himself +murmuring, "Oh! yes, I—I answer for Mr. Quin."</p> + +<p>Denman turned his attention elsewhere. "You know there's to be a fancy +dress dance business afterward. Great nuisance. We'll have to rig you +up, Satterthwaite."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite shook his head very decidedly. "My years will excuse +me." A brilliant idea struck him. "A table napkin under the arm. There +I am, an elderly waiter who has seen better days."</p> + +<p>He laughed.</p> + +<p>"An interesting profession," said Mr. Quin. "One sees so much."</p> + +<p>"I've got to put on some fool Pierrot thing," said Denman gloomily. +"It's cool anyway, that's one thing. What about you?" He looked at +Oranoff.</p> + +<p>"I have a Harlequin costume," said the Russian. His eyes wandered for a +minute to his hostess's face.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite wondered if he was mistaken in fancying that there +was just a moment of constraint.</p> + +<p>"There might have been three of us," said Denman, with a laugh. "I've +got an old Harlequin costume my wife made me when we were first married +for some show or other." He paused, looking down on his broad shirt +front. "I don't suppose I could get into it now."</p> + +<p>"No," said his wife, "you couldn't get into it now." And again her +voice said something more than mere words.</p> + +<p>She glanced up at the clock. "If Molly doesn't turn up soon, we won't +wait for her."</p> + +<p>But at that moment the girl was announced. She was already wearing her +Pierrette dress of white and green, and very charming she looked in it, +so Mr. Satterthwaite reflected.</p> + +<p>She was full of excitement and enthusiasm over the forthcoming +performance. "I'm getting awfully nervous, though," she announced, as +they drank coffee after dinner. "I know my voice will wobble, and I +shall forget the words."</p> + +<p>"Your voice is very charming," said Anna. "I should not worry about it +if I were you."</p> + +<p>"Oh! but I do. The other I don't mind about—the dancing, I mean. +That's sure to go all right. I mean, you can't go very far wrong with +your feet, can you?"</p> + +<p>She appealed to Anna, but the older woman did not respond. Instead she +said, "Sing something now to Mr. Satterthwaite. You will find that he +will reassure you."</p> + +<p>Molly went over to the piano. Her voice rang out, fresh and tuneful in +an old Irish ballad:</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">"<i>Sheila, dark Sheila, what is it that you're seeing?</i></div> + <div class="verse indent0"><i>What is it that you're seeing, that you're seeing in the fire?</i></div> + <div class="verse indent0"><i>'I see a lad that loves me—and I see a lad that leaves me,</i></div> + <div class="verse indent4"><i>and a third lad, a Shadow Lad—and he's the lad that grieves me.'</i>"</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>The song went on. At the end, Mr. Satterthwaite nodded vigorous +approval.</p> + +<p>"Mrs. Denman is right. Your voice is charming. Not, perhaps, very +fully trained, but delightfully natural, and with that unstudied +quality of youth in it."</p> + +<p>"That's right," agreed John Denman. "You go ahead, Molly, and don't be +downed by stage fright. We'd better be getting over to the Roscheimers' +now."</p> + +<p>The party separated to don cloaks. It was a glorious night and they +proposed to walk over, the house being only a few hundred yards down +the road.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite found himself by his friend.</p> + +<p>"It's an odd thing," he said, "but that song made me think of you. A +<i>third lad—a Shadow Lad</i>—there's mystery there, and wherever there's +mystery I—well, think of you."</p> + +<p>"Am I so mysterious?" smiled Mr. Quin.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite nodded vigorously. "Yes, indeed. Do you know, until +tonight, I had no idea that you were a professional dancer."</p> + +<p>"Really?" said Mr. Quin.</p> + +<p>"Listen," said Mr. Satterthwaite. He hummed the love motif from the +<i>Walküre</i>. "That is what has been ringing in my head all through dinner +as I looked at those two."</p> + +<p>"Which two?"</p> + +<p>"Prince Oranoff and Mrs. Denman. Don't you see the difference in her +tonight? It's as though—as though a shutter had suddenly been opened +and you see the glow within."