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The Coward Behind the Curtain

by Richard Marsh · English · Gutenberg #40347 · 425,335 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Coward Behind the Curtain

Author: Richard Marsh


        
Release date: July 27, 2012 [eBook #40347]
                Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE COWARD BEHIND THE CURTAIN ***

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   1. Page scan source:
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   2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].






                              THE COWARD
                          BEHIND THE CURTAIN






                          BY THE SAME AUTHOR

       The Girl and the Miracle
       In the Service of Love
       A Duel
       The Marquis Of Putney
       The Twickenham Peerage
       A Metamorphosis
       Both Sides of the Veil
       Marvels and Mysteries
       The Seen and the Unseen
       The Goddess: A Demon
       The Joss: A Reversion
       The Romance of a Maid of Honour
       The Beetle: A Mystery
       A Woman Perfected






                              THE COWARD
                          BEHIND THE CURTAIN




                                  BY
                            RICHARD MARSH




                            METHUEN & CO.
                         36 ESSEX STREET W.C.
                                LONDON





                      _First Published in 1908_






                               CONTENTS

   CHAPTER

        I. DOROTHY SETS OFF WITH HER GUARDIAN.

       II. THE CURTAIN.

      III. THE COWARD.

       IV. THE MAN IN THE CHAIR.

        V. DOROTHY IS LEFT ALONE WITH HER GUARDIAN FOR THE NIGHT.

       VI. HOW DOROTHY MADE HER EXIT.

      VII. THE CARAVAN.

     VIII. MR FRAZER GOES SHOPPING.

       IX. WHAT THE GIRL TOLD THE MAN.

        X. WHAT THE CARAVAN LEFT BEHIND.

       XI. DANGER AHEAD.

      XII. HEADLINES.

     XIII. THE VERNONS--PARTICULARLY FRANCES.

      XIV. STRATHMOIRA.

       XV. DOROTHY GILBERT OF NEWCASTER.

      XVI. THE SPREADING OF THE NEWS.

     XVII. A FRIEND'S ADVICE.

    XVIII. THE MAN WHO DID IT.

      XIX. AN INTERLUDE.

       XX. THE HOUSEBOAT.

      XXI. WHY HE KILLED HIM.

     XXII. THE TELEGRAM.

    XXIII. THE SURGEON AND THE LAWYER.

     XXIV. TIDINGS.






                          THE COWARD BEHIND
                             THE CURTAIN




                              CHAPTER I

                  DOROTHY SETS OFF WITH HER GUARDIAN


The girls were in the convent garden, when word came that Dorothy
Gilbert was wanted. Dorothy was walking with Frances Vernon. Ever
since she could remember her world had been that garden, with its
shaded walks and its high walls; never before had a visitor come to
her. The moment she was told that someone desired her presence she
turned to Frances, exclaiming:

"It is he!"

With characteristic impetuosity Frances threw her arms about her,
remarking as she did so:

"Just as we were speaking of him!"

As if there were anything strange in that. The strangeness would have
been if he had come when they had not been speaking of him; for, of
late, they had spoken of little else. Elsie Farquhar, who had brought
the message, pressed it home.

"You had better be quick, Dorothy. Sister Celestine said you were to
hurry."

So Dorothy hurried, her tall slender figure held very straight, her
pretty head a little in the air, in her eyes a gleaming light. She
believed herself to be passing from a world she knew into one of which
she had dreamed. But she was mistaken; she was going into a world of
which she had not dreamed. Sister Celestine met her at the door.

"It is Mr Emmett?" she inquired.

"Yes," replied the Sister, "it is Mr Emmett."

Something in her tone; on her face; in her glance; struck quick-witted
Dorothy.

"What is the matter? Why do you look at me like that? What is he
like?"

"Who am I that I should be able to tell you what he is like, when I
have seen him for scarcely five minutes?"

The Sister smiled, it seemed to Dorothy, not with that brightness
which she knew so well. The young lady's mental processes were rapid.
She divined, on the instant, that Sister Celestine was disappointed
with Mr Emmett. As she went with the Sister from the garden to the
guest-room she wondered why. Would she be disappointed also?--after
all her talks with Frances?--her communings with herself? She had
fashioned the unknown Mr Emmett in so many shapes that she could not
have told which of them she expected to see; certainly it was not the
person she actually saw. Her knowledge of men had practically been
restricted to the personages in the storybooks which found their way
into the convent precincts. These had to undergo a severe examination
before being admitted, as one bad character was enough to damn them;
and, as the conventual standard of masculine morals was peculiar, even
if the individuals who figured in the tales were not drawn from
imagination they certainly were not taken from life. One requirement
all the men in the books had to satisfy: they all had to be gentlemen,
or what the convent censor took to be gentlemen. Dorothy Gilbert might
have had more or less vague doubts, but it never had been brought
clearly home to her that a man could be anything but a gentleman till
she entered that guest-room and was introduced to Mr Emmett. When she
saw him, any illusions she may have had upon that point were shattered
at once and for ever.

A big, burly man was sitting on the edge of the table. One foot rested
on the floor, the other dangled in the air. He did not move when she
entered; he merely looked round at her and stared. His great bald head
had a narrow fringe of sandy hair which was just turning grey. He wore
a huge sandy moustache, whose hue was more than matched by his head
and face. A large, angry-looking spot was on the left of his big nose,
a smaller one was on his right cheek near the ear. His eyes were so
bloodshot that it was not easy to tell what colour they really were;
they reminded her of the eyes of a wicked giant who had played a
prominent, and disreputable, part in a fairy tale she had once read.
Indeed, the whole man recalled that giant; she had an uncomfortable
feeling that he might, at any moment, set about the--to him--agreeable
business of devouring her. Sister Celestine performed the ceremony of
introduction.

"This, Mr Emmett, is Dorothy Gilbert."

Still he kept his seat on the edge of the table, and his hands in the
pockets of the huge overcoat which he wore, although the weather was
so warm. Only he stared at Dorothy a little harder.

"No! You don't say! Well I'm damned!"

There was that in his voice, his words, and his manner which affected
Dorothy almost as if he had struck her. Sister Celestine was shocked
nearly into speechlessness.

"Sir!" was all she could say.

"Beg pardon, I'm sure, forgetting where I was; I suppose you ladies
don't do much of that sort of thing in here." He addressed himself to
Dorothy, with what apparently was meant to be jocosity. "So you're
Bully Gilbert's girl? I shouldn't have thought it; it only shows that
you never can tell. I don't know where you get your looks from--not
from him. Why, you really are---- Do you know who I am?"

"Sister Celestine says you are Mr Emmett."

"Georgie Emmett, your father's best friend--in fact, his only friend,
because he was not the kind of person who gathers them round. When,
some nine months ago, he departed this life, he left it owing me a
hatful of money; and I'm damned--beg pardon, I'm blessed if he hadn't
the cheek and impudence, by way of wiping off his owings, to appoint
me your one and only guardian; as if you were a little bit of
something which could be turned into cash. I'd have come and looked at
you before if I'd known you were so well worth looking at; but who
would have guessed that your father would have had a girl with a face
like yours. However, here I am at last; and I daresay you won't be
sorry to say good-bye to this queer old shanty, and to come with me to
have a peep at what the world looks like outside. I rather think there
aren't many men who can show you more of it than I can. Anyhow, I've
come to take you along; so run upstairs and put your hat and jacket
on, and your things in your box. My car's outside, a 60 F.I.A.T.--if
there's anything on earth can move it's her: but that's no reason why
she should be kept waiting, so if you can manage to do your packing
inside ten minutes I'll be obliged."

Sister Celestine and Dorothy looked at each other, as if both were at
a loss for words; as, indeed, they were. It seemed incredible that
Dorothy should be expected to quit, at a moment's notice, the place
which had sheltered her her whole life long; to go, with this uncouth
stranger, she knew not where. The Sister asked where he proposed so
take her; his reply could scarcely have been vaguer. "Oh, for a bit of
a run round; just now I'm rather at a loose end; my future movements
depend upon circs."

To the Sister's orderly mind the prospect seemed uncomfortably
nebulous; yet there seemed nothing to do but to let the girl go. The
man was her lawful guardian. In his method of paying the convent dues
the late Mr Gilbert had been erratic. Quite a considerable sum had
been owing when he died. During the intervening months that sum had
become still larger. Taking out a fat pocket-book, Mr Emmett paid all
demands with bank-notes: in that respect nothing could have been more
satisfactory. The convent, which could ill afford to lose the money,
had become anxious; the sight of those bank-notes removed a burden
from the Sister's mind and Dorothy was sent upstairs, to put her hat
and jacket on, and her things into her box. The process was not a
lengthy one. She still had the small wooden box which she had brought
to the convent as a tiny child. But her stock of clothes had not grown
much larger; those which would not go into the box were wrapped in a
sheet of brown paper. As, theoretically, Frances Vernon assisted in
the business of packing, she plied Dorothy with questions. The answers
she received were very short; gradually Frances became conscious that
some subtle change had taken place in her friend during the last few
minutes.

"What is he like?" she demanded; as Dorothy had done of Sister
Celestine. In her answer Dorothy paraphrased the Sister.

"How can I tell you, when I have been acquainted with him only ten
minutes?"

Frances leaped to conclusions as she herself had done.

"I know what that means--it means that he's horrid. Is he very
horrid?"

"I didn't say he was horrid."

"No, but you didn't say he wasn't. You might at least tell me what he
looks like. Dolly, do!"

And Dolly did. She painted Mr Emmett exactly as he had appeared to
her. She had a pretty knack of description; by the time the portrait
was finished Miss Vernon was gazing with wide-open eyes.

"Why," she cried, "he must be perfectly hideous!"

"He is not," admitted Dorothy, "what some people would call
good-looking."

"Fancy going you don't know where with such a man as that!--you who
have always said that in a man you must have beauty of mind, and soul,
and form!"

Dorothy bent over the frock she was folding.

"We have been taught that a plain casket may contain a priceless
jewel."

She might have been taught it; yet she doubted if Mr Emmett was a
casket of that kind. Before long she was sure that he was not. Her
box, whose appearance produced uncomplimentary remarks from her
guardian, was fastened on the top of the car; presently she had
quitted the convent, with all her worldly possessions. Mr Emmett was
his own driver. She sat beside him, on the front seat, while the
chauffeur sat behind. She would have preferred to have had it the
other way round, but it was settled for her without her having a voice
in the matter. A big coat was slipped over her shoulders; she was on
the seat; a rug was wrapped round her knees; they were off; before she
clearly realised what had happened; certainly before she had said all
the adieux she would have liked to say. It was all like some strange
dream; whose strangeness was accentuated by the subsequent flight of
the throbbing monster through the air.

What was the name of the town at which they stayed that first night
she never knew. She had not curiosity enough to ask; no one
volunteered the information. After dinner, which was to her a wholly
unaccustomed feast, at which she ate scarcely anything, in spite of Mr
Emmett's well-meant gibes and jeers, she stole up to bed as soon as
she could; to a big bed; in a big room, in the old inn, there she lay,
a lonely, forlorn maiden; thinking, puzzling, doubting, wishing, with
all her heart, that she was back again in the safe shelter of the
convent. She wished it often during the days and weeks which followed.
She was a young girl, and, like a young girl, all agog to stand on
tiptoe, if needs be, and open the windows which would enable her to
look into the house of life. Under normal circumstances, that motor
cruise might have been to her one long delight; but the circumstances
were abnormal; so that for long afterwards a motor car stood for her
as a sort of synonym for a nightmare.

Everything was spoilt by Mr Emmett's presence. From the first moment
he had impressed her disagreeably; that impression grew with each hour
that she spent in his near neighbourhood. The trouble was that it was
so hard to get away from him. He would have her sit beside him on that
front seat; ignoring utterly her reiterated requests to be allowed to
sit behind. During the first days they motored continually; stopping
in the daytime only to eat and drink--principally, so it seemed to
Dorothy, where Mr Emmett was concerned, for the latter. The quantity
he drank amazed and frightened her; always, when night fell, he had
drunk too much. During the day the liquor he consumed had an unhappy
effect upon his driving. He was quick enough to perceive that he had
not inspired the girl with sentiments of affection; and this he
resented. But, instead of setting himself to get the better of any
distaste she might have for him, he seemed to take a malicious
pleasure in paying her out for entertaining a feeling of the kind.
Discovering that she felt a not unnatural girlish timidity in her new
position as passenger on a motor car, he went out of his way to
increase instead of lessen it, so that, before long, her timidity
became actual terror. Nearly always he took the car along at what
appeared to her to be a dangerous speed; as the day advanced, and the
drinks multiplied, the speed grew more. At first she remonstrated,
feebly enough; but he only laughed, and pressed the car still faster.
Afterwards she sat silent; but she could not prevent her cheeks from
turning white, or her mouth from shutting tighter. When he saw these
signs he delighted in taking risks which made her heart stand still.
One afternoon he knocked down a child in a village street on the other
side of Blois. At first, in her agony, she thought it was killed; but
it appeared that only its arm was broken. When the people came
flocking round he gave the parents two thousand francs in bank-notes;
one could not but feel that they would have been willing to have their
own arms broken on those terms. He was lavish enough with his money.
They spent that night in Tours. The next day he offered her a wad of
notes, and suggested that she should go into the town and provide
herself with a sufficient wardrobe. She had not realised till lately
how scanty it really was; continual travelling made drains on her
resources which she found it hard to meet. But he offered her cash in
a way which jarred on her every nerve; she would not buy herself
clothes with money which came from him. When she made this clear to
him he called her an adjectived fool; and broke into a torrent of
language from which she fled in terror.

At Lyons he tried to kiss her; whereat she burst into a frenzy of rage
which surprised herself, and startled him. It was in the hall of the
hotel after dinner, just as she was going up to bed; always, so soon
as dinner was over, she went straight to her room. Billson, the
chauffeur, happened to enter at the moment, to get orders for the
morrow. Emmett, turning, saw him grinning at his discomfiture.

"By----!" he cried, eager to vent his fury on someone. "If you don't
take care I'll kill you!"

But Billson never flinched; and he continued to grin. He was a
shortish, youngish man, with a white, clean-shaven face, and black
hair, which he wore parted in the middle. He seemed to have a gift for
silence; Dorothy had hardly heard him speak a dozen times. She had a
feeling that, for some cause, his master stood in awe of him. Although
he went on grinning, Mr Emmett made no attempt to carry out his
threat--at least, while she was flying up the stairs.

They spent some days at Aix-les-Bains. There he made to her his first
proposal of marriage; he was in his cups at the time. To say that she
refused him is to say little. When she gained the sanctum of her own
apartment she was in an agony of shame and distress. Her dilemma was
not a pleasant one. It seemed to her that it was just as impossible to
remain in this man's company as it was to escape from it. She was
penniless, friendless. How was she to get away from him? To whom was
she to turn? Her ignorance was pitiable. For all she knew, his
position as her guardian gave him powers over her against which it was
vain to struggle. If she ran away from him, she thought it very
probable that he could compel her to return; in which case her last
plight would be worse than her first. Besides, with no money in her
pocket, where could she run? Despite her horror of the man, to her, in
her childlike ignorance, it seemed as if he had gripped her to him
with bonds of steel.




                              CHAPTER II

                             THE CURTAIN


When they landed in England it was to her as if she had been for years
with Mr Emmett, and Billson, and the car; though, in reality, they had
only been associated for a very few weeks. She felt as if, during
those interminable weeks, the best of her life had gone from her, and
already she had grown old, before she was eighteen. She had forgotten
how to smile; at night she could not sleep; her head was always
aching; her nerves were in such a state of tension that she was
beginning to be afraid of the sound of her own voice; the world had
become to her a prison from which there was no way out. She had not
been to England since she was a small child; returning to it was like
coming a strange country. She would have forgotten her own tongue had
not so many of the girls in the convent been English. They went up to
town on the inevitable motor; on the way she kept looking about her
with eyes which, in spite of herself, would grow dim. She had often
dreamed of the journey she would make, one day, to London; she had
never dreamed that it would be like this. They put up that night in a
huge railway station hotel. On the morrow, for once, they parted
company with the motor; Mr Emmett took her with him to a midland town
by rail. Some race meeting was on; Dorothy had a hazy notion that her
guardian had something to do with horses and with racing: it was a
subject of which she had heard him speaking more than once. Some
horsey acquaintances travelled with him in the same compartment; they
played bridge all the way, to Dorothy's relief; she was glad that they
should do anything which would keep them from speaking to her.

Mr Emmett took apartments at the principal hotel. There, in the
private sitting-room, after a _tête-à-tête_ dinner, he proposed to her
again. He was more sober than he sometimes was at that hour; perhaps,
on that account, he expressed himself with a clearness which she found
appalling. In various fashions he had asked her again and again to
marry him since that first time at Aix-les-Bains. She had begun to
understand that not only was he a man who would not take No for an
answer, but also that he was not likely to stick at anything which
would enable him to gain an end he had in view. If she had had any
doubts upon that latter point they were dissipated then. He did not so
much ask her to be his wife, as tell her that she would have to be his
wife; informing her, with complete candour, that if she was not an
utter fool she would grasp that fact without any further fuss and
nonsense. He added that, when she was his wife, he would give her a
good time--an A1 time. There wasn't a better-natured fellow going, if
you rubbed him the right way, nor a more generous one--he would give
his wife all she wanted, and more, if she was only nice to him--that
was all he wanted her to be--nice to him. He had sacks full of
money--ask anyone who knew George Emmett if he was a poor man. Why, he
thought nothing of lending anyone twenty or thirty thousand pounds, if
the security was decent--that was all he asked, decent security; and,
he went on with a grin, a chance of making cent. per cent. He might
tell her, in confidence, that he had his fingers round the throats of
more people than anyone had an idea of--all sorts of people, some of
them the highest in the land. He never talked; even when he was drunk
he kept his tongue off delicate subjects; but if he were to talk he
could mention names, male and female, which would make her sit up
straight. There was scarcely a man or woman who had anything to do
with horses who did not sometimes find himself, or herself, in a tight
corner about settling day. Those were the times they came to him. The
number of services he had rendered of that kind--well, they'd fill a
book. Everybody knew Georgie Emmett was a friend in need when a bad
settlement had to be faced. He winked, and Dorothy shuddered.

Knocking off the ash from his cigar he filled himself another glass of
champagne. If she had only had the courage she would have sprung from
her chair and rushed from the room; but just then all her courage
seemed to have deserted her. This man seemed to have for her the
fascination which a snake is said to have for the victim it proposes
to swallow. The worst of it was that, despite herself, his influence
over her seemed to be momentarily increasing, as if he were weaving a
spell which, as it proceeded, placed her more and more at his mercy.

It was not, he went on, as if her father was anything, or anyone. He
was not one to say a word to a child against her father, but she had
only to think of how he had treated her to know what sort he was. What
kind of a parent had he been to her? How often had he written to her?
How many times had he been to see her? What had he ever given her?
What had he ever done for her? He dare bet that the bills he had paid
for her keep in the convent had been paid with other people's money.
There was no disguising the fact that Bully Gilbert was a regular
rip--and there it was. Not only had she not got a penny of her own,
but she had no right to the clothes she stood up in--and pretty things
they were to call clothes. Let her say the word, and she should have
the run of the Rue de la Paix; then she'd know what clothes were. Why,
as things stood, there wasn't a chambermaid in that hotel who wasn't
in a better position than she was ever likely to be, if she was left
to herself. And yet here he was, ready and willing to marry her. He'd
get a special licence tomorrow; or, if she liked, he'd have the banns
put up in church--any church she chose to name; though, for his part,
he never could see what was the pull in going to church to be married.
She might take a long day's walk without meeting one woman who
wouldn't snatch at the chance of getting him; women of birth, and with
money in their pockets too. What he saw in her, hanged if he knew
himself; but he did see something. The first moment he set eyes on her
he'd made up his mind he'd marry her--that's why he took her away from
that adjectived convent--and marry her he would. So what was the use
of talking? Men and women were curious creatures. The sooner she said
Yes the more comfortable it would be for everyone. So she wasn't to be
silly, but was to come and kiss him, and sit on his knee, and he'd put
a prettier ring on her finger than she had ever dreamed of seeing
there. Here it was--what did she think of it?

