"Ha, ha, ha, ha! Yes, if you look at it that way, I suppose it's a devil of a joke!"
Holliday was becoming hysterical.
"Also one must not lose sight of the fact that when the young one is out of the way, you and I will both benefit considerably more than we first expected. Lady Clifford will inherit three to four times as much. I look forward to being quite unhampered; I shall be able to devote myself to research for the rest of my life."
Somewhere far below a clock struck a single mellow clang. It was the same clock that had ticked so loudly that day when Esther first came to the house. She could see it now, its wide white face crossed by its thin hands of decorated bronze.
"Six-thirty. I must be off to catch Clifford when he gets home. The imbecile has been out and about the town for two days with a temperature of over a hundred and one—searching everywhere for this girl. I believe he was going to the police to-day. That is another reason for not losing time. There is little likelihood of anyone's coming here, but one never knows."
In the midst of her almost paralysing fear a thrill shot through Esther when she heard that Roger was concerned over her disappearance. Then it had mattered to him when she didn't telephone! She also knew now how long she had been here. If only these two would go, would leave her alone, she might possibly be able to carry out her plan of escape; she would risk it, anyway, desperate though it seemed. Once she got clear of the house she could find a telephone and ring Roger up. That would be sufficient. If only they would go! Why were they still lingering here?
At last the floor creaked with the heavy tread. A wild hope rose in her breast. A second later and it perished miserably, as she heard the doctor say:
"I'll just give her another shot before I leave. Then she'll be safe for some time. Where is the syringe?"
"Here, on the table."
A silence, then Sartorius's voice, reflectively:
"Humph, you didn't give her quite all of it, did you? There's a bit left."
That, perhaps, explained her being conscious now. What an irony! To think that Holliday's inexpertness should have brought about the agony of the past half-hour! But for him she would have remained in peaceful oblivion, out of which she would have passed imperceptibly to her final sleep. These terrible moments were her last glimpses of life. In a few seconds would come utter blankness again; her last chance would be gone for saving Roger and herself. Should she make a struggle for it and die fighting? Or was it better to continue her supine pretence and quietly allow the needle to reduce her once more to a merciful torpor?
"Hand me that tumbler, will you?"
Water splashed from the tap into the basin. She could have burst out laughing at the precise habits of the man which remained with him now when they mattered not at all. She could almost see him wash the needle, could follow every movement up to the setting down of the glass beside her on the little table de nuit.
It was coming, now, the stab that marked the end of conscious life, the ruin of her one hope of rescuing the man she loved from a horrible death. It was all over now…. She felt the doctor's breath stir her hair, she smelled again the hot odour of strong tobacco, was conscious of the wave of animal heat emanating from his body as he bent over her. Now … her lovely chestnut-coloured blouse must be peppered with holes. What a pity! … not that it mattered now—how absurd to think of that! …
CHAPTER XXIX
What sound was that? The noise of ringing. Was it within her own brain? No, surely not; it was the bell downstairs, a loud, persistent peal. Not the telephone; no, it must be the front-door bell.
An annoyed exclamation came from the doctor.
"I'll have to answer that; it won't do to leave it."
A little click as the needle was laid down, then the retreating steps of both men, out of the room. The door closed, the key turned mechanically. She could hear the doctor's heavy steps lumbering all the way down to the bottom floor, while she fancied Holliday remained on the stairs. Was this a providential respite, or only another tantalising false hope?
Cautiously she opened her eyes and moved her cramped limbs a little. What difference could it make now if they knew she had been awake? On the table at her side she saw the hypodermic syringe, fully charged, lying beside a glass of water. She stared at them fascinated.
Suddenly an idea came to her, the wildest idea conceivable, not one chance in a million of its succeeding, yet now, in the face of extinction, anything was worth trying. She had nothing to lose. Quick as lightning she seized the needle, squirted its contents on the floor back of the bed, then with the same speed refilled it from the tumbler. She laid it down again exactly where it had been before, looked to see that there were no drops spilled. Then once more she lay down, trying with meticulous care to resume her old posture. Was this right? No, her head must have been a little lower. Oh, what hope was there of deceiving those keen little python's eyes? The man would surely detect the smallest variation in her attitude. No, it was a pathetic ruse, foredoomed to failure. If he suspected she had moved he would examine the needle, he would see the difference in colour. Her one hope lay in the gloom of the alcove. A few minutes more and she would know the worst.