</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Mr. Quin. "Perhaps so."</p> + +<p>"The same old drama," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "I am right, am I +not? Those two belong together. They are of the same world, think +the same thoughts, dream the same dreams. One sees how it has come +about. Ten years ago Denman must have been very good-looking, young, +dashing, a figure of romance. And he saved her life. All quite +natural. But now—what is he, after all? A good fellow—prosperous, +successful—but—well, mediocre. Good honest English stuff—very +much like that Hepplewhite furniture upstairs. As English—and as +ordinary—as that pretty English girl with her fresh, untrained voice. +Oh! you may smile, Mr. Quin, but you cannot deny what I am saying."</p> + +<p>"I deny nothing. In what you see you are always right. And yet—"</p> + +<p>"Yet what?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Quin leaned forward. His dark, melancholy eyes searched those of +Mr. Satterthwaite. "Have you learned so little of life?" he breathed.</p> + +<p>He left Mr. Satterthwaite vaguely disquieted, such a prey to meditation +that he found the others had started without him, owing to his delay in +selecting a scarf for his neck. He went out by the garden, and through +the same door as in the afternoon. The lane was bathed in moonlight, +and even as he stood in the doorway, he saw a couple enlaced in each +other's arms.</p> + +<p>For a moment he thought—</p> + +<p>And then he saw. <i>John Denman and Molly Stanwell.</i> Denman's voice came +to him, hoarse and anguished.</p> + +<p>"I can't live without you. What are we to do?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite turned to go back the way he had come, but a hand +stayed him. Someone else stood in the doorway beside him, someone else +whose eyes had also seen.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite had only to catch one glimpse of her face to know how +wildly astray all his conclusions had been.</p> + +<p>Her anguished hand held him there until those other two had passed up +the lane and disappeared from sight. He heard himself speaking to her, +saying foolish little things meant to be comforting, and ludicrously +inadequate to the agony he had divined. She only spoke once.</p> + +<p>"Please," she said, "don't leave me."</p> + +<p>He found that oddly touching. He was, then, of use to someone. And he +went on saying those things that meant nothing at all, but which were, +somehow, better than silence. They went that way to the Roscheimers'. +Now and then her hand tightened on his shoulder, and he understood that +she was glad of his company. She only took it away when they finally +came to their destination. She stood very erect, her head held high.</p> + +<p>"Now," she said, "I shall dance! Do not be afraid for me, my friend. I +shall dance."</p> + +<p>She left him abruptly. He was seized upon by Lady Roscheimer, much +bediamonded and very full of lamentations. By her he was passed on to +Claude Wickam.</p> + +<p>"Ruined! Completely ruined. The sort of thing that always happens to +me. All these country bumpkins think they can dance. I was never even +consulted—"</p> + +<p>His voice went on—went on interminably. He had found a sympathetic +listener, a man who <i>knew</i>. He gave himself up to an orgy of self-pity. +It only ended when the first strains of music began.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite came out of his dream. He was alert once more, +the critic. Wickam was an unutterable ass, but he could write +music—delicate gossamer stuff, intangible as a fairy web—yet with +nothing of the pretty-pretty about it.</p> + +<p>The scenery was good. Lady Roscheimer never spared expense when aiding +her protégées. A glade of Arcady with lighting effects that gave it the +proper atmosphere of unreality.</p> + +<p>Two figures dancing as they had danced through time immemorial. A +slender Harlequin flashing spangles in the moonlight with magic wand +and masked face, a white Columbine pirouetting like some immortal +dream—</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite sat up. He had lived through this before. Yes, +surely—</p> + +<p>Now his body was far away from Lady Roscheimer's drawing room. It was +in a Berlin museum gazing at a statuette of an immortal Columbine.</p> + +<p>Harlequin and Columbine danced on. The wide world was theirs to dance +in.