From a small leather case he took a ring which was set with diamonds;
holding it out, moving it so that as the lights fell on it from
different angles the stones sparkled and gleamed; luring her with it
as an angler tries to lure a fish with the bait which hides the hooks.
She sat, her slender body pressed against the back of her chair,
gripping the sides of it with both hands, looking at him with staring,
hopeless eyes. All the strength seemed to have gone from her, as if
this man had drawn it all out of her, as out of a well, and left her
dry. His vitality was crushing hers; in the fight to hold her own she
was beaten; she knew it, and the knowledge was agony. She felt that
presently he would only have to hold up his finger, and what he bade
her do, that she would have to do. He continued to twiddle the diamond
ring between his great fingers; dilating on its various beauties;
dwelling on all that it would mean when it was in its place upon her
hand; and each moment she expected that he would order her to go to
him, and let him brand her with it as with a stigma which might never
be effaced. What would happen if such an order were given she could
not, dared not, think. While she still awaited it there came a tapping
at the door; a waiter entered.

"A gentleman, sir, to see you."

Mr Emmett turned towards him angrily.

"A gentleman? What gentleman? I'm not going to see anyone
to-night--whoever it is, tell him to go to the devil."

The waiter held out to him an envelope which was on a silver tray.

"Gentleman told me to give you that, sir."

Tearing the envelope open Mr Emmett read what was on a half-sheet of
paper which was within; then he crumpled it up, and swore.

"Confound him! What's the hurry? Why won't the morning do? Tell him
I'm coming down to him."

The waiter went. Mr Emmett looked again at Dorothy, still sitting as
if she were glued to the back of her chair; replacing the ring in its
leather case, he made as if to return it to his waistcoat pocket;
then, suddenly changing his mind, he called out: "Come here!" She did
not move; but clung tighter to her seat. He laughed, as if amused by
her obvious fear of him. "You little idiot! Of what are you afraid?
There'll come a time when you'll not need any calling; and you'll come
uninvited, and perhaps when I don't want you. I know you women; you're
like badly trained dogs. When you're whistled to heel you'll not come;
but when you're not whistled you keep messing about a man till he
feels like giving you a dose of prussic acid. Very well, don't come;
I'll come to you." He went to her, at the other end of the table.
"Give me your hand!" He took it, her left; she offering no resistance,
but looking up at him with a great terror in her eyes. On the third
finger he slipped the ring. "There!--that's in token that you're mine;
you're as much my property now as if we'd been together to church; and
don't you forget it. There's a fool downstairs who wants to see me;
and, as he is a fool, he shall; but I'm not going to let him keep me;
I shall probably be back inside ten minutes, and mind I find you here
when I do come back. None of your games--going to bed, or any of that
rot; if you do I'll fetch you down again. There are all sorts of
things I want to talk to you about, before you think of bed; I want
you to show that you can be nice to me; and that you can treat me as a
girl ought to treat the man who's going to be her husband--especially
a husband who's going to give her the best time a girl ever did have.
So you understand?--I'm to find you here when I return." He moved a
step or two away; then halted. "I ought to have a kiss--a man ought
to have a kiss from his girl, when he gives her the ring; but that
sort of thing won't spoil with keeping--there'll be interest to
collect--I'll take a couple when I come back."

He went. She sat staring at the door through which he had passed, his
last horrid threat ringing in her ears. He would take a couple when he
came back; and she was to stay there till he came to take them, with
that dreadful ring scarring the flesh on her finger. She felt sure
that it was being scarred; it certainly burned. Yet she did not dare
to take it off; although he was gone she was still afraid of him. A
curious paralysis seemed to have attacked her limbs. She remained
motionless for some seconds after he had left her, her hand stretched
out, staring at his ring. When she moved it was with an effort; when
she gained her feet she had to hold on to the back of the chair, to
aid her to stand.

What was she to do? She tried to think; as she had tried so often of
late; her brain, like her muscles, played her false; clear thought was
beyond her. One thing she realised--that she must not be there when he
came back; in spite--because--of what he had said. Yet how was she to
avoid being there? He had told her that if she went to bed he would
fetch her back again; and she believed him. Once, at a hotel in
France, he had made a great clatter at her room door; and was only
prevented by practically the entire staff of the establishment from
breaking it down. Somehow she felt that that night nothing would keep
him from having her out of her room again, if she disobeyed his
command, and fled to it. But, if she did not, what was she to do,
where was she to go, so that she might not be there when he came back?
Again and again, in France, had she meditated flight; only the
conviction that the result would be fiasco had restrained her. Was she
more likely to succeed, here, in England? Even through her mental haze
a feeling was borne in upon her that in that direction lay her only
hope. If she could only put a descent distance between herself and him
she might escape him altogether. The point was, could she? An idea
occurred to her--the railway. The first time in her life, so far as
she remembered, she had, that day, been in a train. She had, of
course, read about trains; she had even seen them; the probability was
that she had been brought in one to the convent. But, in those days,
she was a toddling child; she had certainly not been in one since. Mr
Emmett had brought her in one from London. Then why should she not go
alone in one, if not back to London, then at least to some place, a
long way off, where she would be beyond his reach.

No sooner had the notion occurred to her than she started to put it
into practice; and was already moving towards the door when a second
reflection held her back. Mr Emmett had bought a ticket, with money.
She was not so ignorant as not to be aware that railways were not
public highways; that one could not travel in a train without a
ticket; which had to be paid for, in advance with cash. She had seen
Mr Emmett pay for two tickets--one for her, and one for himself. They
would not let her get into a train without a ticket; how was she to
pay for it? She was confronted, as before, in the midst of her wild
desire to flee, by her eternal lack of pence--that insuperable
barrier. She had had no regular pocket-money at the convent like the
other girls; their parents either sent them cash direct, or made
arrangements with the Sisters. Occasionally, on saints' days, she was
given a sou to put into the box; but, as a rule, she was without even
that humble coin. Never having known what it was to have money she did
not miss it; there were no temptations to spend; her modest wants were
supplied. It was only when she set out through the world with her
guardian that it began to dawn upon her what an important part money
played in the affairs of men, and women. She had no idea how much cash
would be required to purchase a ticket; she took it for granted that
the more she paid the farther the ticket would take her; the mischief
was that she had no money at all--not even a paltry _sou_.

How was she to get money? From where? She looked about her. Dessert
was still upon the table; there were knives and forks; other articles
which were possibly of silver; but they were not coin of the realm;
though she had a vague idea that they might be turned into it. How the
transformation might be effected was a problem which was beyond her
altogether. She had sense enough to know that it would be no use
proffering a handful of silver ware in exchange for a ticket.

In that moment of her desperation, if she had only known where money
was to be had, she would have made free with it, if the thing were
possible, even without the owner's sanction, oblivious of any
consequences which her action might entail; being persuaded that no
worse fate could befall her than that that man should find her still
in the room when he came back. Spurred by this conviction she was
about to rush forth and seek for money, she knew not where nor how;
already her fingers were near the handle, when she heard footsteps
approaching on the other side. He was coming back. In the frenzy of
her terror it was all she could do to keep herself from screaming. She
glanced behind her, as a mouse might do which is caught in a trap, and
knows that its doom is approaching. There was a recessed window on one
side of the room. She had watched the waiter draw the heavy curtains
across the recess as he lit the lights. She went flying towards it;
gained it; had just slipped behind the curtain as the door of the room
was opened.




                             CHAPTER III

                              THE COWARD


The curtains were so thick, and were drawn so close, that in the
recess it was nearly pitch dark. Only in one place did the lights of
the room shine through. That was where the stuff had worn so thin that
only a few threads remained. But for some seconds Dorothy was
unconscious both of the darkness and the light; she was conscious of
nothing. She scarcely dared to breathe; she did not dare to move;
though she trembled so that she had to lean against the side of the
recess to keep herself from collapsing in a heap upon the floor. Each
moment she expected that the curtains would be drawn aside and her
hiding-place discovered. She felt sure that Mr Emmett's sharp eyes
must have seen them moving as he entered the room. As the moments
passed and the curtains remained untouched, she began to wonder. Was
he playing with her? Knowing well where she was, had he seated himself
at the table; proposing to sit there drinking, till she was tired of
pretending to hide, or till it pleased him to drag her out? She was
sufficiently acquainted with his disposition to be aware that that
kind of sport amused him. If he thought that she was shivering behind
those curtains, he would let her go on shivering, ever more and more,
until it suited him to play some sudden trick which might cause her to
tumble in a nerveless heap on the floor. If he could succeed in
bringing her to that pitch, his sense of humour would be tickled; he
would enjoy the joke.

Thinking that might be the meaning of his non-interference she had
half made up her mind to reveal herself, and so spoil his sport, when,
on a sudden, she became conscious that a voice was speaking--a strange
voice, which was not Mr Emmett's. Then Mr Emmett spoke. Then the voice
again. What did it mean? She listened. It is a sufficient commentary
upon her mental and physical condition to state that until that
instant she had heard nothing. Yet, so soon as she began to listen, it
became obvious that the speakers must have been talking together for,
at anyrate, some little time; and that in tones which, to say the
least, were audible.

Dorothy presumed that, after all, Mr Emmett had not noticed the
quivering curtains, and had taken her disappearance for granted. If he
had made a remark on it, it had been a passing one; clearly she was
not the subject of the conversation which he was carrying on with the
stranger. What they were talking about she did not know, but it became
each second plainer that it was a matter on which they were both of
them very much in earnest. If they were not actually quarrelling they
were very near to it. The language which was being used on both sides
was warm; the stranger was addressing Mr Emmett in terms which were
the reverse of complimentary, and which Mr Emmett was vigorously
resenting. His resentment seemed to add flame to the stranger's anger.

All at once there came something into his tone which struck the unseen
listener's ear. She had become conscious of the ray of light which
penetrated her hiding-place. Moving gingerly, so as to avoid coming
into contact with the hangings, she approached her face to the worn
place in the curtains. It was worn so bare that the few threads which
remained formed scarcely any obstruction to the view; she could see
through quite easily. The scene on the other side was clearly
revealed; she saw the two actors in it as well as if the curtain had
not been there. The stranger was a young man, possibly a year or two
on the shady side of forty. He was tall, and held himself straighter
than some tall men are apt to do. His chest was broad; he held his
shoulders well back; about the whole man there was a suggestion of
strength. His head was square, and was poised easily upon a rounded
throat. He had an odd, clever-looking face, a fine, open brow. His
eyes, which were rather small, were wide apart. His mouth was large,
but his lips were thin, and shut so closely that when, in silence, he
looked at Mr Emmett, only a slender red line was visible to show that
a mouth was there. His black hair, parted on one side, was a little in
disorder, some of it straggled over his forehead. Disorder, indeed,
was the dominant note of the man. As she watched him the girl had a
feeling that he was too much moved by some inward excitement to be
over-particular about the small niceties of his attire. His tie was a
little crooked; his jacket had a lopsided air.

Ordinarily the expression of his queer-looking face was probably a
pleasant one; there was that about it which hinted that, in a general
way, the man's outlook on to life was that of a humorist. But there
was little pleasant about it then, or humorous either. It was not
likely that his complexion ever was his strongest feature--at that
moment it had a peculiar pallor which was singularly unattractive.
Like many dark men, evidently nature had meant him to have a strong
beard. His cheeks and chin and upper lip were shaven, but apparently
that day they had not known the razor. In consequence they were of a
bluish tint, which was in ghastly harmony with the almost unnatural
colour of his skin. The appearance of the man fascinated the girl who
was peeping at him from behind the curtain, as if he realised some
picture which, in some occult fashion, had unwittingly been present in
her mind, of a man in a rage. His pose; his attitude; his disordered
attire; something which looked out of his eyes; the obvious mental
agitation which caused his countenance to wear that singular hue; the
gleam of scarlet which was all that marked his tightly closed mouth;
the ominous fashion in which, while standing perfectly still, he never
took his glance from off the man in front of him--although she might
not have been able to put the thing into words, everything about him
spoke to the sensitive imagination of the girl of one who, for a very
little, would throw everything aside in the fullness of his desire to
gratify the lust of his rage.

The man in front of him was angry too; but with him anger took a
different form: his was rather bad temper than genuine passion. It had
about it a suggestion of bluster, of effort; as if he would have liked
to be more angry than he actually was. Beyond doubt he was
sufficiently annoyed with the stranger; so annoyed that he was quite
willing to do him a mischief; to knock him down, for instance; even to
throw him from the room. Yet, disposed as he evidently was to be as
disagreeable as he could be, his rage altogether lacked that quality
of intensity, of white heat, which marked the other; the something
which caused the girl, when she appreciated, though only vaguely, the
scene which was being enacted before her, to feel that it would be
well that, at the earliest possible moment, she should make her
presence known, for Mr Emmett's protection.

There, in those last four words, was the barrier which held her back.
Had it been borne in upon her, in even the faintest degree, that, for
the stranger's sake, it would be well that she should step out from
behind that screen, she might have done it on the instant. But for Mr
Emmett--no! In some odd way the stranger's rage communicated itself to
her. The terror with which her guardian had imbued her began to change
into resentment. As she observed the stranger his fury fired hers. As
surely as she believed herself to have a just cause for anger, so
surely was she persuaded of the justice of the stranger's anger also.
She was convinced that Emmett was in the wrong. That she arrived at
this conclusion from very inadequate premises was nothing; from what
she had seen of Mr Emmett she was prepared to assert, offhand, without
knowing anything of the facts, that in nine disputes out of ten he was
in the wrong--that this was one of those nine she did not for an
instant doubt.

What they were talking about she did not understand. When she began
really to listen there was nothing in their conversation to give her a
definite clue; they had reached that stage when, like two dogs, they
were disposed to do little but bark at each other. The stranger
informed Mr Emmett, after a brief pause, as if for reflection,
that he was a thief. Mr Emmett paused, in his turn; then assailed the
stranger with a flood of vituperation which was characteristic of the
man--there was such a redundance of offensive suggestions. Dorothy
felt as if each one of them had been aimed at her; with each her
choler rose; just, as she was sure, the stranger's rose also. An
uncanny desire came to the tips of her fingers to grip the speaker by
the throat and choke an apology out of him. She would have liked to
see the stranger do it; with all her might she longed to inspire him
with her feeling. Presently she realised that he had it on his own
account, without any urging from her. When Emmett had finished he
remained still, motionless; never once removing his eyes from the
other's inflamed features. Then he said, more quietly than he had
spoken before--there was something in his lowered tone which pleased
the girl behind the curtain--

"Would you mind repeating those observations?--or, if that is not
convenient, the substance of them?"

Dorothy heard the threat which the words conveyed more clearly than if
he had yelled it out. It is possible, since he was not dull-witted,
that Mr Emmett heard it too. If such was the case then it seemed that,
at least, he was no coward; for, with complete sincerity, he treated
the other with contempt which was even more galling than his words.
Thrusting his hands into his trouser pockets; holding his great head a
little on one side; looking at the other as if he were something
altogether beneath his notice; laughing that brutal laugh of his,
which had hurt the girl more than speech could do; he began at him
again. He poured forth on him a stream of abusive epithets, with a
lavish copiousness which showed how truly great was the wealth of his
resources; he surpassed himself. There was not a vice which he did not
attribute both to him and to his progenitors; if the tenth of what he
said was true then this man was a wretch indeed. When he had finished,
at least for the moment, he laughed--a second time. The laugh did what
his insults had failed to do--it moved the other to action. He
remained quiescent before the opprobrious torrent; but that laughter
surpassed the limit of his endurance. Still with his eyes fixed on the
other's face he reached out towards the champagne bottle which stood
beside him on the table. Mr Emmett, perceiving his intention, made
haste to intercept it. He too moved towards the table.

"No, you don't!" he cried. But already the other's fingers were round
the bottle's neck. "By----, you'll be sorry if you try that, you----!"

While he still was vomiting adjectives the bottle swung into the air;
Dorothy saw that as it was turned upside down some of its contents
went down the stranger's sleeve. Mr Emmett tried to stop it, and did,
with his head. As he endeavoured to grab the other's arm, the
stranger, swerving, brought the heavy bottle down upon his unprotected
head with murderous force. The head and the bottle were smashed
together; even then Dorothy was struck by the difference there was
between the two sounds, the breaking of the bottle, and the breaking
of the head. Mr Emmett and the bottle vanished together, with
something of the effect of a conjuring trick. Mr Emmett disappeared
behind the table; all that was left of the bottle was an inch or two
of splintered glass, which the stranger still gripped. The result
appeared to surprise him. He looked down at the floor on the side of
the table which was hidden from Dorothy, and continued to look, as if
he saw something there which was beyond his comprehension. Then he
looked at the splinter of glass, which was all that was left of the
bottle; approaching it to his face, as if to enable him to see it
better. As he looked at it he smiled; and he said, as if he were
speaking to himself, though his words were distinctly audible to
Dorothy:

"My word! if it hadn't smashed!" His glance returned to the floor. He
spoke again. "Emmett!" None replied. Something in the silence seemed
to tickle him, because he both smiled and spoke again. "It seems it
held out long enough." He observed the broken splinter with what
appeared to be amused curiosity. After seeming to hesitate what to do
with it he placed it carefully on the table, splintered end upwards.
Then again he spoke. "Emmett!" When there was still no answer he bent
over what he saw lying on the floor. Presently he kneeled. Dorothy
could not see what he was doing with his hands; she did not need to
see; she knew. When he rose it was with difficulty; his arms were
about Mr Emmett; he raised him with them. As Mr Emmett did nothing to
raise himself, since he was such a heavy man, the stranger had not an
easy task. When he had regained his own feet he was holding his burden
closer to him than could have been quite convenient. It was with
curious sensations that the unseen witness observed how limp her
guardian was; his head waggled with the stranger's every movement, as
if the muscles of the neck refused to hold it up. Staggering forward,
the stranger deposited Mr Emmett on the chair on which he had been
seated at dinner. The effect was singular. It was an old wooden
arm-chair, with a capacious seat, and a high back. Mr Emmett could
not be induced to sit up straight. The stranger made one or two
well-meaning efforts; but the results were not so satisfactory as his
labours deserved. Mr Emmett would persist in assuming a lop-sided
attitude: his chin on his chest, his body in a variety of curves, his
arms hanging anyhow. Realising that it was futile to try to induce him
to take up a more dignified position, apparently the stranger decided
to let him stop as he was. He drew back a little, as if the better to
observe the effect. The spectacle he offered seemed to move him to
reflection, and reflection to speech. He said, out loud: "If ever
there was a scoundrel----" and then stopped, leaving the sentence
unfinished; possibly recalling the old school tag, which recommends us
to say objectionable things of our friends only while they are living.
A cloth cap, a cane, and a pair of gloves were lying on a side table.
Turning away, taking up these three articles, the stranger moved
briskly towards the door, and out of the room, never once looking back
at what was on the chair.

And Dorothy was left alone with her guardian.




                              CHAPTER IV

                         THE MAN IN THE CHAIR


It was only then that the full meaning of what had taken place began
to dawn upon Dorothy. It was only when the door had been opened and
shut, and the stranger was gone, that she commenced to realise what
kind of a drama this was which had been enacted before her eyes; that
it was not a comedy, but a tragedy; in which the most tragic part was
probably still to come. It was odd how silent it was when the stranger
had gone. Unconsciously she had found comfort in his neighbourhood,
his presence. When that was withdrawn, only the unspeakable remained.

Not the least terrible part of it was that, so soon as it became clear
to her that she really was alone, she could not take her eyes off the
figure in the chair. She would have given more than she had ever had
if Mr Emmett would only have moved; if only he would make some effort
to alter what must be a position of such obvious discomfort. Though
she had come to regard him almost as if he were the bad ogre of some
fairy tale, at that moment she would rather he should do anything than
keep so still; she was more afraid of him dead than alive; especially
as each instant the feeling oppressed her more and more that he was
dead because of her. Actually--practically--it was she who had killed
him. If she had only made her presence known; if she had only moved;
if she had only uttered a sound--the thing would not have been done
which had been done; of that she was assured. That, morally, she was
an accomplice in this man's killing, she knew, if no one else did.
From the moment in which she had discovered the stranger in the room,
and had begun to watch, and to listen, she had seen the coming event
casting its shadow before; she knew that now, as she had known it
then. Some instinct had told her that the fury which possessed the
stranger was of the sort which, to use a phrase, makes a man "see
red"; that because of him Mr Emmett was in danger--although Mr Emmett
himself had not suspected it, she knew. She had seen it in the
stranger's face, in his manner; she had felt it in the air.