She lay still and counted to keep from going mad. One, two, three, four, five—slowly, more slowly still, so as to make sixty counts equal a minute. One never could do that, one always went too fast. She had counted three sixties when the front door closed below and returning footsteps mounted the stairs. One flight, two flights … the key rasped, the boards creaked, she heard Sartorius saying:
"You see now, that is the sort of thing one must be prepared for. Suppose no one had been here? Those asses would have gone back to the agent's and got a key, or else some fellow from the office would have come back with them to show them the house. Just the same, I want you to telephone the estate office that I've changed my mind about sub-letting."
He was now at her side. Would he notice anything wrong?
"She's about to come to. I thought that dose wouldn't last long."
She heard him pick up the needle. Now … what was happening? Was he examining it? … An agonising pain in her upper arm reassured her. She was prepared for it to hurt worse than an ordinary injection, plain water did. She bore the torture without a quiver, holding her breath until she heard the doctor move away.
Suddenly Holliday burst out again with an edge of nervous apprehension in his voice.
"See here, Sartorius. What about that chemist? He knows. What if he goes to the police?"
The doctor gave a disparaging grunt.
"What does he know? Merely that an American nurse brought him a needle to be analysed and gave the Villa Firenze as her address. Very likely he would never think of doing anything; it is no business of his. But if he did, what could he prove? Why, nothing at all. There is no evidence whatever. If this thing ever got into court, I could suggest that the woman was mentally unbalanced, suffering from the delusions which cause intent to injure. I can prove that the nurse had access to the laboratory; it would be easy to make a jury believe that she put the toxin in the syringe herself, with the insane idea of making trouble for me. If she's not to be found, I should not have much difficulty in getting away with that theory. But it will never come to that."
"You seem devilish sure, but all the same——"
"Rubbish—if both Clifford and the girl are dead, who remains to bring a charge? Assuming the worst, I do not know that I'd have much to fear from a French jury with Thérèse Clifford facing them. No, the girl here is our one weak spot, and by the day after to-morrow at the latest I expect to be able to deal with her. No good rushing the business, though—it's fools who get into trouble because they won't lay their plans carefully."
The indescribably casual manner in which he referred to his coming crimes struck a chill to the listener's bones. He had apparently allowed for everything; any possible effort she might make to escape from his clutches seemed vain and bootless. She would have lost heart entirely, only there was the knowledge within her that on one point at least she had succeeded in foiling him.
"Give me that smallest phial from the rack, will you? I shall want only the merest trace of this. The rest can go down the drain."
The tap ran again; Esther knew that he was methodically washing out the bottle that contained the deadly culture. Another hour, perhaps less, and no power could save Roger from a torturing death, not even the certainty of what had caused it. Once an invisible touch of the villainous stuff penetrated the raw tissues of the wound, it would work its way straight into the blood-stream. Soon, very soon afterwards the jaw muscles would begin to stiffen…. Oh, if there were any sort of weapon in reach, knife, pistol, anything! She knew she would have thrown herself, weak as she was, upon that insensate, deliberate machine in the furious attempt to wreck it, careless of what might happen to herself.
"Come, I have no time to lose. Lock the door behind you."
The light was switched off, the door closed, she was alone once more, this time in almost complete darkness. Again she strained her ears upon the retreating steps, afraid yet to move her cramped muscles. The punctured arm throbbed and smarted painfully; every nerve in her body was stretched like a fiddle-string. Finally, far below, sounded the door's slam; a moment later, in front of the house, the whir of a starting engine vibrated upon the still air. The doctor was gone. Now or never, quick, not an instant to waste, every second lost lessened her slender chance of reaching the villa in time, even by telephone. Her plan was laid, she had no need of further deliberation.
First, crossing the floor on tip-toe, she turned on the light. She was afraid to do this, but it was necessary, and the chances were that Holliday could not spy the tell-tale crack of light that would show under the door without coming to the enclosed well of the staircase. Next she climbed upon her chair again and unpinned the curtains. Her fingers shook uncontrollably; never in her life had she known such a devastating weakness—at a time, too, when she needed far more than her normal strength! Towards the end of her task it was as much as she could do to keep from sliding off the chair into a heap on the floor. When the curtains lay in a dusty pile she was forced to rest a moment on top of them before attempting to continue. Her condition frightened her. At this rate she would not get far.