</p> + +<p>Moonlight—and a human figure. Pierrot wandering through the wood, +singing to the moon. Pierrot who has seen Columbine and knows no rest. +The immortal two vanish, but Columbine looks back. She has heard the +song of a human heart.</p> + +<p>Pierrot wandering on through the wood—darkness—his voice dies away in +the distance—</p> + +<p>The village green—dancing of village girls—pierrots and pierrettes. +Molly as Pierrette. No dancer—Anna Denman was right there—but a fresh +tuneful voice as she sings her song, "Pierrette Dancing on the Green."</p> + +<p>A good tune—Mr. Satterthwaite nodded approval. Wickam wasn't above +writing a tune when there was need for it. The majority of the village +girls made him shudder, but he realized that Lady Roscheimer was +determinedly philanthropical.</p> + +<p>They press Pierrot to join the dance. He refuses. With white face +he wanders on—the eternal lover seeking his ideal. Evening falls. +Harlequin and Columbine, invisible, dance in and out of the unconscious +throng. The place is deserted, only Pierrot, weary, falls asleep on a +grassy bank. Harlequin and Columbine dance round him. He wakes and sees +Columbine. He woos her in vain, pleads, beseeches—</p> + +<p>She stands uncertain. Harlequin beckons to her to begone. But she +sees him no longer. She is listening to Pierrot, to his song of love +outpoured once more. She falls into his arms, and the curtain comes +down.</p> + +<p>The second act is Pierrot's cottage. Columbine sits on his hearth. She +is pale, weary. She listens—for what? Pierrot sings to her—woos her +back to thoughts of him once more. The evening darkens. Thunder is +heard. Columbine puts aside her spinning-wheel. She is eager, stirred. +She listens no longer to Pierrot. It is her own music that is in the +air, the music of Harlequin and Columbine. She is awake. She remembers.</p> + +<p>A crash of thunder! Harlequin stands in the doorway. Pierrot cannot see +him, but Columbine springs up with a glad laugh. Children come running, +but she pushes them aside. With another crash of thunder the walls +fall, and Columbine dances out into the wild night with Harlequin.</p> + +<p>Darkness, and through it the tune that Pierrette has sung. Light comes +slowly. The cottage once more. Pierrot and Pierrette, grown old and +gray, sit in front of the fire in two armchairs. The music is happy, +but subdued. Pierrette nods in her chair. Through the window comes a +shaft of moonlight, and with it the motif of Pierrot's long-forgotten +song. He stirs in his chair.</p> + +<p>Faint music—fairy music—Harlequin and Columbine outside. The door +swings open and Columbine dances in. She leans over the sleeping +Pierrot, kisses him on the lips.</p> + +<p>Crash! A peal of thunder. She is outside again. In the center of the +stage is the lighted window and through it are seen the two figures +of Harlequin and Columbine dancing slowly away, growing fainter and +fainter....</p> + +<p>A log falls. Pierrette jumps up angrily, rushes across to the window, +and pulls the blind. So it ends, on a sudden discord.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite sat very still among the applause and vociferations. +At last he got up and made his way outside. He came upon Molly +Stanwell, flushed and eager, receiving compliments. He saw John Denman, +pushing and elbowing his way through the throng, his eyes alight with a +new flame. Molly came toward him, but, almost unconsciously, he put her +aside. It was not her he was seeking.</p> + +<p>"My wife? Where is she?"</p> + +<p>"I think she went out in the garden."</p> + +<p>It was, however, Mr. Satterthwaite who found her, sitting on a stone +seat under a cypress tree. When he came up to her, he did an odd thing. +He knelt down and raised her hand to his lips.</p> + +<p>"Ah!" she said. "You think I danced well?"</p> + +<p>"You danced—as you always danced, Madame Kharsanova."</p> + +<p>She drew in her breath sharply. "So—you have guessed."</p> + +<p>"There is only one Kharsanova. No one could see you dance and forget. +But why—why?"</p> + +<p>"What else was possible?"</p> + +<p>"You mean?"</p> + +<p>She had spoken very simply. She was just as simple now.</p> + +<p>"Oh! but you understand. You are of the world. A great dancer—she can +have lovers, yes—but a husband, that is different. And he—he did not +want the other. He wanted me to belong to him as—as Kharsanova could +never have belonged."