Not only had she had, in a sense, the prophetic vision, she had
rejoiced to have it. She herself had had such a loathing for the man,
had stood in such terror of him, that when that queer instinct began
to tell her that it was quite within the range of possibility that the
stranger might act as executioner the blood began to run pleasurably
faster through her veins. Expectation became desire; she waited
eagerly for him to strike the blow; knowing, before it came, that it
was coming. Was that not to be his accomplice? Her hope had been that
he would do what she felt he was about to do; although she might have
stayed him with the movement of a finger she had given no sign. It was
useless for her to tell herself that she had not expected that he
would actually kill him: perhaps the stranger himself had not meant
actually to kill him. She had foreseen that he would probably assail
him with violence; and had been willing that he should use what
violence he chose. A little more--a little less--what did it matter?
Only in the event of the stranger getting the worst of it would she
have interposed; she would not have cared how much worsted Mr Emmett
might have been. The proof that he had been worsted was there before
her, in the chair. The result being, so far as she herself was
concerned, that, as has been said, she was more afraid of him dead
than alive.

How long, after she was left alone with her guardian, she remained
motionless behind that curtain, she never knew. Before, while the
drama was being acted, she would not have revealed herself on any
account, lest she should balk the principal player; now her capacity
to do so seemed to have left her. It was so still in the room that she
dared not disturb the silence. She kept her eyes fastened to that bare
place, looking at what she could not help but look; motionless,
scarcely breathing; as if some form of paralysis had riveted her in
that one position. But, by degrees, in spite of the horror which held
her, there did come to her some dim appreciation of the fact that she
could not stay there all night; for ever. She would have to leave her
hiding-place some time, and show herself to the figure in the chair.
The necessity was a terrible one; but it was a necessity; therefore,
the sooner she came out from behind that curtain the sooner the ordeal
would be over; only let her be sure to go as softly as she could; so
that, making no noise, none might hear her. With this idea of moving
quietly she lifted her hand to part the curtains, and had just
insinuated her fingers between them when the door was opened, and her
hand fell back.

Her first impression was, as she saw the door swinging back upon its
hinges, that it was probably the stranger, who had come back to do she
knew not what. But the person who actually entered was the waiter. His
appearance made her conscious of a sense of shock; she began to shiver
all over; though the strange thing was, not that he should come in
when he did, but that he should not have come before.

This was not one of your foreign waiters; plainly he was English to
the core--an elderly man, with grey hair, slight side-whiskers, a
stoop, and that air of deprecation which comes to some waiters,
possibly because they spend so much of their time in considering the
wishes of others without reference to their own. A decorous person;
possibly one of the institutions of the house. His professional attire
was in better condition than it is apt to be; there was a suggestion
about him of unusual cleanliness, even his hands seemed decently kept;
the napkin which he carried over his arm was spotless. Apparently he
had taken it for granted that, since the meal must have been long
since over, the diners had departed, and that therefore it was not
necessary to knock. He paused at the door for a moment to look about
him. Mr Emmett was hidden by the broad high back of the chair on which
he was sitting. After his momentary hesitation, seeing no one, the
waiter moved forward with the peculiar gait which comes to waiters
after performing, for many years, balancing feats with plates and
dishes. He had not only reached the table, he had begun to gather
together the dessert plates, before he saw Mr Emmett--in his surprise
he nearly dropped a plate.

"I beg your pardon, sir, for not noticing you before, but I'd no
idea----" He stopped short, as if struck by the singularity of the
gentleman's attitude. "I hope, sir, that nothing's happened----" Again
he stopped, perceiving that something indeed had happened. His bearing
changed, his voice dropped. "I do believe----" Leaving his sentences
unfinished appeared, with him, to amount to a habit; he stopped again.
Raising his left hand, with his fingers he rubbed his bristly chin,
delivering himself of a complete sentence at last: "Well, I never
did!" To an outsider the words might not have conveyed much meaning;
they seemed to convey enough meaning to him. Then came the half of a
query. "Whatever is----"

He got no further; seeming to be in a state of such perturbation that,
for the time, he had lost his wits. He stood staring at the man in the
chair as an anxious rabbit might look at a fox which it is not sure is
dead. Suddenly he seemed to make up his mind what was the best thing
for him to do. He went hustling towards the door; when he reached it
he checked himself as if seized with an idea. What the idea was was
made plain when he took the key out of the lock, opened the door, and,
as Dorothy could hear, locked it again on the outside. And again she
was left alone with her guardian.

This time her sensations were worse than before: she was being
punished for her share in what had been done. She became awake to the
fact that with that door locked--and egress, therefore, rendered
impossible--her position had become a most unpleasant one. No doubt
the waiter, declining, wisely enough, to accept more responsibility
than he could help, had gone to tell the news to someone. Soon that
someone would come back with the waiter; the news would be passed on,
sooner or later, to the police. The girl had, of course, no actual
knowledge of the procedure in such cases; she knew more about French
methods than English, but she had sufficient intelligence to be aware
that, ultimately, the police would appear upon the scene. If she was
unable to escape before they came, as, if each time someone went out
of the room, the door was locked, would be the case--and the police
found her there behind the curtain--what would happen to her then?
What conclusions would they draw?

The terror of such a prospect moved her to action--or, at least, to
attempted action. Was there no other way of getting out of the room
except by the door? She turned to the window which was behind her.
Drawing aside the blind she found that it was set with small panes of
coloured glass. She was quick-witted enough to guess that that was
probably because it looked out upon a stable or a yard, or something
equally agreeable; and therefore a good view was a thing not to be
desired. If that were the case then to attempt to escape that way
would be to court discovery. Besides, she remembered that the room was
on the first floor, that the approach from the hall was up a flight of
several stairs; whatever might be on the other side of that window, it
was not likely that it would be easy to reach the ground. Was there no
other way out of the room? She thrust the curtains aside to look--and
heard the key being put into the lock of the door.

She was back again behind the curtain when the door reopened, and the
waiter reappeared, with, at his heels, somebody who was evidently a
personage. A short, cobby man, middle-aged, wearing a gloire de Dijon
rose in the buttonhole of his frock-coat, about him a general air of
being well groomed. The waiter moved quickly towards the table, the
other following close behind him. When they reached the chair the
waiter said nothing; it was unnecessary; the other saw. What he saw
seemed to impress him with a sense of having been subjected to a
personal affront. He asked pettishly:

"What's the meaning of this?" Receiving no answer--the waiter was
again stroking his bristly chin with the fingers of his left hand,
with about him still that suggestion of the anxious rabbit--he
addressed himself to the figure in the chair. "Mr Emmett! Sir!" No
notice being taken he repeated his former futile inquiry: "What the
deuce does this mean?" Then he added, as if the notion had all at once
occurred to him: "He's dead!"

"I'm afraid he is, sir."

The personage went on from discovery to discovery.

"He couldn't have done it himself--look at his head--he couldn't have
smashed it like that--someone must have done it for him."

"Looks as if that were the case, sir."

"Then who can have done it?--in my hotel; with the house full of
people; in a private sitting-room; seated at his own dinner-table!
What have you been doing?"

"Several things; there have been a great many things, sir, to do, with
the house so busy. I've seen and heard nothing of what was taking
place in this room since I came to say there was a gentleman wished to
see him."

"A gentleman? What gentleman?"

"That I couldn't say, sir. A message and a note were brought to me;
which I brought in to Mr Emmett; and he went out to see the
gentleman."

"Went out, did he? He didn't bring the gentleman in here?"

"Not so far as I am aware, sir. They ought to be able to tell you
better about that downstairs."

The personage was looking about him.

"What's all this broken glass?--and what's that?"

He was pointing to the splintered neck of the bottle which the
stranger had left on the table.

"Seems, sir, as if a bottle had been broken."

"A champagne bottle--perhaps----" The personage looked at the waiter;
the waiter looked at him. Possibly it was because of what each saw in
the other's eyes that the speaker left his sentence unfinished. He
broke into petulant anger. "Nice thing this is to happen in my house
right at the beginning of the race week, about the only time in the
year when one does have a chance of making a little money--goodness
only knows what mischief it may do me when it gets known. Who's that
at the door? Shut it at once! You can't come in here!"

It seemed that someone could come in, because someone did--a woman.
She was what is sometimes described as a fine woman, still in the
prime of life; big and well covered, she would probably have turned
the scale at sixteen stone. She wore a black silk dress, which had a
generous train; her ample bust glittered with chains and gewgaws.
Unmistakably this was the hostess, the personage's wife. She stood in
the doorway.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

"First of all, Mrs Elsey, be so good as to shut that door. Then, when
you've done that, if you'll take the trouble to walk as far as this,
you will see what is the matter for yourself."

Shutting the door, she walked to the table--and saw.

"Why, whatever! Good gracious! Who's done it?"

"Seems as if someone had--by the looks of him."

"Bob!--what a sight he is! Goodness knows he never was much in the way
of looks, but who'd have thought he ever could have looked like that?
Don't you know who did it?"

"I'd make it hot for him if I did--doing a thing like this in my
house, in my busiest season!"

"There's plenty who might have done it--plenty. No one ever had much
love for him--and small blame to them. Why I only heard, with my own
ears, a man say to him this afternoon: 'By God, Emmett, for two pins,
I'd have your life'--sounded as if he meant it too."

"Perhaps someone gave him the two pins."

This was the waiter. Whether the remark was meant to be humorous, or
merely a suggestion, was not clear. No one heeded him. The personage
went on:

"What man was that? Be careful what you say, Mrs Elsey."

"No need for you to tell me to be careful; I can be that without your
telling me--as careful as anyone. What I say I heard I did hear--I'm
ready to swear to it anywhere, though who the man was I don't know; he
was a stranger to me--but I should know him again among a hundred. He
was a smallish man, with a sharp, clean-shaven face, and a brown suit,
and a white billycock, which he wore a little on one side--he'd
something to do with horses, of that I'm sure. But he's not the only
one who had a grudge against George Emmett. Who, who had anything to
do with him, hadn't? Why, if it comes to that, we'd no cause to love
him."

"Now, Mrs Elsey, none of that sort of talk, if you please; that's a
sort of talk I won't have. It doesn't follow that because a man has a
grudge against another man he wants to kill him."

"Doesn't it? It depends on the man. But whatever did he do it with? I
never saw such a sight as he has made of him!"

"Seems as if he did it with a bottle--a champagne bottle."

"He must have hit him a crack, to make a sight of him like that--why,
his head's all smashed to pulp."

"You can hit a man a crack with a champagne bottle, if you mean
business, and know how to. But this sort of thing won't do--the first
thing we've got to do is to send for the doctor and the police; and,
till they've been, nothing's to be touched; let them find things just
as we did, then they'll be able to draw their own conclusions, and
blame no one. So out you go, Mrs Elsey, and you too, Timmins, and I'll
lock the door, and keep it locked, and, Timmins, you hang about and
see that no one comes near; and, if you want to keep your place, mind
you don't say so much as a syllable to anyone about what's in here,
till I give you leave."

It was not such an easy business as, possibly, the personage would
have wished, to induce his wife to leave the room: she evinced an
uncomfortable curiosity in the details of the scene of which the man
in the chair was such a gruesome centre; had she been left alone, she
might have pushed her curiosity beyond desirable limits. As it was,
her husband had to put his arm through hers, and positively lead her
from the room, she remonstrating as she went. So soon as she was out
the door was slammed, and the key turned on the other side. And once
more, for the third time, Dorothy Gilbert was left alone with her
guardian, from whom there seemed to be as little chance as ever of
escaping. It was by some ironical stroke of fate that he appeared to
guard her better dead than living.




                              CHAPTER V

                    DOROTHY IS LEFT ALONE WITH HER
                        GUARDIAN FOR THE NIGHT


With the passing minutes the girl's plight took a different shape.
When she had first rushed behind that curtain it had been with a
childish desire to hide; to avoid the man who had threatened her with
kisses; and perhaps worse--for her maiden soul had warned her that he
was one who, if opportunity offered, would not stop at a little. In
sheer childish terror she had fled to the first refuge she could think
of; as if it were a refuge; as if, after an instant's search, he was
not sure to discover her hiding-place, and have her out. The advent of
the stranger if, in a way, it had saved her, had also complicated the
situation; it was not, then, so much discovery she had to fear, as
something it was not good to think of. Indeed, the situation was
reversed; because, had she then taken the initiative and discovered
herself, not only would she have been saved; but also Mr Emmett, and
the stranger. Too late she was beginning to realise that all three
were destroyed: the two living, and the one dead. Practically, in
killing Mr Emmett, the stranger had killed himself, and her. It might
turn out that he had done it actually. And in his action she was aware
that she had been an aider and abettor. So in remaining hidden she had
thrown away her own salvation.

The position now, however, wore a different aspect. Her mental
faculties were more on the alert than they had been; as it seemed to
her, they kept coming and going; so that now she saw clearly, and now
not at all. So far as they enabled her to judge, now, again, her only
hope of immunity rested on her continuing undiscovered. If they found
her all sorts of dreadful consequences would immediately result. For
one thing they would quite probably accuse her of having had at least
a hand in her guardian's death, if she were not the actual assassin;
not unnaturally taking it for granted that her persistent concealment
could only have a criminal meaning. She could only disprove the
charge, if it could be disproved, by shifting the onus of guilt on to
the vanished stranger's shoulders. Already--though, as yet, the thing
might not be acknowledged to herself--in her heart she had arrived at
a final resolution that under no conceivable circumstances would she
bear witness against him. Happen what might; where, in this matter, he
was concerned she would be dumb. Although she had not formulated it in
so many words, she felt that, in what had been done, they had been
partners, even friends; that, though unwittingly, it had been done for
her. Therefore, if to prove her innocence, it should become necessary
to prove his guilt, her doom was sealed. In that case, so soon as they
drew aside the curtain, and found her behind it, her fate was sealed.

It amazed her to think that she had not been discovered already. She
herself was so conscious of her imminent proximity to what had taken
place; was so well aware of how slender a protection that screen of
hanging drapery really was; that it bewildered her that she should
have played, with complete impunity, for so long the part of a
spy--and more. But the continuance of such impunity could not be
counted on. When the police came--and, possibly, they were already on
the threshold--the room would be searched for evidence. Then, in a
moment, her hiding-place would be revealed. She could not wait for
that; she must get away out of the room, before they came. But
how?--since the door was locked.

Parting the curtains, she stepped out from between them, looking about
her eagerly for a key to the riddle. The wildest notions came into her
head. There was a sideboard at one end of the room, with a cupboard
beneath. It might not occur to them to look inside that cupboard;
might there not be room in it for her? A moment's consideration made
her doubt it. She might be able to squeeze herself into a small space;
but, compress herself as she might, she doubted if there would be room
for her inside that cupboard; even if it was empty, which was by no
means sure. Then there was the fireplace; but, though it was
old-fashioned, it was not a large one; she was pretty certain that she
would not be able to force herself up the chimney. But though she
crammed herself into the cupboard, or rammed herself up the flue, she
would still be little better off. That was not at all the sort of
thing she wanted. She would still be in the room: what she wanted
was to get out of the room. Plainly there were only two ways out of
it--the door, and the window. Since the door was locked, only the
window remained.

Drawing back into the recess she turned towards the window; it would
have to be that way, since there was no other--though she threw
herself out of it. Getting inside the blind she tried to raise the
sash; it was immovable; obviously, it was fastened. She knew nothing
of English windows; this was the first she had seen, but she presumed
that it was meant to open. She searched for the fastening, above,
below, on either side; so far as she could learn, there was none;
apparently this window was a fraud--it was not meant to open.
Examining it more closely she saw that there was nothing on either
side to show that it was intended to be moved up and down; the paint
was unbroken; the thing was a fixture.

The discovery startled her; was it an English custom to have no
practicable window in a room? Nothing which would admit fresh air? If
that were so, then, since the door was secured against her, beyond the
slightest shadow of a doubt, she was caught like a rat in a trap, and
only God could help her. She noticed that what looked like two wooden
handles were hung on the ends of cords on either side of this dummy
window, near the top of the sash. Did they mean anything? If they did,
what was it? She gripped the two on the right, and pulled; then the
two on the left, and pulled at them; nothing happened. Then she
perceived that one handle on either side was of dark, and the other of
light, wood; perhaps that might mean something. She took hold of the
lighter handle on either side, and was about to tug, when she heard
the key turned in the lock. Instantly the handles slipped from between
her fingers; but before she could get from behind the blind she heard
the door open, and footsteps come into the room.

This time she was indeed at a disadvantage. To all intents and
purposes she was pinned between the blind and the window; she dared
not move, since the slightest movement caused the stiffened blind to
make an ominous rustling; if she tried to get away from under it she
would be certain to make a noise which would ensure discovery. The
only thing she could do was to stay where she was, and to refrain, if
the thing were possible, from moving even so much as a muscle. She
could see nothing. At first, in the shock of being taken unawares, her
limbs trembled so; her brain was in such a tumult; there was such a
singing in her ears, that she could not even hear. It was only by
degrees that the sounds resolved themselves into distinct voices; and
she became conscious of what was being said.

The personage, who was the landlord, and whose name was Elsey, had
entered the room; and his wife, who declined to be kept out; and a
fair-haired, spectacled young man, who was a doctor; and a policeman,
who chanced to be the nearest at hand. The procession of four moved
towards the table. The landlord spoke; his manner suggested a sense
both of importance and of resentment.

"Here, Dr Nichols, and officer, is Mr Emmett, as you can see for
yourselves. You see him exactly as he was found by Timmins, one of my
waiters; Timmins is outside the door, and can give testimony to that
effect, if required. He has not been touched; and nothing has been
touched; each thing is just as it was when discovered, as Timmins can
testify; and as, for that matter, I can testify; because I know it to
be a fact. As regards this unfortunate man the question now is, is
life extinct?"

He spoke as a showman might have done, who wished to call attention to
the special features of his show. The doctor was bending over the
figure in the chair.

"How long is it since he was found in this condition?"

"It might be ten minutes; it might be a quarter of an hour; it might
be more. Timmins is outside, and will corroborate me, if required. At
the earliest possible moment I sent for you, you happening to be the
medical gentleman who lived nearest."

"I should say that there can be little doubt but that, as you put it,
life's extinct; but it's not easy to examine him properly in this
chair." He looked round the room, his glance passing over the
curtained recess--if he had only known of the girl who shivered within
it! "That couch wouldn't be convenient either: it's not long enough.
Couldn't you have a mattress, or something, placed upon that table? We
might lay him on it, or, for the matter of that, we might manage
without."

"Certainly you can have a mattress. I wish to do everything for Mr
Emmett, who is an old customer of mine, which possibly can be done,
though nothing can be more serious than the inconvenience, to say
nothing of the positive loss, which he is likely to occasion me.
Timmins!" The waiter came just inside the door, rubbing his chin.
"Fetch me a mattress--at once!"

"Yes, sir; where from, sir?"

"Anywhere! Don't be a fool, sir, and stand gaping there; do as you're
told!"

His wife interposed.

"It's you who's the fool, Mr Elsey! Where do you suppose Timmins is
going to get a mattress from? Who do you suppose is going to give it
him?--without my sanction! Come with me, Timmins; I'll see that a
mattress is got."

When she reappeared the waiter was carrying one doubled up on his
shoulder. A space had been cleared on the table, on which the mattress
was placed. Then the landlord, the waiter, the doctor, and the
policeman lifted Mr Emmett between them; the united four seemed to
find him no easier burden than the stranger, singlehanded, had done.
While the doctor was still conducting his gruesome examination someone
else came into the room, an inspector of police. Him the landlord
greeted with bustling cordiality.

"Most dreadful thing has happened, Mr Tinney; so unfortunate for me
that it should have occurred in my house, at this, my busiest season;
one of my oldest customers too, Mr Emmett; I daresay you know him."

"George Emmett? Oh yes, I know him; who doesn't? How did it happen?"