Wasn't there a brandy-bottle somewhere? Surely she had heard the doctor give Holliday something to drink. Rising cautiously, she looked about and discovered it on the long table, uncorked it, drank from the bottle. Only two fiery mouthfuls, however. She dared not take more in her present state of weakness and emptiness. The drink warmed her slightly, gave her back just enough strength to go on. Her project began to look less hopeless.
She found a knife and slit the tough fabric into strips, five lengths each, then tied the ends together, tightening the knots as well as she could. She had little idea of how far the improvised rope would reach, but it seemed fairly long when it was done. She began to think it would mean everything to get outside the house, whether she was injured or not. She had at least the chance of attracting some passer-by's attention before Holliday could discover she was gone and drag her back to her prison. Gathering up her load of rope she listened again. No sound whatever save the drip-drip of the tap in the corner. Laboriously she climbed to the top of the table, pulled the nearest chair up after her, planted it firmly beside her. Then she examined the skylight once more, deciding that if it were open she could manage to get her body through the central section, provided she had the strength to hoist herself up that high.
With infinite caution she undid the hasp and pushed open the casement, terrified lest the rusty, scrunching sound should penetrate to the lower floors. She shot out the iron rod to its full extent and fastened it, then started to search for something to which she could secure the end of her rope. There was a wooden shelf against the wall supported by iron brackets. Perhaps one of these brackets would serve, though she was afraid that her weight pulling suddenly upon it would tear out the screws from the plaster. There was nothing else close enough; she must trust to its holding firm. She made fast the rope's end, then with haste, but noiselessly began removing the row of bottles from the shelf and setting them down on the table beneath. She must get them out of the way for it would be necessary for her to step upon the shelf in order to climb up to the opening, there being nowhere else to set her foot. Five, six, seven bottles she put down. The eighth, a small one, had an uneven bottom. Before she knew what had happened it overbalanced, rolling over and over towards the table's edge. She tried to stop it, but could not reach it in time. Before her agonised eyes it fell to the floor with a loud, clear "ping."
Her heart in her mouth, she stood for one petrified moment rooted to the spot. Would Holliday hear? The answer came immediately. There was a sudden, loud clatter of footsteps, leaping headlong towards the laboratory stairs, charging full upon her. Like a flash it came to her that, discovered or not, she must get out of the skylight now, now, or it would be too late, she must stop for nothing. She mounted her chair, hurled the rope from the opening, and had just set foot upon the shelf ready for the final hoist when the door burst open and Holliday, wild-eyed, confronted her.
"Stop!"
There was a revolver in his hand, but she took no account of that. Urged by terror she strained with every ounce of force in her body to draw herself up to the skylight. The single glimpse she had of the young man's face showed it to be pale with anger and fright, the eyes glaring, the mouth parted to show snarling teeth. He raised his arm full-length, the revolver glittered in the greenish light.
"Drop it, damn you!"
He made a sort of rush at her, grabbing at the chair.
"Keep away!"
With both hands she seized the only available object, a huge jar which remained upon the shelf, lifted it on high, aimed it at his head. Simultaneously a revolver shot deafened her and choked her with smoke, there was a crash and falling glass splintered in a rain. The room was plunged in darkness. Half dazed, she still realised that amid the confusion she had completed her intention, had with a terrific effort launched the big jar as she had meant to do. Smothered curses followed and a second, duller smash, then, though she could see nothing, she smelled the strong, acrid fumes of ammonia rising, mingling with the stench of the powder. Had she hit him? She must not stop to inquire. During the ensuing instant of silence she tugged at the ledge above with a fresh, despairing effort, dragged herself up to the brink, felt the pure night air upon her face. The next second, clutching her rope in a mad grip, she let herself go, hurtling head first, then feet first, down the tiled slope of the roof, then into space over the sheer drop of the house's side.
Bumping, thumping, scraping her knuckles and shins, somehow, anyhow, down she slid, reached the end of the swaying rope, hung for one frightful moment kicking in mid-air, then dropped, plunk, like a lead in water. She landed, shaken and stunned, but not injured, upon the damp soft earth of a flower-bed. The rope dangled above her, only a few feet away. For a whirling space she feared she was going to faint, and with her whole will she fought off the engulfing fog, knowing she must not stay here a minute. She was out of the house, true, but still in imminent peril. At any moment Holliday might dash out and seize her, and as she was now she had no resistance whatever, scarcely power to scream.