</p> + +<p>"I see," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "I see. So you gave it up?"</p> + +<p>She nodded.</p> + +<p>"You must have loved him very much," said Mr. Satterthwaite gently.</p> + +<p>"To make such a sacrifice?" She laughed.</p> + +<p>"Not quite that. To make it so light-heartedly."</p> + +<p>"Ah! yes—perhaps—you are right."</p> + +<p>"And now?" asked Mr. Satterthwaite.</p> + +<p>Her face grew grave. "Now?" She paused, then raised her voice and spoke +into the shadows.</p> + +<p>"Is that you, Sergius Ivanovitch?"</p> + +<p>Prince Oranoff came out into the moonlight. He took her hand and smiled +at Mr. Satterthwaite without self-consciousness.</p> + +<p>"Ten years ago I mourned the death of Anna Kharsanova," he said +simply. "She was to me as my other self. Today I have found her again. +We shall part no more."</p> + +<p>"At the end of the lane in ten minutes," said Anna. "I shall not fail +you."</p> + +<p>Oranoff nodded and went off again. The dancer turned to Mr. +Satterthwaite. A smile played about her lips.</p> + +<p>"Well—you are not satisfied, my friend?"</p> + +<p>"Do you know," said Mr. Satterthwaite abruptly, "that your husband is +looking for you?"</p> + +<p>He saw the tremor that passed over her face, but her voice was steady +enough. "Yes," she said gravely. "That may well be."</p> + +<p>"I saw his eyes. They—" He stopped abruptly.</p> + +<p>She was still calm.</p> + +<p>"Yes, perhaps. For an hour. An hour's magic, born of past memories, of +music, of moonlight. That is all."</p> + +<p>"Then there is nothing that I can say?" He felt old, dispirited.</p> + +<p>"For ten years I have lived with the man I love," said Anna Kharsanova. +"Now I am going to the man who for ten years has loved me."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite said nothing. He had no arguments left. Besides, it +really seemed the simplest solution. Only—</p> + +<p>Only, somehow, it was not the solution he wanted. He felt her hand on +his shoulder.</p> + +<p>"I know, my friend, I know. But there is no third way. Always one +looks for one thing—the lover, the perfect, the eternal lover. It is +the music of Harlequin one hears. No lover ever satisfies one, for +all lovers are mortal. And Harlequin is only a myth, an invisible +presence—unless—"</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "Yes?"</p> + +<p>"Unless—his name is—Death!"</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite shivered. She moved away from him, was swallowed up +in the shadows.</p> + +<p>He never knew quite how long he sat on there, but suddenly he started +up with the feeling that he had been wasting valuable time. He hurried +away, impelled in a certain direction almost in spite of himself.</p> + +<p>As he came out into the lane he had a strange feeling of unreality. +Magic—magic and moonlight. And two figures coming toward him.</p> + +<p>Oranoff in his Harlequin dress. So he thought at first. Then as they +passed him he knew his mistake. That lithe swaying figure belonged to +one person only—Mr. Quin.</p> + +<p>They went on down the lane—their feet light as though they were +treading on air. Mr. Quin turned his head and looked back, and Mr. +Satterthwaite had a shock, for it was not the face of Mr. Quin as he +had ever seen it before. It was the face of a stranger—no, not quite a +stranger. Ah! he had it now, it was the face of John Denman as it might +have looked before life went too well with him! Eager, adventurous, the +face at once of a boy and of a lover.</p> + +<p>Her laugh floated down to him, clear and happy.... He looked after them +and saw in the distance the lights of a little cottage. He gazed after +them like a man in a dream.</p> + +<p>He was rudely awakened by a hand that fell on his shoulder and he +was jerked round to face Sergius Oranoff. The man looked white and +distracted.</p> + +<p>"Where is she? Where is she? She promised—and she has not come."</p> + +<p>"Madame has just gone up the lane—alone."</p> + +<p>It was Mrs. Denman's maid who spoke from the shadow of the door behind +them. She had been waiting with her mistress's wraps.</p> + +<p>"I was standing here and saw her pass," she added.</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite threw one harsh word at her.</p> + +<p>"Alone? Alone, did you say?"</p> + +<p>The maid's eyes widened in surprise. "Yes, sir. Didn't you see her?