"That's what we don't know--what nobody seems to know--that's the
mystery; the whole affair is most mysterious, and--and lamentable. To
put it at its lowest, with every desire to put self on one side, one
can't help feeling that someone has been guilty of a very unfriendly
act to me. In my business one never knows how this sort of thing may
be taken, especially by one's best customers. At this moment every
bedroom's full; yet directly this becomes known I may have my house
empty on my hands, my race week spoilt!"

"What's the cause of death?" The inspector put this question to the
doctor.

"A blow with some blunt instrument, which must have been delivered
with tremendous force. Some of the frontal cranium bones seem to be
broken in two or three places. Of course my examination has at present
only been superficial, but that appears to be the case."

The landlord proffered an addition of his own:

"It looks as if the blow had been delivered with a champagne bottle."
He held up the broken neck. "We found this on the table, and the
remaining pieces are here upon the floor."

The inspector again addressed the doctor.

"Could it have been done with a champagne bottle?"

The doctor settled his spectacles on his nose. Being a young man, a
sense of responsibility seemed to weigh upon him. His reply was
guarded:

"It might. Of course you understand that I am not prepared to give a
definite opinion, but, to some extent, my present impression is, that
it might have been."

The inspector turned to the landlord.

"Don't you know who was in the room with him?"

"That's the point--we don't; that's to say, not so that we can speak
with certainty. You see, this is a private sitting-room, and occupants
of private sitting-rooms have visitors of whom we know nothing. We
can't keep an eye upon them as if they were public rooms--it stands to
reason. But one of my waiters, named Timmins--this is Timmins--informs
me that he brought a message and a note to Mr Emmett, who was enjoying
his wine after dinner, to the effect that a gentleman wished to see
him; and that he went out to see the gentleman; but whether the
gentleman returned with him Timmins cannot say."

The inspector addressed the waiter.

"When you brought that message was he alone?"

"Yes, sir, he was alone; except for the young lady."

The landlord exclaimed.

"Young lady!--What young lady?"

"Why, sir, the young lady he dined with; he and she dined together."

"This is the first time you've mentioned a young lady."

"Well, sir, he and the young lady had dinner together--dinner was
ordered for two. I thought you knew that."

"I knew nothing about it--this is the first I've heard about it; this
is the first time I've heard about any young lady. Did you know about
it?" This last question was put to his wife. "I knew a lady came with
him; he took two bedrooms, one for himself and one for her; his was
No. 238, hers was No. 49, on the floor above. He wanted her next to
him, they tell me in the office; but the rooms on either side of his
were engaged."

"What was the lady's name?"

"That I don't know; I find he entered himself in the book as 'George
Emmett and Lady.' When I asked Miss Wilson, who was there when he came,
why she let him do it, she said that she asked him what was the lady's
name; and he said it was all right and didn't matter."

"Did you see her?"

"No; I can't say that I did. I'm told she's quite young. She seems to
have brought precious little luggage. There's only a small battered
old tin box in her room."

"I can only say that this is the first mention I've heard of any young
lady; I'd no idea that anyone came with him. I can't understand,
Timmins, why you didn't speak of her before."

"Well, sir, I thought you knew."

"Don't I tell you I didn't know? What do you mean by persisting in
thinking I knew? I understood you to say that when you brought the
message he was alone."

"So he was, sir--except for the young lady."

"Except for the young lady! What the devil do you mean by 'except for
the young lady'? He wasn't alone if she was there--was he?"

The inspector interposed.

"That's all right, Mr Elsey; you leave this to me--this is more in my
line than yours." He tackled the waiter, whose expression, as they
worried him, became more and more rabbitlike. "You say that Mr Emmett
and this young lady dined together?"

"Yes, sir, they did--I waited on them."

"Did she strike you as being young? How old would you have set her
down as?"

"Well, sir, not more than seventeen or eighteen, at the
outside--though perhaps she might have been a little more or
less--it's not easy to tell a young lady's age."

"Did she strike you as being a lady? You know what I mean."

"Yes, sir, I do. Well, sir, I daresay--I should say, sir, she was
quite a lady; most certainly a lady; though plainly dressed; in fact,
for a lady, almost shabby."

"Did she and Mr Emmett appear to be upon good terms?"

"Well, sir, I couldn't exactly say that they did."

"What do you mean by that? On what sort of terms were they? Explain
yourself, man."

"Well, sir--for one thing she never uttered so much as a single word
while I was in the room, neither to me nor to Mr Emmett; not even so
much as yes or no when I handed her a dish. And she scarcely ate
anything; and she never drank anything neither. Mr Emmett told me to
fill her glass with champagne; but I don't believe she ever so much as
put her lips to it--in fact, when I came in and found him there was
her glass just as it was when I filled it. Mr Emmett, he did all the
talking. From the way in which she sat right back in her chair--that's
the chair in which she sat, sir--and never spoke or moved, it seemed
as if she were frightened half out of her life of him."

"Why should she be frightened? Did you hear him say anything to
frighten her?"

"No, sir, nothing I could swear to; but he kept speaking to her in a
chaffing sort of way, which I could see she didn't like."

"Did she seem to be angry?--in a bad temper?"

"No, sir, not so much that as afraid of him."

"When he went out to see this gentleman, did he leave her behind?"

"Yes, sir, he did, on that chair; and I couldn't help noticing how
queer she looked--so white that I couldn't help wondering if she was
feeling ill."

"Was she here when you found him?"

"No, sir; the room was empty."

"Did anyone see her go out of the room?--did you?"

"No, sir; I haven't seen her since I saw her sitting in that chair."

"Then where is she now? Where is she, Mr Elsey?"

"I've no more idea than you have, Mr Tinney. As I've already tried to
explain, till a moment or two ago I hadn't the faintest notion that
there was a lady in the case."

"Mrs Elsey, where is this interesting young lady?"

Dorothy, behind the blind and the curtain, could scarcely refrain from
shrieking: "Here!"

Mrs Elsey shook her head.

"That's more than I can tell you, Mr Tinney. Beyond knowing that a
young lady came with Mr Emmett, I don't know anything. What Timmins
has been telling you is all news to me."

"Someone must know where she is, if she's in the house. I don't want
to make any statement, but it seems to me that she's a most important
witness, and the sooner she's produced the better. If, as Mr Timmins
hints, she was feeling ill, she may have retired to her room. Perhaps,
Mrs Elsey, you won't mind making inquiries. If she isn't in her room,
wherever she is, she must be found, so don't let there be any mistake
about it. I must have an interview with this very interesting young
lady before we are either of us very much older--you understand?"

"No, Mr Tinney, I can't say I do understand; not as you put it. I will
have inquiries made; in fact, I'll make them myself; but as for
finding her, wherever she is, that's another question altogether, and
one for which I decline to be held responsible. Things are coming to a
pretty pass if I'm to be held responsible for the comings and goings
of anyone who chooses to take a room in my house."

The lady sailed out of the room, with her head in the air. The
inspector looked at her husband.

"I'm afraid I've trodden on Mrs Elsey's toes."

"She's very sensitive, Mrs Elsey is--very sensitive. I'm far from
saying that you mean anything; but, as you must see for yourself, she
has enough to bear already, without having more put upon her."

"I'm putting nothing on her. I simply say that that young woman must
be found, and, if your good lady can't find her, someone else will
have to, because found she's got to be--and pretty soon."

"Quite so, Mr Tinney, quite so; no one denies it for a single instant.
I only wish that I had known of her existence sooner; much trouble
might have been saved."

How that was, was not quite clear. The inspector made no comment. He
turned to the waiter.

"Now, Mr Timmins, about this gentleman whom you say Mr Emmett went out
to see. Did you know him? Was he a stranger? What did he look like?"

"That, sir, is more than I can tell you, seeing that I never saw him.
The message and the note were both brought to me by one of the
coffee-room waiters, of the name of Dowling--he may be able to tell
you more than I can."

"Then fetch Mr Dowling here."

The landlord interposed.

"Excuse me!--one moment, Mr Tinney! At present no one knows what has
occurred except ourselves; and, if it is possible, I should like as
few persons as possible to know, till the morning."

"I don't see how you're going to prevent people knowing; you can't
cover a murder with a napkin."

"Exactly; still, at the same time, if you wouldn't mind interviewing
Dowling in my room, instead of here, I shall be only too glad to place
it at your service; and to ensure you all possible privacy."

"Very well; there need be no difficulty about that. Have you finished,
Dr Nichols?"

"I think I may say that, for the present, I have. Of course, a further
examination will be necessary; but I think, under the circumstances,
that that may be postponed till the morning; when, perhaps, I may be
able to have the assistance of one of my colleagues."

"Have the assistance of whoever you like. Have his pockets been
touched, Mr Elsey?"

"Certainly not, Mr Tinney: nothing has been touched--nothing; at
least, not by anyone in my employ. I took care of that."

"Then I'll go through them, in your presence. It's just as well to
have witnesses in cases of this sort." Mr Tinney "went through" the
pockets of the man on the table; subjecting him to a process to which
he would probably have strongly objected had it been in his power to
object. A heterogeneous collection they produced.

"I'll put these things in my handkerchief, Mr Elsey; and, if you don't
mind, I'll draw up a list of them, in your presence, in your room
downstairs. In these cases you can't be too particular; and, as it's
quite within the bounds of possibility that circumstances might arise
in which someone may wish to hold you responsible for the property
which he had in his possession when he came to your hotel, it's only
right and proper that you should know exactly what I have got of his
in my keeping. Now there's one other thing, before we go downstairs;
about this room. If the corpse is to be left here--and I think it'll
just be as well that it should be--then I must lock the door, and take
the key. Have you a pass-key?"

"I believe I have one, somewhere."

"Then you must let me have it; you must let me have any keys which fit
that lock. And you must give me your undertaking that no one, neither
you nor Mrs Elsey, nor anyone, shall come into this room until I
unlock it in the morning. If you won't, or can't, give me such an
undertaking, then I shall have to leave one of my men outside there
all night, to keep an eye on the door, to see that no one does come
in."

"I will certainly give you such an undertaking--certainly I will! I
promise you that no one shall come near the room; no one! You need
have no fears upon that score."

"Then that's all right. Now, I think, we can go downstairs; and I'll
hear what Mr Dowling has to say, about that mysterious gentleman, who,
maybe, wasn't so very mysterious after all. And perhaps Mrs Elsey may
have some news for us of that very interesting young lady; though it
doesn't seem as if she's found her, or we should have heard. I'm not
giving away any official secret when I say that I shouldn't be
surprised if that young lady turns out to be the key of the situation,
and on that account it's just possible that she may not be so easy to
find as we should like her to be. But found she'll have to be; and
found she will be; if our good hostess can't do it, then I will. I
always was reckoned pretty good at hide-and-seek; I generally knew as
well as another whether I was hot or cold. Now, gentlemen, if you
please."

The party passed to the door. The inspector switched off the lights;
drew the door to after him; locked it, and drew out the key; and
Dorothy was left alone, in the darkness, to spend the night with her
guardian.




                              CHAPTER VI

                      HOW DOROTHY MADE HER EXIT


In the darkness--that was the worst. When she realised that they
indeed had gone, and that she was alone, she came out from behind the
blind, parted the curtains, and found that the room was all dark. That
was the worst. She could see so much better in the darkness, for
though she might not be able to use the eye of sense she was at the
mercy of the more vivid eye of the imagination--at its mercy. It made
her see what she never would, what she never could, have seen in the
light. Within sixty seconds of her having been left alone in the
darkness she had already begun to have a vision of horrors. Yet she
dared not switch on the electric lights; although she knew how
to--there were none in the convent, but she had learnt all about them
since--she did not dare. The inspector had spoken of leaving one of
his men outside to keep an eye on the door; if he had not done so it
was only because the landlord had promised that he would make it his
especial charge; which meant that he would see that a watch was kept
on it. Therefore, if she switched on the light, it would be seen at
once; you could always tell from the outside if there was a light
inside a room. If it was seen, they would know that she was there.
Beyond a doubt that woman had not found her; probably the hue-and-cry
was already out. Quite possibly it might dawn upon them ere long,
that, since no one had seen her go out, she might have been in the
room all the while and no one had had the sense to look. The danger of
their repairing the omission, and coming back to look, was quite great
enough, without the added danger of a light being seen inside the
room.

And yet, to be left alone with her guardian lying on the table--that
was much worse than seeing him huddled upon the chair. What might he
not be doing, lying stretched out on the table at which she herself
had such a little while ago been seated? Was he turning round to look
at her? Turning what was left him of his head? It was so still. How
loudly she breathed. She could hear her own respirations. Could he
hear them too? She caught at the curtains with tightened fingers. Was
that not someone trying to speak in a whisper?

All at once there was a sound. Someone was in the room. She felt
herself trembling from head to foot; she clung to the curtains as for
dear life. It was only after some consideration that she understood
that the visitor was probably a mouse. She had been used to mice at
the convent. There they had scampered about all over the place;
sometimes about the room in which she had slept. The convent was old;
the hotel was old; evidently the small marauders had taken up their
quarters in the one building as they had done in the other.

The new-comer was joined by others. She had an impression that, after
a while, numbers of mice were in the room. If they were conscious of
her presence they ignored it. Certainly they cared nothing for the
dead. She wondered if they were attracted by the smell of the
champagne which had been spilt upon the floor when the stranger broke
the bottle. Suddenly there were sounds quite close to her feet; she
felt as if something ran over one of them; as if a fresh detachment
were coming out of some crevice in the wood panelling of the recess in
which she was standing. Was she to be shut up all night--alone with
the dead, while the mice held festival? Was she to remain there,
upright? Or should she seek rest on the floor? On the floor the mice
might run to and fro across her body. She did not mind that so much as
the thought that her guardian might be peering down at her from his
place upon the table. There was a couch on her left; should she take
refuge on that? To what purpose? Even suppose she slept, when they
came in the morning would she rather that they should find her on it
asleep or waking? If they were to find her at all, then it would be
better, on all accounts, that she should turn on the lights at once,
ring the bell, and bid them do with her what they would. Besides, she
would be afraid to go to sleep with that in the room. The whole place
was full of it. Each time her glance strayed, on this side or that,
seeking, in the darkness, for she knew not what, with, as it were, an
irresistible jerk, her head was brought right round again, so that she
had to look towards where she knew the table was, with its burden. She
could not remain standing through the night; she dare not lie upon the
floor; she dare not take refuge on the couch; she was unwilling to
venture out from the sheltering curtains into the room; for all she
could tell he might have got off the table, and be waiting for her
just on the other side of them.

As she realised, more and more clearly, the disagreeable nature of her
position, her thoughts recurred to the window, to the handles which
hung on either side of the lower sash. It seemed incredible that a
window, even a silly English window, should be made not to open at
all, either at the top or bottom. After an interval of she knew not
how long, she summoned up resolution enough to make another effort.
Moving very softly, being anxious to be heard by no one, most of all
by what was on the table, turning towards the window, she felt for the
handles, and, finding them, began to pull, It was impossible to
discriminate between the colours: she could only learn from experiment
if she had the right ones. Apparently, to commence with, she had not:
pull as she might, nothing happened. When, however, after one or two
fumbling changes she tugged again something yielded: the handles came
down towards her with a run. She did not doubt that she had succeeded
in opening the upper portion of the window, at least in part. Not only
was the movement so unexpected as to occasion her a sensation of
shock, it was accompanied by a noise which made the sensation greater
still. Either she had not tugged just as she should have done, or else
the sash, or something which actuated it, stood much in need of
oiling: it moved with a creaking sound which seemed to Dorothy to be
one of the most frightful sounds she had ever heard. In her agitation
she did not improve matters. So completely was she taken unawares that
she loosed the handles as if they had been hot coals; swinging back
they hit the window and the woodwork a series of raps as with a pair
of hammers. To the girl's excited imagination it seemed very much as
if pandemonium had all at once broken loose. That such a tumult could
have remained unheard seemed to her incredible. If it had not actually
called attention to the experiments she was trying on the window,
beyond a doubt it had roused suspicion; which was already sufficiently
on the alert, owing to the significant fact--with which, probably, the
entire establishment had been made acquainted before now--that the
mysterious young lady who had accompanied Mr Emmett had disappeared.
She clearly realised how general a theme of conversation her
inexplicable evanishment had probably become. How the men were asking
the maids if they had seen anything of her; and how the maids were
replying by putting the same question to the men. If anyone had heard
the clatter she had caused--and someone must have heard it--he or she
would promptly report the fact; inquiries into its origin would at
once be set on foot; before many minutes had passed it would be traced
to its source.

The girl crouched against the side of the recess, every nerve on edge,
quivering with apprehension, expecting each moment to hear the key
being inserted in the lock of the door, the click of the turning lock,
the opening of the door, the steps of those who had decided, at last,
to leave no nook or cranny of the room unvisited in which she might,
by any possibility, be hidden. But as the minutes went, and no one
came, her immediate fears grew less. Perhaps, after all, she had been
unheard. In which case it might be wise, and safe, to endeavour to
find out what had really been the fruit of all her tugging.

Drawing aside the blind, she looked up. The window was open, but the
blind prevented her seeing how much. It was in the way; it would be
difficult, in any event, to take advantage of the open window while it
was there. With anxious fingers she began to draw it up. It rose more
smoothly than she had feared. It was only when it was half way up that
it struck her that if anyone's eyes were on the window they could
hardly fail to see the mounting blind. The tardy appreciating of the
fact occasioned her another touch of panic. Pausing, she had a mind to
let it stay where it was; then, with sudden recklessness, drew it
right to the top, holding her breath, when it was up, fearful of the
result. She still seemed to have attracted no one's attention. It
seemed to be a clear night, she could see the stars in the sky. By
their light she saw that she had drawn the top sash down some nine or
ten inches, so that it was plain that at least part of the window was
meant to open. She had only to draw it down as far as she could; it
might mean for her a way of escape. Again she gripped the handles--it
was easy now to grip the right ones; in the dim light she could see
that they hung down below the others; again she tugged; again the sash
came down, with that horrid creaking noise. In desperate recognition
of the truth that hers was a case in which she might as well be hung
for a sheep as a lamb she went on tugging, in spite of the persistent
creaking, till she could tug no more. Apparently she had opened the
window to its widest extent.

When she ceased to tug she strained her ears to listen. This time she
heard a sound which seemed to make her feel that all which had gone
before had been as nothing. It came from within the room. At first she
had not the vaguest notion what it was; what it meant. Yet, the
instant it reached her ear, she was oppressed as by the consciousness
of something strange. It came, and went, so quickly that it left her
in terrified doubt as to whether it had not been born of her
imagination.

Then after an interval, which seemed to her of grimly portentous
length, it came again--the sound. There was no mistake that that was
real. Equally certain was it that it came from the other side of the
curtains, from the room which was empty, save for the mice and the man
stretched out upon the table. No mouse, no gathering of mice, could
have produced that sound; and the man on the table was dead. Was it
possible that anyone could have come into the room without her
knowledge? Surely she must have heard the opening of the door if it
had been opened. She had noticed that the key turned in the lock with
a grating noise, as if either the lock or the key were rusty. She was
convinced that if the door had been opened she must have heard it;
there was no other way into the room, yet she had heard that sound.

It came a third time. Was it not someone breathing, or trying to
breathe? It sounded like it. As if someone were gasping, struggling
for breath, as if some too heavy sleeper were making a stertorous
effort to wake out of slumber. If no one had come into the room--and
how could anyone have come without her knowing it--who could it be?
There was another point: such a noise could hardly come from a person
who was in a normal condition. It had gone again; all was still,
though she listened with all her ears, with every sense she had. Just
as she was wondering if it had gone for good, hoping that it had, it
came again--louder, more obvious, more terrible, than before. For
there was a terrible quality in the noise itself, quite apart from the
circumstances under which it was audible. A sensitive soul, hearing it
in broad daylight, anywhere, would have shuddered; it had about it
such a suggestion of physical discomfort: as though someone,
spellbound in unwholesome sleep, strove to regain consciousness, in
order to escape from some agonising nightmare, and strove in vain. Had
Dorothy had any experience of modern medicine she would have
recognised its likeness to the noise some surgical patients make as
they gradually come back to life from the stupefying effects of some
powerful anæsthetic.