Even as this thought matured in her brain, there came from within the walls the drunken sound of steps careering down the upper flight of stairs. Holliday! He might be slightly stunned, but he was recovered sufficiently to come in pursuit. A second and he would reach the door, only a few yards away from where she huddled. Quick—where could she hide?
Struggling to her feet she staggered across the little strip of garden and out the gate. If only there were someone in sight, anyone she could appeal to for protection! But no, for once the Route de Grasse stretched for a hundred yards in both directions empty as a desert. Turning blindly to the left she ran crazily, swaying from weakness, past the next two villas. At the gate of the third house she stopped, afraid to venture farther. Inside the garden a low, square-cut hedge offered a hope of shelter, if she could reach it in time. Already behind her she heard the doctor's door flung open, saw a bar of light stream into the dark street.
Like a shot partridge she dropped to the ground and wormed her way on her stomach through the gateway into the shadow of the hedge, crept close, lay still, afraid to breathe. Less than twenty yards away loud steps resounded on the flagstones. They came in her direction.
CHAPTER XXX
For a short space Esther believed herself lost. If Holliday found her, which seemed almost inevitable, she knew she would be powerless to put up a defence. It would be a simple matter for him to gag her and drag her back over the few yards of intervening side-walk before anyone could know what was happening. It was not as though there were many people about. She had never seen the street so deserted. An occasional motor passed, but she could detect no footstep save that of the man pursuing her.
She rolled over and lay prone on the damp mould, as close under the hedge as she could squeeze. The hedge itself was barely four feet high, but it presented a certain amount of cover now that it had gone dark. Perhaps if she knew in time that she had been discovered she might manage to dash to the door of the house and ring the bell violently. She gathered her strength for the attempt, then for the first time noticed a sign, "À louer," across the front windows. The place was vacant.
Her one hope lay in remaining stock-still, trusting to the shadows to hide her. This she did, and listening heard Holliday run around the side of the doctor's villa to the spot where she had fallen, then back again and once more out into the street. Here he paused, and she could picture him reconnoitring in every direction. He would know that she could not have gone far, that she must be concealed within a short radius. Unless someone came along the street discovery was merely a matter of minutes.
Her head still ringing from the bumps she had recently received, she felt herself rapidly relaxing, in spite of her danger. The thought of complete abandonment to repose stole over her like a powerful narcotic. It would have been heavenly to let herself go, to fall asleep here or lapse into a faint; she didn't know which it would be. For several seconds she saw the dark garden through a veil of black gauze. Then a voice inside her brain roused her; she braced herself and set her teeth fiercely to dam back the treacherous tide that threatened to swamp her senses. Whatever happened, she must hold on a little longer; she must, she must! … She heard Holliday go down the street in the opposite direction, stop, then after another minute return, more slowly, towards her hiding-place. Another two seconds and he would be on a line with her. Now, through a rift in the hedge she could see his feet, moving undecidedly. Oh, why did no one come? The feet came towards her more and more slowly. Why was he hanging about in that way? At last, at a distance of six feet away from her, he stopped altogether. She could no longer see him, but she felt his presence. She almost knew that he was silently peering through the wall of foliage, endeavouring to probe into the shadows. The suspense grew unbearable, she felt she must scream out, "Here I am! What are you going to do about me?"
Suddenly other steps approached, those of two or three people. She listened eagerly: then she heard voices talking in quite unintelligible French, interspersed with laughter. She visualised a group of returning workmen. Just opposite her one of them spat on the pavement and broke into a snatch of song. Hardly had they passed by when others came—the desert was populated once more. She felt a merciful degree of security. At any rate Holliday would not dare now to come and seize her, or even if he did she had a better chance of creating an effectual disturbance. But where was Holliday? Had he departed, or was he still standing there, searching for her? She could not tell, and she was afraid to move to see better. What seemed an infinitude of time went by; then at last, realising how late it was growing and that she must not waste the precious minutes, she raised her head and took a cautious look through an open patch in the leaves towards the doctor's door. A few minutes ago it had stood open, emitting a bar of yellow light. Now the place was in complete darkness. That argued that Holliday had gone back whence he had come. Dare she rise to her feet and hasten on her way? She knew that she must dare; to stop here longer might easily be fatal to her project.
