§ 11
Then Sir Peter stood before her again, alive still, but breathless and greatly ruffled.
She put her hands to her heart. She would be brave.
“Yes,” she said. “Tell me.”
“He’s as mad as a hatter,” said Sir Peter.
She nodded for more. She knew that.
“Has he—killed anyone?” she whispered.
“He looked uncommonly like trying,” said Sir Peter.
She nodded, her lips tightly compressed.
“Says Douglas will either have to leave the house or he does.”
“But—Douglas!”
“I know, but he won’t hear a word.”
“But why Douglas?”
“I tell you he’s as mad as a hatter. Got persecution mania. People tapping and bells ringing under his pillow all night—that sort of idea.... And furious. I tell you,—he frightened me. He was awful. He’s given Mergleson a black eye. Hit him, you know. With his fist. Caught him in the passage to the priest hole—how they got there I don’t know—and went for him like a madman.”
“But what has Douglas done?”
“I know. I asked him, but he won’t listen. He’s just off his head.... Says Douglas has got the whole household trying to work a ghost on him. I tell you—he’s off his nut.”
Husband and wife looked at each other....
“Of course if Douglas didn’t mind just going off to oblige me,” said Sir Peter at last....
“It might calm him,” he explained.... “You see, it’s all so infernally awkward....”
“Is he back in his room?”
“Yes. Waiting for me to decide about Douglas. Walking up and down.”
For a little while their minds remained prostrate and inactive.
“I’d been so looking forward to the lunch,” she said with a joyless smile. “The county—”
She could not go on.
“You know,” said Sir Peter, “one thing,—I’ll see to it myself. I won’t have him have a single drop of liquor more. If we have to search his room.”
“What I shall say to him at breakfast,” she said, “I don’t know.”
Sir Peter reflected. “There’s no earthly reason why you should be brought into it at all. Your line is to know nothing about it. Show him you know nothing about it. Ask him—ask him if he’s had a good night....”