What Dorothy did realise was that, after all, her guardian might not
be so dead as everyone had supposed. How that might be she did not
understand; she did not try to understand. The appreciation of the
fact was enough for her; indeed, it was too much, though her
appreciation was imperfect. She did not wish to make sure if her
guardian really had still in him the spark of life, however dim the
spark might be; she desired nothing less. It did not occur to her to
think that the spark might be indeed so dim that only instant, expert
aid could succeed in fanning it back to flame. She did not stay to
consider that if the man was not entirely dead; that if prompt
attention might bring him back to a hold on life, however precarious
that hold might be; then it was her business, and her duty, to use
every available means to procure for him that assistance with the
least possible delay; and that if she neglected, wittingly, to do so
and, in consequence, he met that fate which, but for her, he might, at
least temporarily, have been snatched from, then the actual
responsibility for his death lay at her door, as something for which,
one day, she might be called to account. Believing that he was
struggling back to life, her one wish was to escape before he
succeeded; it was his success she feared, not his failure. Failing
to recognise the fact that, if he did succeed, the burden of
blood-guiltiness would be lifted from the stranger's shoulders, and
from hers; all she cared for was that he should not find her there.

Panic made her callous. Plainly his struggles increased; each second
he fought harder and harder for his life. It never occurred to her
that if she did escape he would probably be left alone till the
morning, when the odds were that assistance would came too late. She
gave no heed to the thought of the strong man contending, in the
pitch-black room, helplessly, with death, with help, willing help, so
close at hand; that was a picture which was to occur to her later. By
standing on tiptoe she could just get hold of the top of the open
window. Pulling herself up; getting her feet on to the sill; leaning
out of the open upper half, she tried to see what was beyond. It was
not easy to decide. The light was puzzling. Although the stars were
visible overhead they were not sufficiently bright to enable her to
make out, with certainty, what was below. She seemed to be looking
down into some sort of yard, in which dark objects were dimly visible.
She supposed it was probably the stable yard; what the dark objects
were she could not determine. There were no lights; no one appeared to
be moving about; they could hardly be vehicles which, at that hour,
had been left out in the open. She seemed to be higher than she
expected. Although the ground was invisible it seemed to be very far
below. How she was to reach it from the window she had not a notion;
her heart failed at the thought of trying to do so. The only way would
be to scramble, somehow, over the top sash; then to descend, also
somehow, to the sill without; then to lower herself, for the third
time, somehow, till she hung from the sill by her hands; and drop, she
did not know how far through space, nor did she know into, or on to,
what. The prospect was not an alluring one.

At the convent there had been a girl, a refractory young lady, who,
finding herself ill at ease in her surroundings, essayed to elude them
by way of a window which looked out, over the wall, on to the road.
That it was unnecessary to take such an unusual route, since she had
only to give utterance to her desire to leave to find herself outside
as quickly as she could wish, was nothing to her. She was a young lady
of a romantic turn of mind. Possibly she wished to make an impression,
not only on her schoolfellows and the Sisters, but also on her
parents. She knotted together the sheets which she took from her bed;
it was presumed that she tied one end to a bar which ran across the
window, and, squeezing past it, began to descend by means of the
sheets to which she clung. If she did tie one end of the sheet to the
bar, then, apparently, it was not tied very securely; because,
seemingly, before she got very far, it came unfastened, with the
result that she descended with a degree of rapidity which exceeded her
expectations. She struck her head, it seemed, with great force against
the wall; so that by the time she reached the ground, on which they
found her, some twelve feet below, she was, in all human probability,
already dead.

That young lady's tragic fate was the one event which marked the
fifteen years Dorothy had spent in the convent. Now, as she leaned out
of the open upper half of the window, peering down at the impenetrable
darkness which masked whatever might be below, the story came back to
her with a vividness which was most unwelcome. Dorothy's plight was
worse than hers. She had made elaborate preparations for what she well
knew was in front of her; yet she had come to utter dire grief. How
much more likely, Dorothy felt, was disaster to overtake her, if she
plunged, practically blindfold, through unknown depths into unknown
perils? She turned giddy at the thought of trying to climb on to the
top of that open sash. Almost involuntarily she drew her head back
into the room. Better, almost, anything rather than that she should
risk being dashed to pieces by flinging herself blindly into space.
She would give up her mad attempt.

Moved by this new impulse to observe discretion, she had begun to
lower herself on to the floor of the room, when, again, there came
that sound--louder, more insistent, as if someone were bursting his
lungs in the violence of his gasps for breath. Then there was a crash,
which shook the room, as someone, something, fell from the table on to
the floor. All was still. In that ominous silence, the girl, seized
with a sudden frenzy of panic, was on to the top of the sash probably
before she clearly realised what it was that she was doing; over on
the other side; standing on the sill; from which she began to lower
herself with a swiftness and an agility of which she would scarcely
have been capable had the conditions been normal. For some seconds she
clung with her small hands to the rough edge of the sill. She was
conscious that she had brought her leg into unpleasant contact with
the wall, and inflicted on herself various contusions. Even in that
eleventh hour, as she hung between earth and heaven, conviction came
to her of the madness of what she was doing. Had it been possible she
would have drawn herself back into the room even then, but it was not
possible. From where she was there was no way back. Her slender arms
were incapable of raising even her slight body. Such muscles as she
had became relaxed; she seemed to be dragging her arms out of their
sockets; her hands were slipping. Though she gripped the sill till she
felt the rough stone cutting her fingers she could get no hold. The
question as to whether she would risk death by dropping into space was
no longer one for her decision; with all the unwillingness in the
world to let herself go, she could not keep from falling. She made an
effort to stay where she was for yet another breathing space; so that,
at least, she might collect her thoughts before she went, perhaps,
into eternity. The effort had the contrary effect to that which she
intended. Instead of delaying it, it hastened the end. Her hands could
grip the sill no longer. Her finger-tips were on the very edge. In
another instant they would be over, and then---- Of what might happen
then she dared not think.

That instant came. The slip came quickly at the last; the sill seemed
suddenly to be jerked away. She tried to catch at something, and could
not. She closed her eyes; convulsively rather than of intention; as if
she would shut out the sight of what was about to happen; she held her
breath, and fell. As she fell strange noises were in her ears, which
seemed to come from the room from which, at last, she had escaped.




                             CHAPTER VII

                             THE CARAVAN


How long she had been there she did not know. She looked about her,
wondering where she was; how she had come there. She was in the open
air; above her were the stars in the sky. She seemed to be lying on
some rubbish; but something hard was underneath. How her head ached;
it made her feel so stupid. Putting up her hand to soothe it, she
found that it hurt her almost as much as her head. Staring at it, in
the dim light she could just make out that it was covered with
something wet. All at once she remembered, hazily; and sat up
straighter. She had dropped from the window--it must be somewhere
above her; she could not see it from where she was. This rough surface
which she touched when she put out her poor, hurt hand must be the
outer wall of the hotel.

One thing was plain: she was not dead; and so it behoved her not to
stay where she was a moment longer than she could help; she had not
dropped from the window to spend the night on the ground immediately
beneath. She raised herself to her feet; the process occasioning her
more pain than she had expected. It was all she could do to stand. One
ankle showed a disposition to double up; her left leg smarted so that
the pain of it brought the tears into her eyes. Indeed, there were
smarts and aches all over her; her arms seemed limp and her hands
nerveless; her whole body felt hurt, and bruised, and shaken. Her
first impulse, when she learnt the plight she was in, was to sink back
on to the ground, from which she had with such difficulty raised
herself, and cry. But, even in the half-dazed condition in which she
was, she recognised that such a mode of procedure would be worse than
futile. Since she had risked so much to get so far she might at least
try to get a little farther. Now, in all probability, only a little
courage was needed to enable her to get at least clear away from that
immediate neighbourhood.

Which way should she go? She looked about her. The light, if dim, was
sufficient to enable her to make out something of her surroundings.
Seemingly the place in which she was had nothing to do with the hotel.
It was apparently a yard which was associated with the adjoining
house. What kind of house it was she could not see; she could see
windows, but behind them no lights were visible; the whole place
seemed to be in darkness. There were buildings on three sides of the
yard. She could just see what seemed to be a door which led into the
house; it was hardly likely to be of much use to her--she would be
little better off in the adjoining house than in the hotel which she
had just now quitted. She looked for another door; and saw that there
was one in the wall which bounded the yard on the fourth side. She
moved towards it, stumbling over unseen obstacles as she went.
Reaching it, she raised the latch; the door was open. Passing through
she found herself in a narrow alley, which ran between two walls.
Since, to her, direction mattered nothing, she turned to the left;
then, when she had gone some little distance, to the left again; and
presently came to what was apparently the principal street of the
town. Conscious of the singularity of her appearance: dressed, as she
was, for indoors; hatless; with her attire in disorder; being
unwilling to attract notice, she peered anxiously about her alley. At
that hour of the night even the town's chief thoroughfare was nearly
deserted. Gaining courage from the fact, passing into it, she pressed
forward with hurrying footsteps, leaving the hotel more and more
behind her as she went.

Occasionally she met both pedestrians and vehicles; but no one seemed
to take any special heed of her. Either they were too occupied with
their own affairs; or else they saw nothing about her to rouse their
interest. On and on she went; always along the same broad street; the
farther she went the fewer people she encountered. At last it seemed
to her that she had gone some distance without meeting a soul. Looking
round she perceived that she seemed to have left the town behind; the
high street seemed to have become a country road. Here and there by
the roadside were detached villas and houses; but the long unbroken
line of buildings had come to an end. Pressing on she found that the
villas and the houses were becoming fewer and farther between; she was
in the open country. On a sudden even the fertile country, with its
fields and trees and hedges, seemed to have gone; the road seemed to
be passing over an illimitable expanse of open heath.

She was so tired; so stiff; and in such pain. Her ankle hurt her so
that she could hardly put her foot to the ground. The leg which she
had grazed against the wall, as she had lowered herself from the sill,
smarted almost beyond endurance. Her bruised body ached all over; her
head ached worse than her body. As she paused to take her bearings all
these things forced themselves on her at once. She became conscious
that, however great the need, she could not go on much farther without
a rest. Where was she to rest? Out here the world seemed brighter; the
stars brighter. Certainly the air was clearer. She could see on all
sides of her, by the light of the stars, ever so far; little enough
there seemed to see. Here and there, the way she had come, were the
outlines of houses; but in front, and on either hand, was nothing but
the open moor; broken by what probably were clumps of furze and
bushes. Should she lie down by the side of one of those clumps, to
rest? The turf ought to be dry; there was promise of fair weather; she
would be better there than alone in a room with Mr Emmett, be he alive
or dead. The thing to be desired was to get at some distance from the
road, so that she might escape observation from passers-by. She began
to pick her way, as best she could, across the grass. Her objective
was a patch of brushwood which, so far as she was able to judge, was
at a distance of perhaps a couple of hundred yards; far enough from
the road to ensure her privacy. Gaining the edge of the patch, she
began to thread her way among the bushes; determined, if she could, to
reach the centre, so that they might stand up round about her, and so
serve as an effective screen. She had just decided that she had got as
far in among them as she need, and was about to allow herself the
luxury of sinking down upon the turf, when there was a rustling sound,
and, looking up, a man seemed to rise out of the solid earth, within a
few feet of where she was standing.

Which of the twain was more surprised there was nothing to show; the
man was the first to speak; which he did in a voice which at least
hinted at cultivation:

"Who are you?"

The girl, taken wholly unawares, replied, in faltering tones, as a
child might have done:

"I'm--I'm Dorothy."

"Oh, you are Dorothy; that's good hearing. And pray, Dorothy, from
where did you happen to have sprung?"

She echoed his word.

"Sprung?"

"Yes; literally and correctly, sprung; for since a minute ago there
was no one within a mile, one only can conclude that you have sprung
clean out of mother earth. If you haven't, how do you come to be
there?--from where have you come?"

"I've come--from the road."

"From the road. That's very illuminating. Did you come to this
particular spot because you knew that I was here?"

"Knew--that you were here!"

Her manner seemed to strike him. There was an interval before he spoke
again.

"I think, if you don't mind, I'll come and have a better look at you."

He came striding towards her through the bushes. Her impulse was to
turn and flee. But, partly because she was no longer capable of
flight, partly because there was something in his tone which spoke
pleasantly to her ear, she stayed quite still, without making an
effort to move. He advanced until he was within a yard of her; then he
stopped. She had watched him coming with sensations which she would
have found it hard to define; when he stopped she trembled. In silence
he stood and looked at her; while she, on her side, looked at him. She
realised, with a distinct sense of relief, that there seemed to be
nothing to offend her in his appearance. So far as she could judge, in
that uncertain light, he was not old, nor very young. He had a small
beard and moustache. His head, like her own, was uncovered. He seemed
to be decently attired--though he wore no waistcoat, and his shirt was
open at the neck. In his left hand he had a pipe, which, as he
continued to inspect her, he placed in his mouth. She could see the
smoke issuing from between his lips.

When he spoke, the question which he put to her was as unconventional
as their meeting:

"How old are you?"

Without hesitation she replied:

"I'm nearly eighteen."

"Nearly eighteen? That's a great age. Aren't you a lady?"

"I--I don't know."

"Don't you? Then you're wise. Very few women do know if they are or
are not ladies; they only think they know; and how often they think
wrong. However, as a matter of simple fact, I think we may take it for
granted that, for present purposes, you approach as near to the
accepted definition of what a lady is as needs be; and, therefore, I
should very much like to know why, at this hour of the night, you're
here."

"I came to rest."

"You came to rest?--where?"

"Here."

"What do you mean by here?"

"Here, among the bushes, where--where they won't be able to see me
from the road. I didn't know that you were here. If I am in your way
I'll--I'll go."

"It isn't that you're in my way that's the trouble. The difficulty
which presents itself to my mind is, why do you want to rest among the
bushes?"

"Because I'm tired."

"That's a good reason, so far as it goes; and you both look and sound
as if you were tired; but why the bushes, when you might be safe and
snug at home in bed? Where is your home?"

"I have no home."

"Is that true?"

"Quite true. I never have had a home."

He seemed to be considering her words.

"There's a quibble about that statement somewhere. Girls like you
don't attain to the ripe age of nearly eighteen years without ever
having had a home; you're not a product of a vagabond life. However,
I'll feign to believe you, if I don't; since, just now, the point
seems to be that you do propose to spend at least this one night with
no canopy above you but the sky. Is that so?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"Then you're dull; my meaning's not opaque. Am I to understand that
you seriously propose to spend the night out in the open?"

"I am tired; I want to rest; I must rest somewhere; I--I can't keep
walking all night."

"No; you certainly can't; and, since that is the case, you had better
come with me."

He turned, as if to go. She drew back.

"Where to?"

He noted the gesture.

"Not far; only a few steps. Are you afraid of me?"

"No; I don't think I am."

"Be sure, please. Doesn't your instinct tell you that there's nothing
about me which you need fear? It's hard on me if it doesn't, since my
one prayer is that no one who is helpless, hopeless, and in trouble
shall ever be afraid of me. So please be sure that you are not afraid;
and come." He moved off; this time she followed; though still a little
doubtfully. He led her, between the bushes, to where the ground began
to fall away; pausing on the crest of the slope, he pointed to a
caravan which was immediately in front, at the bottom of a little
hollow, which was just deep enough to hide it from view till one was
right upon it. "You say that you've no home; that's mine--_pro
tem_.--for this summer time, which flies all too quickly. And, while
it's summer, it's a home fit for a lord; a king need want no better;
and, for this night, it's yours." He stopped; then, seeing that she
looked at him askance, went on: "By that I mean that if, instead of
spending the night in the open, resting beneath the bushes, you will
accept the hospitality of my caravan, and take up your quarters in it
till the morning, I shall be honoured, flattered, and obliged."

She was staring at him with wide-open eyes.

"Do you mean that you wish me to sleep in there?"

She pointed to the structure down below.

"If you will so far honour me--if you will be so very good."

"But--where are you to sleep?--if that's your home?"

"I'll show you." She went beside him down the slope till they came to
where some things were lying on the ground. "That's my bed; my
sleeping-place. There's a waterproof sheet stretched out upon the
grass, pegged down at each of the four corners. On it are all the
wraps I need for covering. On a night like this I'd sooner lie under
those"--he pointed upward to the stars--"than under a painted ceiling.
So, since my house is empty, it'll be glad to have a tenant. You'll
find in it all the bed and bedding you require. I'll be out here,
sleeping, like a watchdog, at your door. You've only to bolt and bar
it, and you'll be as safe from molestation as you could be in any
hotel that ever yet was built." He ascended the two or three steps
which mounted to the door of the caravan, and went inside. "If you'll
wait till I've lighted the lamp I'll show you what excellent
accommodation my establishment has to offer." Presently she found
herself standing with him in the queerest room she had seen. Tired
though she was, she could not help noticing its spotless cleanliness;
and, in spite of its small size, how dexterously its contents were
arranged, so that not only was nothing in the way, but there were
conveniences of many kinds which one would not expect to find in such
cramped quarters. On a sort of shelf on one side a bed was made.
"That's your couch for to-night. I always get it ready for immediate
occupation when the shades of evening fall. In this dear English
climate prophecy is vain; one never knows what may happen between
sunset and sunrise. You go to bed under a cloudless sky, to wake, an
hour later, because you are being pelted by the rain. Since my
education has not yet gone far enough to enable me to enjoy sleeping
in the rain, under those circumstances I pick up my bed, and beat a
hasty retreat in here. And as one generally wants to get to sleep
again with the least possible delay, I make a point of having this in
readiness, so that I may tumble in upon the instant. See; here's a
bolt, and here's a bar; push them home, when I am gone, and you'll be
as safe as if you were in the Tower of London."

When he had gone she acted on his advice. Apparently he was listening
without; because, when the door was made fast, he called to her.

"Good-night!--sleep well!--may the angels touch your eyelids if you
dream!"

She bade him good-night, in her turn; though hers was spoken scarcely
above a whisper. Her desire was to look about her; to take some stock
of her new and strange surroundings; but her weariness was greater
than her desire. Half unconsciously she sank down on the bed upon the
shelf, just as she was. As she touched it, she sighed; and was asleep.

She was roused by the sound of knocking. She was vaguely aware that
someone was making a noise for some little time before she succeeded
in waking sufficiently to make quite sure. Lifting her head she
perceived that though the lamp still burned its light was quite
superfluous, since the sun was streaming in through the narrow window
which ran along one side of the caravan. There was no mistake about
that noise. Rat-tat-tat! Someone was keeping up a sustained and
vigorous rapping against the door.

"Who's there?" she asked.

"No one in particular; only me. I was beginning to wonder if you were
going to sleep the clock right round. You must forgive me for
disturbing you; I wouldn't have done it only I've a sort of feeling
that it's nearly breakfast-time; especially as, in a general way, I've
had my breakfast, washed up, and put away the things, a couple of
hours ago. The trouble is that all the cooking utensils of which my
establishment boasts are inside with you; so, if you're awake wide
enough, if, at your convenience, you could manage to come outside, I
could come in, and start upon that morning meal." For some seconds, in
her drowsy state, she could not conceive who it could be who was
talking. When she remembered, although she was alone, she put her
hands up to her face to hide her blushes. In that convent of hers
maidens were taught to be maidenly; it burst upon her, with some
force, that there was that about her situation which was scarcely
conventual. The voice without went on: "There's a can of water just
outside the door; if you put two fingers out you'll be able to get it
in. If you'll open the cupboard above your head you'll find a
looking-glass--which you'll be able to hang on any one of a dozen
different hooks--a basin, and, I believe, all the essentials necessary
for an elementary toilet."

Getting off the bed, she was conscious, although she still ached, of
feeling distinctly rested; and that though she had slept with all her
clothes on. Unbarring the door she drew in the can of water; saying,
as she did so:

"I am so sorry to have kept you waiting; but I--I did sleep so
soundly. I won't be a moment longer than I can help."

Nor was it long before she threw the door wide open, and came out on
to the ledge at the top of the little flight of steps. He was lying on
the turf, with a pipe in his mouth, a newspaper in his hands. She was
conscious, as she came out into the open, of the glory of the morning.
He seemed to be conscious only of her. Jumping up he saluted her with
his hand.

"Why," he exclaimed, "you're a living advertisement of the excellence
of my domestic arrangements; you look as fresh as a new pin. If you
had been able to indulge in the luxury of a marble bath, and a barber,
you could look no fresher. Good-morning--I need not ask you how you've
slept--and here's the sun in a cloudless sky to greet you."