Yes, he was nowhere in sight, had apparently relinquished the pursuit. She did not stop to wonder why, or if he had anything up his sleeve. Instead she turned out of the gate to the side-walk, her clothing damp and clinging to her, her limbs trembling. She had passed one terror, but she was faced with a second almost as bad. Had the doctor already reached the Villa Firenze? Could she possibly contrive to forestall him? She must at once get to a telephone; it was her one chance.
A telephone—there must be one in this next villa; she would ring the bell and ask. With her knees giving under her at every step she hurried up the walk of a gingerbread pseudo-chalet, vilely prosperous-looking, and pressed her finger firmly on the electric button. There was a shrill peal, echoing throughout the house, but no one came. She rang again and yet again, holding her finger glued to the bell at last and stamping her feet with impatience. At last, after an endless interval, someone approached with a deliberate, shuffling tread, the door was unbarred—there seemed several bolts—and opened half-way to reveal a gim-crack interior in execrable taste and the figure of an old woman with a hard wrinkled face and grey hair smoothly banded under a black cap.
"S'il vous plait, madame," began Esther, half crying with agitation, "Est-ce qu'on peut téléphoner? C'est très important, madame."
The old face, unsmiling, critical, looked her over from head to foot. Esther for the first time realised her dishevelled appearance, her hatless head. She saw the hard eyes fix themselves in a suspicious stare on a point upon her cheek under the left eye. Mechanically she put up her hand and discovered a needle-like splinter of glass sticking into her face. She had not felt it before: it must have come from the electric-bulb which Holliday's revolver had shattered. There must be a good deal of blood on her cheek….
"Un accident," she murmured apologetically, trying to smile, then repeated desperately, beseechingly: "Le téléphone, madame——? Je suis très pressé——"
The old woman spoke at last:
"On n'a pas de téléphone ici," she replied with a Belgian accent, and pushed the door to in Esther's face.
Outraged and disappointed, the more so as she had caught sight of the telephone-instrument in the hall, Esther stumbled down the steps and out again to the street, sick at heart over the waste of time and strength, both priceless now. The old witch, the iron-faced creature, eyeing her as if she wanted to steal something! Never mind, she must simply try the house next door.
This proved to be an imposing edifice where one would expect to find several well-trained servants. Yet she rang the bell for three minutes at least without eliciting any response. At length she was on the point of departure, maddened by her fruitless efforts, when she was rewarded by a sound above her head. Looking up she saw that a casement had been thrown open and that a gentleman with his face covered in lather was gazing down upon her—at first angrily, then archly. Quite desperate now she framed her request in what French she could command, scarcely able to wait for the reply. The result was disconcerting. The shaving gentleman became excessively gallant, entreated his fair visitor to remain where she was for a tiny instant until he could descend and admit her, implored her with expansive gestures not on any account to go away and blight his life. As the sweep of the arm and the shrug of the shoulders betrayed only too plainly the fact that the hospitable gentleman was very much in a state of nature, except for the lather on his face, Esther took fright and bolted out of the gate, inwardly execrating the Gallic race and their amorous propensities. One more chance gone, she thought in a panic of dread, five minutes more wasted. Oh! to think a simple matter like finding a telephone should present so many difficulties!
Diagonally across the street loomed a large, modern apartment house of familiar design. Without doubt there would be a telephone there, in the loge of the concierge. Precipitately she darted across the street, narrowly escaping a motor-cycle, and plunged into the court. She could see the loge at the far end, up a flight of three shallow steps. Light streamed out of the wide glass double doors so frequently seen in this type of building; she aimed her faltering steps towards it as to a beacon. Within the doors she saw a brightly lit, stuffy room overcrowded with machine-carved furniture, the central table covered with a red chenille cloth, on which lay a string-bag bursting with vegetables and parcels. No soul was visible, but she spied the telephone against the back wall. She opened the doors and went in, a bell tinkling as she did so. From an inner room issued the sound of voices laughing and gossiping. The door was shut, and no one troubled at all to answer the summons.