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite clutched at Oranoff. "Quickly," he muttered. +"I'm—I'm afraid."</p> + +<p>They hurried down the lane together, the Russian talking in quick, +disjointed sentences.</p> + +<p>"She is a wonderful creature. Ah! how she danced tonight. And that +friend of yours. Who is he? Ah! but he is wonderful—unique. In the +old days, when she danced the Columbine of Rimsky-Korsakoff, she never +found the perfect Harlequin. Mordroff, Kassnine—none of them was quite +perfect. She had her own little fancy. She told me of it once. Always +she danced with a dream Harlequin—a man who was not really there. It +was Harlequin himself, she said, who came to dance with her. It was +that fancy of hers that made her Columbine so wonderful."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite nodded. There was only one thought in his head. +"Hurry," he said. "We must be in time. Oh! we must be in time."</p> + +<p>They came round the last corner—came to the deep pit and to something +lying in it that had not been there before, the body of a woman lying +in a wonderful pose, arms flung wide and head thrown back. A dead face +and body that were triumphant and beautiful in the moonlight.</p> + +<p>Words came back to Mr. Satterthwaite dimly—Mr. Quin's +words:—"<i>wonderful things on a rubbish heap</i>...." He understood them +now.</p> + +<p>Oranoff was murmuring broken phrases. The tears were streaming down his +face.</p> + +<p>"I loved her. Always I loved her." He used almost the same words that +had occurred to Mr. Satterthwaite earlier in the day. "We were of the +same world, she and I. We had the same thoughts, the same dreams. I +would have loved her always—"</p> + +<p>"How do you know?"</p> + +<p>The Russian stared at him—at the fretful peevishness of the tone.</p> + +<p>"How do you know?" went on Mr. Satterthwaite. "It is what all lovers +think—what all lovers say. There is only one lover—"</p> + +<p>He turned and almost ran into Mr. Quin. In an agitated manner, Mr. +Satterthwaite caught him by the arm and drew him aside.</p> + +<p>"It was <i>you</i>," he said. "It was <i>you</i> who were with her just now?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Quin waited a minute and then said gently, "You can put it that +way, if you like."</p> + +<p>"And the maid didn't see you?"</p> + +<p>"The maid didn't see me."</p> + +<p>"But <i>I</i> did. Why was that?"</p> + +<p>"Perhaps, as a result of the price you have paid, you see things that +other people—do not."</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite looked at him uncomprehendingly for a minute or two. +Then he began suddenly to quiver all over like an aspen leaf. "What is +this place?" he whispered. "What is this place?"</p> + +<p>"I told you earlier today. It is <i>My</i> lane."</p> + +<p>"A 'Lovers' Lane,'" murmured Mr. Satterthwaite. "And people pass along +it."</p> + +<p>"Most people, sooner or later."</p> + +<p>"And at the end of it—what do they find?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Quin smiled. His voice was very gentle. He pointed at the ruined +cottage above them. "The house of their dreams—or a rubbish heap—who +shall say?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite looked up at him suddenly. A wild rebellion surged +over him. He felt cheated, defrauded.</p> + +<p>"But <i>I</i>—" his voice shook. "<i>I</i> have never passed down your lane."</p> + +<p>"And do you regret?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Satterthwaite quailed. Mr. Quin seemed to have loomed to enormous +proportions. Mr. Satterthwaite had a vista of something at once +menacing and terrifying. Joy, Sorrow, Despair.</p> + +<p>And his comfortable little soul shrank back appalled.</p> + +<p>"Do you regret?" Mr. Quin repeated his question. There was something +terrible about him.</p> + +<p>"No," Mr. Satterthwaite stammered. "N—No."</p> + +<p>And then suddenly he rallied.</p> + +<p>"But I see things," he cried. "I may have been only a looker-on at +Life—but I see things that other people do not. You said so yourself, +Mr. Quin."</p> + +<p>But Mr. Quin had vanished. +</p> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78084 ***</div> +</body> +</html> diff --git a/78084-h/images/cover.jpg b/78084-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..552c479 --- /dev/null +++ b/78084-h/images/cover.jpg |