She came down the steps, all blushes; smiling as she had not done
since she left the convent. The process of preparing breakfast began.
She was conscious that she ought to intrude no longer on this
stranger's hospitality. But, in the first place, her shyness kept her
from giving expression to that consciousness; and, in the second,
something told her that, say what she might, he would not let her go
till she had shared with him his morning meal. So, making a virtue of
what really was necessity, she held her peace upon the subject of her
going; and helped him with his preparations for the meal.

Girl-like, she found those preparations most amusing; she had not been
so entertained for many a day. There were eggs and bacon to be fried;
the kettle to be boiled; bread and butter to be cut; the table to be
laid. Acting on instructions, this latter she made her special
business. The table was the ground. On it she spread a tablecloth; on
the white cloth were placed the necessary cups and saucers, plates and
spoons, knives and forks. The cooking was done on an oil-stove inside
the caravan.

"Read the advertisements," exclaimed the stranger, "and an oil-stove
can do anything that the most unreasonable camper-out can possibly
require--up to cooking a dinner for any number, anywhere, in a torrent
of rain and a storm of wind. As a matter of plain fact it won't really
cook out-of-doors at all; that's the one advantage of a house on
wheels: you can keep it under cover, though it smells the place out.
Humour an oil-stove; coddle it; and it may cook something, sometimes,
which a hardy stomach may be able to digest. Subject it to any one of
the ten million conditions it dislikes, fight as you will, it will
beat you out of sight; and, in spite of all your struggles, you'll go
hungry in the end. I know! I've tried every sort that's made; each is
worse than the other. Now where's that dish? I've a constitutional
objection to eating my food out of a frying-pan, if it can possibly be
avoided; so if you'll be so good as to take the dish out of the oven,
where it's supposed to be getting hot, I'll turn these eggs and this
bacon out upon it, and we'll start on them while we still have
strength enough to do it."

Presently the girl and the man were seated on opposite sides of that
impromptu table.




                             CHAPTER VIII

                       MR FRAZER GOES SHOPPING


The morning was bright and clear; the air was sweet and buoyant; the
food was good, the man and the girl were hungry, they both made an
excellent meal. And, while they ate and drank, and, between whiles,
talked, each, more or less furtively, took stock of the other. Dorothy
found that the hazy impression she had formed of the stranger
overnight was not in the least bit like him. He was younger than she
had thought. She was not much of a judge of men's years; since her
experience of them was so extremely limited, it was hardly likely that
she would be. In the darkness she had set him down as somewhere in the
forties; now, in the bright sunshine, which ages some of us, she
supposed him to be somewhere in the early thirties. There was about
him an appearance of vigour--the vigour which goes with youth--for
which she was unprepared. Then, too, he was so much better-looking
than she had taken him to be--perhaps in thinking so she was
influenced by the accident that she was dark and he was fair. His eyes
were very blue, and very bright; the skin of his face and neck, though
slightly tanned, was delicate as any girl's; his hair and beard were
flaxen. He was taller, too, than she had imagined--when he stood up
she saw that he must be at least six feet; his shoulders were so
broad, he held himself so straight, there was about him such a glow of
health and strength, that it did her good to look at him. And his
attire suited him well; or she thought it did--certainly there could
scarcely have been less of it. He wore no cap or coat or waistcoat;
his canvas shirt was open at the neck; his grey flannel trousers had
as belt a handkerchief of scarlet silk; he was shod with stout brown
shoes. It was a costume suited to fine weather out-of-doors; and, free
and easy as it was, both it and the wearer pleased the lady's
undoubtedly inexperienced eyes.

What impression she made on him it was not easy to determine; not
impossibly the morning light had brought a surprise also to him. One
felt, not only that she puzzled him, but that the puzzle continually
grew. In his speech he owned as much. When the dish and the plates
were empty he regarded her with a whimsical smile.

"It's good to eat when you're hungry."

"Yes," she agreed; "it is."

"Do you know that it's past eleven o'clock; and that when I'm abroad
in this house of mine I make it a rule to have all signs of breakfast
cleared away before the clock strikes eight."

She began to stammer.

"I beg your pardon; I am so sorry; it's all my fault; but I--I did
sleep so late. Now I--I won't hinder you any longer; I'll go." She
stood up. "I--don't quite know where; I--I don't know this part of
the country very well--I am very much obliged for all you've done for
me; you--you've been very kind. I have no money; but when I have
I'll--I'll pay you for what you've done, if you'll let me know to what
address to send."

"I think you're very stupid."

She crimsoned.

"Good-bye."

"I also think that you're ill-mannered."

She had turned to go; but there was something in the quiet finality of
his tone which caused her to turn to him again.

"Why?"

"I think you're the first because you speak of paying for what, you
ought to know, I'm only too glad to give; as if I were the sort of
person to accept money from a lady who has been my guest!"

"I beg your pardon; I--I'm so stupid."

"I said you were. I think that you're the second because, no sooner
are you through your own meal than you rush off, before your host has
finished."

"I thought you had; I did not mean to be ill-mannered; I thought you
wanted me to go."

"You are mistaken. It is another rule of mine--and this is a rule
which I don't propose to break--when I am done with the actual eating
and drinking, to smoke a pipe; I regard that pipe as an integral part
of my breakfast. I don't know why you should wish to deprive me of
it."

"I don't; I didn't know you wanted another; I saw you smoking one just
now, before we began."

"That was because breakfast was unwontedly delayed; also that is no
reason why now I shouldn't have another. When I am enjoying my
breakfast pipe I like, when opportunity offers, to have a chat. You
spoke of payment. I suggest that your payment takes the form of
sitting down and talking to me till I have smoked my pipe right out.
Have you any particular objection?"

"I don't mind staying, if you want me to, till you--you've done your
pipe."

"Thank you; then will you have the goodness to resume your seat while
I load up? One can't talk to a person who will persist in standing."

She sank down again upon the turf. As he crammed the tobacco into the
bowl of his briar she regarded the tablecloth with doubtful eyes.

"Can I--can I clear away the things, and wash up for you?"

"No, you can't; all you can do is sit still, and talk. Let me begin by
introducing myself; my name is Frazer--Eric Frazer. You were so kind
as to tell me last night that yours was Dorothy. As it is unusual for
a man to address a woman by her Christian name after such a short
acquaintance as ours hath been, may I ask you to tell me what your
surname is, so that we can start fair?"

She hesitated; then told him a falsehood; she herself could not have
said why.

"My name is Greenwood."

Somehow, the instant she had spoken, she felt he doubted. He looked at
her, over the lighted match which he was holding to the bowl of his
pipe; and, though she did not try to meet his glance, she knew that in
it there was something sceptical.

"Greenwood?--your name is Greenwood? Dorothy Greenwood--Miss
Greenwood. Thank you; I am flattered by the confidence in me which
your telling me your name implies." Having completed the operation of
lighting his pipe, folding his arms across his chest, he observed her
with a steady attention which made her feel curiously uncomfortable.
She began to wish that, ill-mannered or not, she had gone when she
said she would. Nor were matters improved when he began to ask her
questions; which he did in a cool, level voice which, for some cause,
jarred upon her nerves. "You were so good as to inform me, also last
night, when I inquired how it was that I was so fortunate as to be
favoured with your society, that you came from the road. Now the road
runs both ways; which one did you come from?"

Summoning her courage she looked at him with what she meant to be
defiance.

"I would rather not tell you, if you don't mind."

"That's better; much better." What he meant she did not know; yet she
felt that it was something which she would rather he did not mean. He
went on: "Do I understand that, not knowing this country very well,
you are journeying you don't know where--without money, without
luggage, without even a hat on your head?"

Again she tried to defy him.

"I can't help your asking questions; but I'm not forced to answer them
if I'd rather not; and I would rather not."

His manner, if anything, was blander than ever; her attitude did not
seem to wound his sensibilities one bit.

"Quite right; you are perfectly right; if you don't want to answer,
don't; never be coerced into answering a question which you don't want
to answer. Impertinent curiosity is not to be encouraged. There is so
much interest taken in our goings and our comings, merely because some
people deem them peculiar, that the liberty of the subject threatens
to become seriously abridged. I know what I am speaking of; I have
suffered from that kind of thing myself. By the way, this morning,
while you were still fast asleep in bed I--went shopping."

He laid a stress on the last two words which caused her to prick up
her ears; she herself did not know why.

"Shopping? Where?"

She looked about her, as if she expected to find a shop, or shops, in
sight. He shook his head.

"No, not here; there are no shops upon the heath that I am aware of;
and I know it pretty well. I ought to. Where I went shopping was to a
town called Newcaster. Have you ever heard of it?" Newcaster was the
town from which she had fled the night before. So soon as he spoke of
it a dreadful feeling began to come over her that she knew what was
the point which he was approaching. She tried to shake the feeling
off; but it would not be shaken. With beating pulses she sat and
watched him drawing closer and closer. "Newcaster," he explained,
speaking with what seemed to her to be hideous deliberation, "is a
town not far from here; an old town; a racing town; it is to horse
racing that, in all human probability, it owes its continued
flourishing condition--for it continues to flourish. One of its
numerous meetings is taking place now; there is to be racing on this
heath to-day. You hear that humming and buzzing sound which comes and
goes, so that now it fills all the air, and now seems completely to
die away." She had heard it, and had vaguely wondered what it was. "If
you were to go to the top of that bank you would understand--it is the
noise made by the people who are going to the races; on foot, in motor
cars, in vehicles of all sorts and kinds, and by the people who are
already there. The race-course is over yonder, about two miles from
where we are. A great crowd will be there to-day; and, though it's
early, probably thousands are there already. It's all open country
between it and us; and, on a day like this, with what breeze there is
blowing from it towards us, sound travels. You'll know when a race
begins by the noise the people make; and when it ends, by the
comparative silence which follows." He paused to puff at his pipe. As
he did so the humming and buzzing sound of which he had spoken grew
distinctly louder. He pointed upwards with the stem of his pipe. "You
hear?"

"Yes," she said; "I hear."

He stayed still a little longer, as if to listen.

"It dies away; perhaps the wind has changed a point or two; these
light breezes seldom blow from exactly the same quarter many minutes
together." He returned to the subject from which he had diverged. "In
Newcaster I made one or two small purchases--even my larder must be
occasionally restocked, especially when I've a guest whom I desire to
honour--and, having made them, I paid a call--at a hotel." Again he
paused; then added: "A hotel called 'The Bolton Arms'--perhaps, if you
have any knowledge of Newcaster, you may be acquainted with 'The
Bolton Arms.'" She was; that was the name of the hotel to which her
guardian had taken her yesterday; in which so much had happened. A
sort of paralysis seemed to be settling about her heart, so that she
could scarcely breathe, or move. She wished that he would get on
faster; come quicker to the point to which some instinct told her he
was coming. His drawling speech was bad enough, but each time he
paused it was as if he had given a tug at the hook which he had
got in her throat. "It's a hotel which I know very well, 'The Bolton
Arms'--very well indeed, considering. The landlord is a man named
Elsey; of him also I have some personal knowledge, and of his wife.
Not a bad fellow, in his way, is Elsey, though of late years he has
grown so much that, metaphorically, he has to take a larger size in
boots, and in hats. His wife has also grown. It's odd how people do
grow when, as they suppose, they become people of importance. When I
last saw John Elsey I should have said that his consciousness of his
own dignity had put him on a perch which it would not be easy to get
him off. Yet when I saw him this morning he was off it with a
vengeance. I have seldom seen a man mentally, morally, physically, in
a more lamentable state than he was. Poor Elsey!" Once more there was
one of those pauses which so distressed her. He seemed to be in an
introspective mood; as if he were contemplating a picture which was
present to his mind's eye. Yet--the feeling was growing in her, that,
all the while, he watched her as a cat might watch a mouse. She
avoided his glance; keeping her eyes fixed on the sugar-basin which
was on the tablecloth in front. In some indefinable way, though with
all her faculties she hung upon his words, she noticed how the flies
were making free with the sugar; she soon began to count them as they
came and went. And, all the while, she was trying to brace herself, so
that she might maintain an unruffled front when the blow fell, which
she knew was coming. If only her heart would not play such fantastic
tricks, and he would get on faster! His drawl seemed to be getting
more pronounced. "On such a day as this one finds it hard to credit
that in the world there's tragedy. In the winter it is different;
winter is itself a tragedy. But, when nature's radiant, and the sun's
in a cloudless heaven, surely all's right with the world, and comedy's
the only fare. When I reached 'The Bolton Arms Hotel,' in Newcaster,
the world was even more--_riant_--it's a word which the French use,
for which I can't hit on an exact translation. Do you know French?"
She nodded. "Then you'll know what I mean--than it is now; for, to my
thinking, there's nothing like the first sweetness of a summer
morning. Then, again, there are persons whom one does not find it easy
to associate with tragedy; God seems to have intended them to strut
through life as unconscious comedians; and the unconscious comedian's
the finest of all. Elsey's such a one. Have you, by any chance ever
seen the man?" She was silent; he went on. "Although I daresay that
the possession on which he most prides himself is his dignity, in
reality he's the most undignified of men. Surely there's no tragedy
where there's no dignity. Tragedy's austere; Elsey never could be
that. Yet, last night, there was a tragedy at 'The Bolton Arms'; and
it seems that Elsey played a leading part in it. And the strangest
thing was that, as he told me all there was to tell, the inherent
comicality of the man made him the most tragic figure imaginable.
Here's the story as it was told to me by Elsey; with addenda by other
hands." She had known, all along, that it was coming. With clenched
fists, and tightly closed lips, she waited for him to tell her what
she knew so much better than he did. In the tale as he had it,
however, she found that there were variants which to her were strange.
"Among the guests at 'The Bolton Arms' was a man named Emmett, of whom
I know a thing or two. Last evening, after dinner, he was found in his
chair, seated at the table, dead. Someone had killed him. It seems
that his head had been smashed in with a champagne bottle, the
broken fragments of which were found upon the floor. The irony of
it!--because, of all the things in this world there were few which
George Emmett loved better than champagne. They laid him on the table,
at which he had just done himself so well; and, a doctor having
certified that he was dead, they left him there, alone, in the room in
which he had dined and died." She knew, although she did not look at
him, that he had taken the pipe out of his mouth, to press the tobacco
closer; and she felt his eyes upon her face. She wondered what was
coming next. It proved to be hardly what she had expected. Nothing
could have been more casual than his tone and manner. To her, the very
indifference with which he spoke seemed to heighten the effect of what
he said. "There was the dead man on the table in the room. Some time
after they had left him there there came a crash from within the room
which, according to my informant, shook the house. That might have
been an exaggeration, about shaking the house; because 'The Bolton
Arms' is a substantial, solidly built, old-time structure, which, I
should say, is not easily shaken. At anyrate there came a noise from
within that room which was so loud, and so curious, that all the
people in the hotel seem to have heard it, and most of them went
rushing off to learn what it was. Elsey was among the first. When he
got to the door he was confronted by an unexpected difficulty; he, the
landlord, couldn't get into the room. The inspector of police had
taken away, not only the ordinary key, but the pass-key also; to make
sure that, in his absence, no one should get in. So the only thing, if
they wanted to get in, was to send for the inspector, and the key.
They sent for him. While he was coming they hung about outside the
room. They must have been an odd sight--Elsey, his wife, his guests,
and his servants, as they stood there listening. It seems that,
considering there was nothing in the room but a corpse, some amazing
sounds issued from it. Elsey says he never heard anything like them;
they were indescribable. He knocked, he even says he hammered, at the
door again and again, demanding to be told who was inside; and what
whoever it was was doing; and similar cognate questions; but both his
hammerings and his questions went unanswered; and apparently unheeded.
The noises had ceased before the inspector came; he pooh-poohed the
notion that there ever had been any. But he stopped pooh-poohing when
he entered the room. They had left the dead man stretched out on his
back on the table; they found him on his face on the floor, with his
knees drawn up beneath him. The natural presumption would have been,
since he was dead, that somebody must have pushed him off the table on
to the floor; but when the doctor came he knocked that theory on the
head. He declared that, in the first place, he had not been really
dead; that when they left him alone he had returned to some sort of
consciousness; that, probably, in his struggles to attract attention
he had tumbled from the table on to the floor; to a man in his
condition a serious matter; and that fall had finished him; for this
time he certainly was dead. Isn't that an odd story?" Although he
paused, as if for her to answer, she said nothing; she was waiting for
what was yet to come. And, presently, it came; as she knew it would
do.

"The tale has a postscript; and, as they say is sometimes the case
with a lady's, it seems to me to be the most pregnant part of it. When
they got into the room, and found the dead man lying on his face upon
the floor, they also found that the blind before the only window was
drawn right up, and the window itself was open at its widest, which
seems a trifle; but then trifles are often of such importance. The man
who waited on George Emmett at dinner declared that the blind was down
and the window shut before dinner began; and more, much more, Elsey,
his wife, and the inspector, are all three convinced that the blind
was down, and the window shut, when they left the dead man alone in
the room. Had the window been open it would have attracted their
attention; because the wind was on that side of the house, and, apart
from the draught, they could not help noticing the curtains being
blown about--as they were being blown about when they found it open
then. But if the window had been closed then, it must have been opened
since, in which case the question arises--by whom. And here comes what
seems to me to be the queerest part of this really queer story.
Doesn't it strike you as being a rather curious tale?" Again he
paused, as if for her to answer, but still she held her peace--she
still waited. It was like the game the cat plays with the mouse; he
was coming nearer and nearer, presently he would pounce. The problem
she had to consider--though it was still unshaped--was, could she
elude him when he did? It seemed to her that his eyes observed her
more and more keenly as he continued. "George Emmett had a lady with
him when he arrived at 'The Bolton Arms Hotel'--an elderly lady; well
advanced in years, stout and unwieldy; with grey hair and a false
front; the sort of person one who knew the man would expect to find in
his society." She winced at this description, she felt that he was
speaking with malice prepense. "In spite of her grey hairs she seems
to have been a mysterious sort of person. She dined with him; she was
in the room with him when the waiter last saw him alive, but when,
some little while after, he came in and found him dead, she had
vanished: and she has remained vanished ever since. It hasn't been for
want of looking for her. They looked for her, not only in her own
bedroom, but in everybody else's bedroom also; it seems that they
looked in every room in the house; in every nook and cranny of it to
boot: nowhere was a trace or her to be seen. They were puzzled; but
that open window with the blind drawn up set them thinking; when they
found on a splinter of wood, at the top of the window, a small piece
of material, which looked as if it had been torn out of a woman's
dress, they thought still harder; and came to a conclusion which was
hardly flattering to themselves. It had not occurred to them to look
for her in the room itself; nor what an excellent hiding-place was a
recess and a curtained window. While they hunted for her upstairs and
down, high and low, all the time she was in the room itself--the room
in which George Emmett was done to death; she had never left it. She
was there when the waiter discovered him, as he supposed, dead on his
seat, she was still there when they left him, as they thought, dead on
the table. Whether she was there when he came back to life; and, if
so, what took place between them, she only knows. She had gone when
they returned and found the dead man on the floor; she had opened the
window, and made her exit through it; and, in going, had, unknowingly,
left behind that pattern of her frock which may prove to be a very
awkward piece of evidence against her, when, one day, she's found. She
possibly supposes that she's done rather a smart thing in getting
away, as she thinks, scot-free. But has she? She's covered herself, in
consequence, with more than a suspicion of murder. They're reasoning
this way. They say that it was she who used that champagne bottle to
so much purpose; and that was why she hid, like a coward, behind the
curtains, when the waiter came into the room; and why she stayed
hidden; and when the coast, as she thought, was clear, dropped, at the
peril of her life, from the window. And because they're accounting, in
that way, for her singular behaviour, all Newcaster is hot-foot after
her; and, so I'm told, they're having placards printed, describing
her, and offering a reward for her apprehension." He knocked the ashes
out of his pipe with his boot; blew down the stem to make sure that it
was clear; then went on. "There's one item I may add to make the tale
complete. They've not only her description, they've her name. It
appears that, for some reason, George Emmett did not enter her name in
the register when he entered his own; but when it dawned on them that
she was missing they opened the box in which her clothes were, and
found that all, or nearly all of them, were marked--'D. Gilbert.' 'D'
might stand for Dorothy, mightn't it?--which is by way of being a
coincidence, but, of course, Gilbert has no affinity with Greenwood.
Miss Gilbert seems to be rather a remarkable old lady; isn't that how
she strikes you?"




                              CHAPTER IX

                      WHAT THE GIRL TOLD THE MAN


The question remained so long unanswered that one was disposed to
wonder if the girl had heard it; and this time Mr Frazer persisted in
waiting for the reply which did not come. He showed no inclination to
press her. Picking up his pouch from the turf, he began, leisurely, to
refill his pipe; and, for the first time since he had begun his story,
he withdrew his glance from Dorothy; using his eyes to observe the
tobacco as he pressed it home. She sat motionless; her hands in front
of her; her gaze fixed on the sugar, which the flies still harried; a
slight slip of a girl, with black hair, drawn tightly back from her
temples, and twisted in a knot behind. That was how they had taught
her to do it when, in the convent, she had put it up; she knew no
other way, and had no notion of the wonders which an artist in
hairdressing could perform with her luxuriant tresses. Although her
face was so white and thin that one doubted if she had had enough to
eat, it was good to look at. When she raised the long lashes which
veiled her eyes, one seemed to see right through the violet orbs which
were beneath into her very soul. But the man on the other side of the
tablecloth had known many varieties of women's eyes; he was aware how
apt they are to look one thing and mean another; he had little faith
in that imponderable essence, the feminine soul; he merely thought
what curious eyes the girl had got; quite out of the common. And as,
with practised fingers, he packed his pipe, he waited, patiently, for
her to speak.

At last she did speak; and, when she did, her words were not an answer
to his question.

"You know she's not an old lady."

The attribution of such knowledge seemed to surprise him; he seemed,
for a moment, to be in doubt as to what, exactly, her words referred.
Then when he understood he smiled.

"Is that so?"

He continued to fill his pipe; and she to look at the sugar. Then she
asked:

"What are you going to do:"

"I am going to light a match."

He did so as he spoke, holding the flickering flame to the bowl of his
pipe.

"You know that's not what I mean."

"Do I?" The tobacco was becoming ignited; he sent a puff of smoke into
the air. "What do you mean?"

She looked round at him.

"I am Dorothy Gilbert."

"Of course you are."

Nothing could have been more matter-of-fact than the air with which he
said it. She spoke with a catching of her breath; as if she resented
his coolness.

"Did you--know it?"

"Of course I did."

"Did you--know it all along?"

"Certainly--that is, let me be exact; it's as well to be exact--now
and then. When I heard that story at 'The Bolton Arms' I would have
bet that you were; when you came out of my house, and I saw you
standing on the ledge, I was sure that you were. They have your
description so pat, over at Newcaster, that it was impossible not to
recognise you."

"Then--then why did you give me my breakfast?"

"Why shouldn't I? You were my guest."

"When--when you knew that I was Dorothy Gilbert!"

"Well? What follows? Even so you were my guest."

"When--when you believed I'd done that thing?"

"I didn't say that I did believe it; you jump at conclusions."

"Do you believe it?"

"I am not sure that I do."

"You are not sure!" She twisted herself round towards him, heat in her
voice, fire in her eyes. "You are not sure! How dare you--how dare you
say----" She stopped; as if suddenly conscious that her warmth was
uncalled for; continuing, with downcast eyes, in a different tone:
"What do you mean, when you say, you are not sure?"

"I mean that I don't believe you did do it. Still, in order that we
may have all things shipshape and aboveboard, I confess that I should
like to have your assurance that you didn't." She was silent. "Won't
you give it?"

"I'm not sure that I can."

"Can?--or will?"

"I--I'm not sure if I did do it, or if I didn't."

She put her hands up before her face; he could see her shivering. He
eyed her with what seemed to be growing curiosity.

"What was George Emmett to you?"

"Nothing! Nothing! I hated him!"

"That would seem to suggest that he might have been something to you
once; or--you would hardly hate him."

"I don't know what you mean; he never was anything to
me--never--except my guardian; at least, he said he was my guardian;
and I suppose he was; but from the first moment I saw him I hated
him."

"Isn't that, under the circumstances, rather a dangerous admission to
make?"

"Why?"

"Mayn't some people think that your feeling towards him may have
furnished a motive for--what happened?"

"Do you mean that some people may think that because I hated him I
killed him? I hadn't the courage; I shouldn't have dared, I'm such a
coward; it's because I'm such a coward that I'm here--it's all my
cowardice!"

She sat with clenched fists staring in front of her; there was
something in her expression which suggested to her companion that she
was not quite such a coward as she asserted. When he spoke again it
was as if a note of sympathy had, unawares, crept into his voice.

"You observed, Miss Gilbert, that George Emmett was your guardian,
which seems to point to your having lost at least one of your parents.
Is it your mother?"

"I never knew my mother--never; so far as I know, I never even saw
her. I suppose I must have had a mother, but I don't know who she was,
or anything at all about her."

"And your father?"

"I believe I was three years old when I saw him last, and now Mr
Emmett says he is dead."

"Mr Emmett says? I presume you have some proof of the fact beyond Mr
Emmett's bare word."

"I daresay the Sisters have."

"What Sisters?"

"At the convent."

"At the convent? Were you in a convent?"

"Of course; I was at the Convent of the Sacré C[oe]ur at
Vannes--Vannes is in Brittany, if you know where that is."

"I do happen to know where that is; indeed, I happen to have some
knowledge of Vannes. Were there any other girls there besides you?"

"Lots and lots, at different times."

"Could you give me the names of any of them?"

"Why, if I were to think, I could give you a list as long as that."
She stretched out her arms. "I was there for more than fourteen
years."

"I don't think I'll trouble you for quite so long a list as that, but
could you give me the name of, say, one, who's been there within the
last twelve months?"

"Rather!--for one thing, there was my special friend, Frances Vernon."

"Did you know Frances Vernon?"

"I should think I did, and---- Do you know Frances Vernon?"

"It's odd, but I do chance to know something about Miss Frances
Vernon."

"She was there when Mr Emmett took me away."

"Was she? Then, in that case, I rather fancy she's left since."

"I shouldn't be surprised. She said she shouldn't stop a moment longer
after I had gone than she could help."

"I fancy she has a knack of getting her own way--at times."

"Isn't she lovely?"

"That's scarcely the word I should have applied to her. I should have
said she was a handful."

"If that's all you can say then you don't know much about her. I say
she's lovely, because I know all about her, and I know she's lovely.
But--what did you say your name was?"

"Frazer; Eric Frazer." Presently she shook her head. "What," he
inquired, "are you doing that for?"

"I don't remember it; nor one in the least like, and I should have
done if she had mentioned it."

"If who had mentioned what?"

"You see, Frances and I were tremendous friends; we had no secrets
from each other. She used to tell me about everyone she knew; hes and
shes; their names, you know, and all about them. And she used to make
a list of their names, on a sheet of paper; so that she might be able
to check them, and find out if anyone had been left out; and I don't
believe she ever so much as even breathed your name, Eric Frazer; or I
feel sure I should remember."

"Such an omission on Miss Vernon's part was unkind; it shows how
little I was in her thoughts. I gather from what you say, Miss
Gilbert, that you have a large number of friends."

"I!" The girl's eyes were suddenly opened wide. "Why, I haven't a
friend in the whole world, except Frances, whom I may never see again;
and, perhaps, Sister Celestine; who, I daresay, never wants to see me
again--at the convent they found it so hard to get money from father.
I don't believe they'd have let Mr Emmett take me away if it hadn't
been that he paid all that father owed. Whatever made you think I'd
lots of friends?"

"Then, if you haven't, you might give me a trial. It seems to me that,
at this particular moment, a friend's an article you're rather in want
of."

"I am; but--when you think what you do--I couldn't!"

"Miss Gilbert, if you could see my thoughts, I doubt if you'd object
to them; only, I'm older than you are, and I just feel that, if you're
not careful, you're likely to be in a tighter place than you have any
notion of; and, being so much older, if you were to tell me just what
happened last night at 'The Bolton Arms,' I might be of some slight
use in getting you out of it. That's all there is at the back of my
mind, as regards you. So, if you can bring yourself to make of me a
confidant, I'll respect your confidence, and whatever kind of trouble
it is you're in I'll be all the service to you I can."

She looked at him, carefully; as if considering what kind of person he
really was; and then she told him, everything there was to tell. She
did not seem to find it easy to start; but, when she once had started,
she poured out all that was in her heart, as a child might have done.
As he listened, strange though her story was, he knew she was telling
the truth. The pathos of it, of which she herself seemed to be so
oddly unconscious, touched him more than he would have cared to own.
And, manlike, because that was so, his outward manner put on an
additional shade of gruffness. Suddenly she startled him by putting a
leading question.

"Now do you think that I killed him, or that I didn't?"

He tried to fence.

"That's not altogether an easy question to answer."

"Oh yes, it is; it's perfectly simple and perfectly easy; either I did
or I didn't: there can only be one answer."

"Pardon me, but, from what I can gather, it's a point on which you
yourself seem to have some doubts."

"I know I have. Of course I know I never actually touched him;
but--perhaps I might have prevented him being touched; and--when he
began to make those noises I might have got him help; and so--I don't
quite know how it is. What I want to know is what you think; if you
have the slightest atom of a doubt you had better take me over to
Newcaster, and hand me over to a policeman."

"In any case I certainly sha'n't do that."

"Then I'll give myself up. I--I daresay that I--I sha'n't be so very
much afraid when I--I've quite made up my mind I ought to."

"You'll do nothing of the kind, if I can help it."

"If you can help it?--why, would you try to stop me?"

"I shouldn't only try. Let me disabuse your mind on one point; putting
casuistry on one side, you're no more to blame for what took place
than I am."

"Are you sure?"

"Perfectly sure."

"It's very sudden."

"What's sudden?"

"Your being so sure. You weren't sure just now; you were anything but
sure. I wonder if, for some cause, you want me to believe that I am
better than you believe I am."

"Nothing of the kind. However, I don't want to discuss the matter with
you. I am going immediately to tell you what I do propose to do. But,
before I get to that, there is one question which I should like to put
to you, in order that we may know exactly where we are. You saw the
man who made use of that champagne bottle? You had a distinct view of
him?"

"I saw him as distinctly as I see you."

"You would know him again?"

"Anywhere; always."

"Did you ever see him before?"

"Never."

"Of that you are certain?"

"Quite."

"Did he remind you of anyone you had seen before? Think!"

"I am thinking; but--I can think of no one. Why are you asking me
these questions? Do you--do you know him? And--are you thinking of
giving him up to the police? If you are--if you are, nothing will make
me say that I ever saw him before--nothing!--nothing! He sha'n't come
to harm because of me!"

"My dear child----"

"I'm not a child--and anyhow I'm not yours!--nor am I dear! Are
you--are you daring to think of playing the traitor?--of taking
advantage of what I've told you to--to get him punished? Are you?"

"I am doing nothing of the kind--how you do jump to conclusions! I
don't know the man from Adam. Why do you credit me with such sinister
intentions?"

"Why did you ask me those questions--like that?"

"I've half a mind to tell you; then perhaps we shall begin to
understand each other."

"Perhaps it is just as well that we shouldn't understand each other;
but you will please to tell me."

"Miss Gilbert, you're a young lady with a temper."

"If you wish to speak to me like that----"

She half rose from the ground; he checked her.

"I don't--pray stay where you are! What times you and Frances Vernon
must have had together!"

"What do you mean by that?"

"Nothing--I suppose you must have had a good time with her in the
convent, if she was such a friend of yours."

"Are you going to tell me why you asked those questions?"

"I am; then I think you will be sorry you have taken up such a tone
towards me. I asked those questions because the person whom you saw
strike George Emmett informed the waiter that his name was Gilbert."

"Gilbert!--Mr Frazer! But--I heard the waiter tell Mr Emmett that the
gentleman wouldn't give his name."

"What seems to have occurred is this. Someone came to one of the
coffee-room waiters and told him that he wished to see Mr George
Emmett. The waiter asked him his name; he said 'Gilbert'; then
immediately added: 'Never mind my name; you need mention no name; give
him this.' He scribbled a line or two on a sheet of paper, in pencil;
put the sheet into an envelope, which he fastened, and gave to the
waiter. So it came about that the waiter who delivered the note
supposed the stranger to have given no name; while the original waiter
is prepared to swear that, in the first instance, he said his name was
Gilbert--which is why I asked if you had seen him, or anyone at all
like him, before."

"But I haven't--ever! Who can he be? I haven't any relatives."

"Your acquaintance with your family history seems to be so nebulous
that I scarcely see how you can say that of your own knowledge. Do you
remember what your father looked like?"

"Only very dimly."

"Try your hand at a description."

"I seem to remember him as very tall, and dark, and----" She stopped;
the fashion of her countenance was changed, as if by a sudden access
of fear; then, as if because she realised how closely he was watching
her, she broke into what seemed to be a fit of pettish temper. "But
what does it matter what he looked like? What does it matter? My
father is dead."

"According to George Emmett."

Something in his tone caused her to look swiftly round at him.

"What do you mean by 'according to George Emmett'? Don't you believe
that my father is dead?"

"I merely mean that I had sufficient acquaintance with Mr George
Emmett to be disinclined to accept any statement of fact on his mere
_ipse dixit_. It is possible--if you like, it is probable--that he
gave the Sisters at the convent proof of his assertion; but I rather
fancy that their ideas of proof would be their own. You certainly seem
to have had nothing in the shape of proof. The fact that he paid money
on your account makes his tale--well, we'll say, peculiar; that he
should have done this if, as he told you, your father died owing him
money, makes it--well, very nearly incredible. It doesn't sound at all
like what is generally known of George Emmett's character. If he had
come and dunned you, or done worse, because your father died in his
debt, there I should have recognised the man; but that, having lost
money by your father, he should be willing also to lose money by
you--George Emmett must have had very odd reasons of his own for doing
that. You can't remember what the stranger said to Emmett?--what they
were disputing about?"

"I can't; I may do later, but I can't now. My brain was so stupefied,
I was in such a state of cowardice, that I heard--without hearing;
certainly without understanding."

"You can't recall even a single phrase?"

"No, I can't; I tell you I can't! Why will you persist in asking?"

"Please don't suppose, Miss Gilbert, that I wish to worry you; to
cause you pain; nothing can be farther from my wish; but I do want you
to appreciate the situation; to put you on your guard. If by any
diabolical mischance this stranger who gave your name should turn out
to be some more or less distant relative of your own it's as well that
you should be prepared for such an eventuality. Circumstanced as you
are, and may be, the one thing you don't want is to be taken
unawares." Twisting himself round, he drew towards himself a large
brown paper parcel which had been reposing on the turf at his back.
"Now to business. You have no money?" She shook her head. "Not any?"

"I haven't a penny."

"And--forgive me if I seem intrusive; but, if you will bear with me,
you will see that mine is not a merely impertinent intention--your
wardrobe is limited?"

"I have no other clothes except those I have on.

"And--forgive me again--those are not fresh from the dressmaker?"

"Indeed they are not. I have had this dress---- At the convent I had
one dress a year; this is my last year's frock."

"What has become of your hat? Don't you generally wear one?"

"Oh yes, I wear one, but I left the one hat I had behind at the
hotel."

"I told you that I went into Newcaster to do some shopping; and among
other things I bought the contents of this parcel. If you'll take it
to the room in which you spent the night I think it possible that
you'll find it contains some articles which may be of use to you.
While you're trying them on to see if they're any sort of a fit I'll
be putting things to rights; and harnessing that horse of mine, who's
very much mistaken if he thinks that he's in for a whole day's
holiday."

She stared at him in amaze.

"Why should you buy things for me?"

"Why shouldn't I? You are Frances Vernon's friend; and she's a young
lady whom I happen to know rather a deal about."

"But that's no reason why you should buy things for me!--you know it's
no reason!--you know it's not!"

"Pray don't imagine that I'm offering to give you these things; I've
expressed myself ill if I've conveyed that impression. An exact
account of their cost will be rendered to you, for which I shall
receive payment in due course."

"From whom will you receive payment?--from me? How can you imagine
that I shall be able to pay you; when, as I tell you, I haven't a
penny; and don't suppose I ever shall have one."

"As a man, Miss Gilbert, you must allow me to understand commercial
matters better than you do--as a business man I know I shall be paid,
in full; so please make your mind easy on that score. When you have
changed your clothes--and I think that, considering all things, the
sooner you do change them the better--and I have stuck my steed
between the shafts, I will drive you, at the rate of about four miles
an hour, to a railway station; then, with your permission, acting as
your personal conductor, I will take you, with the help of a train, to
Mrs Vernon's house. Mrs Vernon is Frances Vernon's mother; and is by
way of being some sort of a kind of a relation of my own. She will be
delighted to give you house room, until inquiries have been made into
the truth of Mr Emmett's statements, as to your father being dead and
his having left no money--I feel sure he did leave money, or Emmett
would never have paid that bill at the convent; to say nothing of his
having expressed a wish to marry you--and in short, till your affairs
are placed upon a regular footing."

"Which may be never. Why should Mrs Vernon give me what you call house
room?"

"You are full of whys. I tell you that she will be delighted--for your
sake; for her own sake; for Frances' sake; and, perhaps, a little for
mine."

"For your sake!--it's perfectly ridiculous to suppose that you can
care either one way or the other."

"Quite so; it's very good of you to say so."

"Mr Frazer, are you deceiving me? Are you sure that you know Frances
Vernon--and her mother?"

"Extraordinary though it may seem, facts are facts; and I not only
know Frances Vernon and her mother, but also her father and her
brother."

"That's Jim."

"Yes, that's Jim; I perceive that you are acquainted with the young
scoundrel's name."

"He's not a young scoundrel. Frances told me he was a darling. She
showed me his photograph; I could see for myself that he's very
good-looking."

"You said Frances was lovely; I am therefore not surprised to hear
that you think her brother's good-looking. My word! However, on a
question of taste there is no disputing." He stood up; the brown paper
parcel in his hands. "Shall I place this inside that private apartment
of yours? And will you be so good as to make your toilet with all
possible expedition? I should like to start from here well inside
thirty minutes--if you could manage to be ready?"

"I'm very sorry to intrude; or to interfere with what seems to be a
very nice little arrangement; but it isn't only a question of what the
young lady can manage--what price me?"

This question came from a figure which all at once rose from a clump
of furze which was at the back of Mr Frazer.




                              CHAPTER X

                     WHAT THE CARAVAN LEFT BEHIND


Swinging round in the direction from which the voice came, Mr Frazer
stood still to stare. The girl, rising to her feet, stared also; with
her pale cheeks a little paler, and her eyes wide open.

The speaker was one of those shambling, half-grown youths who are
generally found attached to gipsy caravans, as hangers-on. That he had
gipsy blood in his veins, his hair and eyes and skin suggested; but
that he was as much Cockney as gipsy his tongue betrayed. With a
ragged cloth cap on the back of his head; the remains of a
black-and-white checked woollen scarf about his sinewy neck; a faded
old red flannel shirt plainly visible under an unbuttoned sleeved
waistcoat; his fingers thrust into the band of his trousers: he
grinned first at the man, and then at the woman, in evident enjoyment
of their something more than surprise. He showed no inclination to
break the silence which followed his wholly unexpected, and undesired,
appearance on the scene; from his point of view the joke was
apparently too good a one to spoil. It was Mr Frazer who spoke next.

"Who are you?--and what business have you to be here?"

The stranger's grin grew more pronounced, so that he showed a set of
perfect white teeth; which again suggested the gipsy.

"I'm General Lord Kitchener, that's who I am--don't you know me from
the photographs? And as to what business I have to be here, I always
thought that Newcaster Heath was common grazing ground, and that
people could go about all over it just exactly as they please."

"What have you been doing behind those bushes?"

"What have I been doing?--that's it, what have I?"

"Have you been listening?"

The stranger looked his questioner straight in the face, with a grin
in his eyes and on his lips; then he winked. The action was more
significant than any words could have been; it moved the man to sudden
anger.

"You young hound!"

"Steady on! I'm no more a hound than you. No names; if it comes to
that perhaps I'm as good at chucking names about as you are--Mr
Frazer."

"You know my name?"

"I heard you tell her what it was; and very nice it was of you to tell
her."

There was an insinuation in the grin with which the words were
accompanied which stung the man again.

"My lad, I've a mind to break your neck."

"Have you? Then you take my tip, and keep your mind to yourself. I've
some friends not far from here, and if you try to come any of your
games with me I'll give them a call, and they'll be here in double
quick time; then you'll find that breaking necks is a game that more
than one can play at."

Mr Frazer regarded the speaker as if he were considering whether or
not to take him at his word, and let him give his friends a call. Then
he turned to the girl, his tone as easy and courteous as ever:

"I think I'll put this parcel inside there, and then, while you're
changing, I can have a talk with this young gentleman."

The girl seemed uncomfortable, undecided.

"What does he want?"

It was the younger man who replied:

"That's it, miss--what does he want? I wouldn't mind having what he
thinks he's going to get; you can take that from me."

Mr Frazer ignored the other's words. Going to the caravan with the
parcel in his hand he placed it just inside the door. Then he turned
to the girl again, beckoning to her with his hand.

"If you please! You remember what I said about half-an-hour? I shall
be so glad if you can make it convenient to be ready."

She hesitated; looking sideways at the stranger. Then she moved to Mr
Frazer, who was by the steps which led into the caravan.

"Why won't you tell me what he wants?"

"Because I don't know--but I soon shall; and all the sooner if you'll
leave us alone together."

The young man called out from among the gorse:

"He thinks he's going to bounce me as soon as your back's turned,
miss--oh, he's a deep 'un!"

Mr Frazer, still ignoring him, said to the girl:

"Please will you try to be ready inside those thirty minutes?"

"Will you be ready?"

"I think I shall--I don't think you'll find I'll keep you waiting."
She looked into his blue eyes, as if she were trying to decipher what
was in them; then, glancing half affrightedly over her shoulder, she
went up the steps into the caravan. She paused on the ledge to give a
flying look at Mr Frazer, and another at the lad among the bushes,
then passed inside, drawing the door to behind her. Mr Frazer said: "I
think that, if I were you, I should bolt the door, and close the
window."

The lad called out:

"That won't keep the cops out, miss, don't you think it!" Mr Frazer
waited, as if to ascertain that his hint had been acted on. Then he
crossed the little hollow, towards the bushes on the slope among which
the lad was standing. "Don't you come too close," observed the lad.

"I don't intend to; I only wish to come close enough to enable you to
hear what I have to say without making it necessary for me to raise my
voice."

He ascended the slope until he was within a few feet of the other.

"That's near enough; none of your games."

"There's a bush between us; that is something. Now, sir, what is it
you want?"

"What do I want? Why, I want five and twenty pounds, that's what I
want."

"What for?"

"You know what for."

"Since, from your appearance, you never had so much money in your
life, I suppose, in a general way, I do know what for. But do you
expect me to give you five and twenty pounds?"

"That's for you to say. If you don't I can get it from someone
else--that all."

"From whom?"

"From the police over at Newcaster."

"Indeed; why should they give you five and twenty pounds?"

"Oh, come off of it!--what do you think you're playing at? You know
very well why they'll give me five and twenty pound, and if you don't
I'll tell you--I'm not afraid."

"Why?"

"Why!--for putting them on to Miss Dorothy Gilbert, what's wanted for
that little job last night at 'The Bolton Arms.' Now do you
understand?"

"I hope I don't."

"Then you needn't hope; because you do. I speak plainly enough, Mr
Frazer."

"From your post of vantage, behind these bushes, did you hear all that
was said?"

"I did; every blessed word; and I'm not going to forget one either, so
don't you make any blooming error."

"Then, in that case, you are aware that this lady is guiltless."

"If she didn't, her father did, or one of her lot--you told her
yourself his name was Gilbert--so what's the odds? She can explain all
about that to them when they've got her, and I hope she'll like the
job. Anyhow, it's no business of mine, all that; it's the pieces I'm
after. I lay they offer more than twenty-five, and I'm going to have
it. All the same, I'll take twenty-five from you, if I lose by it. You
give me five and twenty pounds, where I'm standing now, and I'll keep
my mouth shut--I don't wish no harm to no one; I can't say nothing
fairer."

"Till when will you keep it shut?"

"Why, till----"

The youth seemed to hesitate; Mr Frazer finished his sentence for him.

"Till the money's spent: or till you get within hail of a policeman."

"Now, governor, you didn't ought to talk to me like that; you really
oughtn't--I'm not that kind at all--I give you my word I'm not. When I
say I'll do a thing, I do it; I'm not like some of them. You can trust
me--straight, you can." Apparently he was endeavouring to train his
countenance to wear an expression which would inspire confidence. All
at once he seemed to see something in the steadfast gaze with which
the other was regarding him which filled him with uncomfortable
qualms. "Now then, stow it--I'll call!"

Shaping his lips to whistle, he moved back. But before he could utter
a sound, or get out of reach, or make an effort to defend himself, Mr
Frazer had sprung at him over the intervening bush. With one hand he
gripped his throat, with the other his arm; with a sudden, curious
twisting movement he spun him round, and flung him face downwards,
with a force which seemed amazing. Where the lad fell he lay,
motionless. Mr Frazer looked down at him.

"One doesn't always spend money in acquiring the art of ju-jitsu for
nothing, after all. I always had a feeling that that fall might come
in useful one day; and it has. For the present, you young blackguard,
I can trust you; but the point is, for how long. I sent him down with
a little more vigour than was perhaps absolutely necessary; there
wasn't time to be particular; so it'll probably be a good twenty
minutes before he comes back to consciousness; but I'm afraid that's
not quite long enough. Better make sure." He took the woollen scarf
off the young man's neck. "There's not very much strength about it;
but I think it'll serve." He drew the young man's arms behind his
back, and with his own scarf he tied his hands together, being careful
about the sort of knot he used. Taking off the belt with which the lad
held up his trousers, placing his ankles close together, he passed it
round, then drew it as tight as he could, with the buckle behind.
Turning him over on to his back, tearing off a handful of grass, he
crammed it between the young man's jaws. Then he regarded the result
of his labour with what seemed to be a smile of satisfaction. "When he
does come to I don't think he'll be able to make much noise; he
certainly won't be able to make enough to attract the attention of
those friends of whom he spoke; and I doubt if he'll be able to move
much either. By the time a friend does come and find him we ought to
have reached a port of comparative safety; and if it's some time
before a friend does come, it'll serve him right--and that'll pay him
anyhow; it's more money than he ever had in his life." He took a piece
of crinkly paper out of his own hip pocket which he placed in the
inside pocket of the young man's jacket. "Still, lest a friend should
come too soon, we'll place him a little more under the shade of the
bushes; which will also serve to protect him from the heat of the
sun." Lifting the unconscious lad, he placed him right among the
gorse, in such a position that, as he put it, not only was he
sheltered from the glow and glare of the sun, but also from the
observation of any stray passer-by; indeed, so long as he kept still
it would be necessary for such a one to look for him in exactly the
proper place before he would become aware that he was there. "He
remains quiet; with luck he may continue quiet for quite a
considerable number of minutes. When he finds out what has happened to
him, and where he is, he'll find it difficult to make much noise, for
a time. He'll have to chew, and swallow, a good deal of that green
stuff before he'll be able to make much use of his lungs. Before then
we ought to be--some distance from this." Leaving the lad under the
gorse, moving to where they had had their morning meal, gathering
together the breakfast things, Mr Frazer deposited them, together with
the bundle which contained what had served him as a bed, on one side
of the broad ledge which was outside the caravan door. In a few more
minutes he had the horse harnessed between the shafts, and was ready
to start. He rapped at the door.

"Are you all right in there? Don't worry if you've not quite finished;
only look out for yourself, because we're starting."

A question came from within:

"What's become of that man?"

"Man!--boy, you mean. I soon disposed of him. Are those things a
decent fit?"

The girl's voice seemed tremulous:

"They're--they're not at all a bad fit, thank you. What did that boy
want?"

"What I gave him."

"What did you give him?"

"Just enough to keep him quiet. Don't you bother about that boy. How's
that hat do?"

Again the tremor in the voice.

"I--I haven't put it on yet; but it's a very nice one; it must have
cost a great deal of money; I don't know how I shall ever pay you back
again."

"I'll see that I'm paid; you'll be surprised when you know how little
it did cost--I'm an expert in the art of shopping. You'll notice
there's a window at the end inside there, which looks out over the
horse's head. When you've quite finished, if you open it you'll find
me sitting on the shelf immediately beneath, ready to be entertained
by any remark which you may deign to address to me--for making the
miles seem less there's nothing like a little intellectual
conversation."

He had taken his place on the shelf to which he had referred, and had
gathered the reins in his hand, when he was hailed by a woman who
appeared on the crest of the slope behind him.

"I say, mister!--one moment, if you please!"

He looked round.

"Two, madam, if you desire it."

"Have you seen a young chap anywhere about here?"

"I believe I did see one, some time ago."

"Did you notice what he looked like?"

"I fancy he had on a red shirt."

"That him--he's my husband, he is--I thought he came this way, he said
he wouldn't be gone more than five minutes, but he's been gone a good
deal more than an hour--I can't make out what he's up to, because he
knows we're in a hurry. Did you notice which way he was going?"

"I rather think he was going over there."

He motioned with his whip towards the horizon on his right.

"Was he? That's very nice of him, I don't think, as he knows very well
I'm over here. I should like to know what he's thinking of. If you
come across him, mister, I wish you'd ask him if he's Ben Hitchings;
and if he says he is you tell him that I've had about enough of
waiting, and that I've gone on to the course, and if he wants me he'd
better come and look for me there--see?"

"Yes, madam, I think I see; and if I do come across Mr Hitchings I'll
make a point of giving him your message."

Mr Frazer gave a jerk to the reins; the horse moved; the caravan was
off.




                              CHAPTER XI

                             DANGER AHEAD


They had got on to the road, and the hollow was already left some
little distance behind, when the window over the driver's seat was
opened, and Dorothy asked a question.

"Which way did he really go--that young man in the red shirt?"

"Frankly, between ourselves, I don't believe he went very far from the
spot at which he introduced himself to us--the young scamp!"

"He can't be so very young if he has a wife."

"Gentlemen in his class of life marry while they're in their teens;
and the ladies, some of them, apparently as soon as they're out of
their cradles. How's that hat?"

"Thank you, it's--it's very nice. It's odd, if he didn't go far from
where we were, that she shouldn't have seen him."

"Perhaps the young gentleman is lying low. I say. This establishment
of mine doesn't need much driving. I can do all the driving that's
required standing up; and if I were to stand up I could see inside
that window, and be able to judge for myself what that hat really does
look like. Do you think I might?"

"You--you can stand up if you like; only--take care of the horse.

"The horse will take care of us--never fear; she's a remarkable
animal, this mare of mine." His face appeared on one side of the
window, and the girl's on the other. "I say. I had a sort of feeling
that that hat would suit you, but I never guessed it would suit you
quite so well as that."

"Do you--do you think it does suit me--really?"

"If you were to ransack all Newcaster I doubt if you'd find another
which, artistically, would be such a success."

"I am glad you like it; it was very good of you to buy it." There was
a pause; then she added: "Would you mind sitting down again, so that I
might see the country--it seems to be rather pretty."

He glanced at her out of the corners of his eyes, whimsically.

"It is rather pleasant hereabouts--am I so much in your way? Can't you
see the country with me here?"

Her answer was decisive:

"Not so well as I should if you were sitting down."

So he sat down, where he could not see her: and the caravan went on.

Although for a vehicle of its sort it was of light construction, it
still was cumbrous. The rate of progression was not fast; evidently
the mare had her own idea of how fast it ought to be. Perhaps it was
because she was such a sleek and well-fed animal that she objected to
being pressed. One could not but feel that, when she hauled that house
on wheels, with Mr Frazer at the reins, she was used to going as she
pleased; that it was she who set the pace, not the driver and that the
pace she preferred was a walking pace, of about five miles an hour.
When she discovered, as she presently did, that, on that occasion, she
was desired to go a little faster, she evinced her resentment in a
fashion which was unmistakable. Occasionally Mr Frazer induced her to
break into what was really a bad imitation of a trot; at the end of
perhaps a hundred yards she would relapse into a walk, with an air
which suggested that she had been forced to gallop a mile; and as it
was plain that, where she was concerned, her driver could not bring
himself to use strong measures and equally plain that the creature
knew it, before they had gone very far the vehicle was being drawn
along the highroad at a rate which suited the mare, if it suited no
one else.

They had been moving a good hour, and had covered perhaps six or seven
miles, when a man, who was again of the gipsy class, came trotting
towards them, sitting on a bare-backed beast, which, although it
might have been exhibited as a living skeleton, could have given the
well-fed mare many points in the matter of speed. He glanced keenly at
the caravan; as soon as he had passed on one side he stopped, turned
his horse, and came back on the other, until he found himself abreast
with Mr Frazer. Stooping over he addressed him in a husky undertone.

"I say, governor, are you going to Timberham?"

"It is possible that I may get there, in time."

"Is your name Frazer?"

"Right; what's yours?"

"Never mind what mine is. If you take my advice you'll give Timberham
as wide a berth as ever you can."

"Why?"

The husky undertone became still huskier:

"The cops are looking out for you. Don't ask me how I know--ask no
questions and you'll hear no lies--but I do know. I don't know what
they want you for--I don't want to know--but they've got the office to
look out for a yellow van, with black stripes and red wheels, driven
by a party named Frazer, who's got a girl with him; I expect that's
her looking out of the window."

Mr Frazer glanced over his shoulder. For some time conversation with
his passenger had languished. He had told her where he kept his little
store of books, and she had withdrawn into the van, nominally to read
one; but that she was doing more thinking than reading was a fact
which she would not have cared to deny. Now, attracted by the
appearance of the stranger, she had drawn close to the open casement.
Stopping the van, Mr Frazer descended to the ground. He spoke to the
man on the bareribbed horse.

"Would you mind coming on one side for a moment?" They moved to where
the grass fringed the road, and where, if they spoke in lowered tones,
they were out of earshot of the girl at the window. "Are you sure of
what you say?"

The two men looked each other in the face. Frazer saw that this man
was a wild-looking fellow, whose experience of the police and their
methods was probably of a practical kind. So far as he could judge he
seemed to be sufficiently in earnest.

"Dead sure. I tell you they're looking out for you for all they're
worth. I shouldn't be surprised but what they're looking out for you
over the whole countryside. I know 'em?" He both sounded and looked as
if he did. "Just this side the town, about a couple of miles from
where we are, there's one of 'em coming along the road; I dare lay
he's coming to meet you."

"That's kind of him."

"I don't say he is, mind; I'm only telling you to look out."

"Thank you; I'm obliged by your doing so."

He slipped a coin into the other's long, thin, brown hand. The man
looked at it.

"Here, what's this? It ain't this I'm after; I told you the cops was
on the watch same as I'd tell anyone, no matter what they'd done.
However, if you have got this half-sovereign to give away, I don't
mind taking it; and I thank you. It may make all the difference to me.
Sorry I can't stop to lend you a hand, in case one's wanted; but, the
fact is, some of them wouldn't mind seeing me as well as you, and, as
I'm not the only one that's in it, time's precious."

What might have been meant for a smile passed over the man's saturnine
visage. Mr Frazer stood watching him, as he urged his bony steed along
the road. It seemed as if Ben Hitchings, having come back to sense,
had found a friend sooner than was quite desirable; or perhaps his
wife had found him, and this was his revenge. He wondered how the lad
had managed to set the machinery of the law in action so quickly.
Moving towards the van he was met with the question he had expected.

"What did that man want?" asked Dorothy.

She had her head half out of the window. Stooping, he passed his hand
up and down the mare's leg. Then, lifting her foot, he asked a
question of his own:

"Would you mind getting out and walking a little?"

"Why don't you tell me what that man wanted?"

"What! that fellow who's gone down the road? He brought me a message."

"What message? From whom? I heard what he said."

"Then, if you heard, you won't need me to tell you."

"I only heard part--you know I only heard part. Tell me what he said!
Tell me at once!"

Mr Frazer was passing the fingers of his left hand through his hair.
He seemed to be in a quandary, which caused him to be oblivious of the
young lady's peremptory tone.

"I don't fancy it's anything serious; but--I don't think I ought to
make her go much farther, with that great thing at her back. Poor old
girl!"

He patted the mare on the shoulder, as if in sympathy. She looked
round at him, as if she wondered what he meant. An inquiry came from
the window:

"Is there anything the matter with the horse?"

"I'm not sure that there is--I'm not sure, that's the point. I don't
take any risks, with an old friend.--she and I have been friends too
long. That's why I asked you if you'd mind walking a little way."

"Of course I wouldn't--you know I wouldn't."

"Then in that case I think I'll take her into the field, and leave her
there."

He was leading the mare through a gate in a hedge, which opened into a
field on the right.

"Whose field is it?" asked the face at the window.

"No doubt it belongs to someone who wouldn't wish to cause a horse
needless suffering."

"But is it suffering? It seems to me to walk all right, and to be all
right."

"Now it does--now! She's not one to make a fuss about a trifle.
Besides, it may be spasmodic."

"What may be spasmodic?"

"I am not a veterinary surgeon, so I can hardly pose as an authority
on the ailments of horses; I can only hope for the best." He was
fastening a nosebag round the creature's neck. "I don't want her to
eat a stranger's grass, however soft a heart he may have for a
suffering beast. If that door's still bolted, would you mind unbolting
it? I'm coming round to the back." When he did get round the door was
open, and the girl was standing on the ledge, in her new attire. He
exclaimed at sight of her: "Why, that frock might have been built for
you; you look as if you had been melted into it."

Her pallor had gone; she was rosy red.

"It does fit rather well."

"And that hat's a stunner; no one who saw you last night would know
you now. If you wouldn't mind coming down, I'll come up; I want to do
a little changing."

When she had descended he climbed into the van; he drew the door to in
his turn; she heard him bolt it. She moved to the horse at the other
end. The sagacious quadruped seemed as if she did not quite know what
to make of the situation. The presence of the nosebag seemed to puzzle
her. She had recently eaten her fill of grass; there was grass again
all round her; nice, luscious grass--then why the nosebag? She really
did not seem to feel as if she needed it, amid all that grass. She
regarded the girl as if, while wondering who she was, she desired to
convey to her her feelings on the subject.

When Mr Frazer reappeared, for a second Dorothy scarcely knew him--the
metamorphosis he had wrought in his appearance in such a short space
of time was so complete. He had on a pair of buttoned boots; coat and
trousers of dark blue serge; a white waistcoat; a stiff white collar;
a neat green necktie; a dark green soft felt hat; and, to crown all,
he had shaved off his beard. His chin was as innocent of hair as a
baby's; his moustache was his only hirsute adornment. She stared at
him in amazement.

"Why, whatever have you been doing?"

He smiled.

"I've only been cleaning up. Please don't glare at me like that. Am I
such an ogre?"

"No, you're not an ogre; at least, you don't look as if you were;
only--it's difficult to believe that the person who went in is the one
who's come out."

"That's the idea. Now, if you're ready, hadn't we better start?"

"Are you really going to leave the horse and van in here?"

He was locking the door of the van; the windows were already shut.

"Why not? They'll be all right; trust me to take care of that."

"I don't believe there's anything the matter with the horse; it seems
perfectly all right, and I believe you know it. You're doing this
because of what that man said--that man on the horse. What did he say?
I insist on your telling me! I--I wish you wouldn't be so mysterious!
What became of that young man in the red shirt? I believe you knew
where he was all the while, though you pretended to his wife that you
didn't. You may mean to be kind, but it isn't kind to treat me as if I
were a doll, and tell me nothing. It is I who am chiefly concerned,
not you."

The girl spoke warmly, but the man seemed to be unaware of the fact.
Having finished locking the door, he was contemplating the vehicle
with an air of careful consideration.

"I think that everything's shipshape--it's hardly likely that thieves
will break in and steal; especially as I've left nothing worth
stealing; if the owner of the field turns up all he can do is to run
the whole thing into what serves as the local pound, and that'll do no
harm to anyone." He turned to Dorothy

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