She crossed hurriedly to the other door and opened it, disclosing a domestic group, fit subject for one of the Dutch school paintings. There was a neat, compact, black-clad woman with shining, immaculate coiffure, an old, florid, bald-headed man sluggishly fat, and a youth, long-limbed and pale, with the face of an apache and a dank lock of black hair dipping into his eyes. The woman was peeling potatoes and recounting a history, the old man smoked, and fondled a cat, the apache lounged against the chimney with a cigarette dangling from his thin lips. A dog slept on the hearth; there were two love-birds in a green cage upon the wall.
"S'il vous plait, madame——"
The three turned instantly and regarded her, all merriment gone, their eyes shrewd, alien, inquisitorial. She began to feel like a criminal, and struggled stammering in the effort to make her desire known, urgent though it was.
"Bien, mademoiselle, qu'est-ce que vous désirez?" the woman rapped out in staccato accents.
"Madame, s'il vous plait, je veux bien téléphoner. Je regrette de vous déranger, mais c'est tellement important."
She saw the woman's gaze, hard and curious, take in the details of her appearance, from her muddy shoes up to her blood-stained cheek.
"I've had an accident—je viens d'avoir un petit accident," she explained hurriedly. "Il faut que je téléphone immédiatement."
The concierge's face cleared slightly.
"Pour chercher un médecin, sans doute?" she suggested. "Bien—voici le téléphone."
Gratefully Esther thanked her and took down the receiver in her trembling hand. The operator failed to understand her accent; she repeated the number three or four times without success, and was on the point of bursting into tears when the concierge possessed herself of the receiver and delivered the number for her, crisply and precisely.
"Voilà, mademoiselle," she announced in triumph, and returned to her potatoes.
There followed a long wait. From the other room Esther could hear the family group discussing her in subdued voices, her strange aspect, her evident weakness. They hazarded guesses as to how she had received her injuries. The old man was positive that the lady's lover had been chasing her with a knife; the wound on her face was a proof of it, in his opinion.
A series of buzzings, tappings and clinkings came over the wire, with hints of far-distant unintelligible conversation. This continued while with agonised eyes Esther watched the hands of the big clock on the wall creep from five minutes past seven to eleven past. Still no connection. At last the operator, remote and chill as the top of the Tour Eiffel, informed her that there was no reply. With French born of desperation Esther cried, "Sonnez encore! Sonnez toujours! Je suis sûre qu'il y a quelqu'un la!" Then recommenced the mysterious commotion on the line, which, before, led to nothing.
"Oh, God! oh, God!" she breathed hysterically. "It will be too late, it may already be too late! Oh, God, help me, make them answer!"
She was dimly aware that the apache was lounging in the doorway, using a toothpick and examining her with interest. The voices from the inner room had ceased; everyone was listening, but she did not care. All at once a click louder than those preceding told her she had been put through at last. Hope leapt within her. Alas! It suffered an immediate extinction, when she found herself au courant of a conversation between two people of opposite sexes, a dalliance flirtatious in character, interspersed with laughter and snatches of song. Three times she lowered the hook, three times she raised it to find herself still listening to the idiotic babble—"Tu ne m'aimes pas? Hein? Pourquoi pas?"—laughter—"Quand j'ai regardé le couleur de ton nes l'autre soir, j'étais complètement bouleversé, j' t'assure!"—"Ah, formidable!" then another shrill cackle. It was beyond endurance.
There was no use trying further. The clock hands touched twenty minutes past, she had thrown away over a quarter of an hour here while at the villa death was closing in surely upon its unsuspecting victim. She dropped the receiver with a groan, turning to the woman, who had just come out.
"Madame, c'est inutile. Je vous remercie."
The woman looked her over again with a softened glance, touched, perhaps, by the tremor that shook her visitor's voice.
"Mademoiselle est souffrante?"
"Non, madame, pas trop, ce n'est pas ça—mais il y a quelqu'un qui est en danger—quelqu'un qu'il faut prévenir. Si je peux trouver un taxi——"
"Gaston! Vite! Cherche un taxi pour mademoiselle. Va!"
With a warmed feeling that these were kindly people after all, Esther watched the young man's long figure slink out of the door like an otter around the bend of a stream.
"Asseyez-vous, mademoiselle," the woman bade her, and pushed forward a chair.
But she could not sit down. She was in a fever of excitement, quivering all over. With one section of her mind she thanked the woman again, with another she looked for the young man's return, with still another she said to herself, "How long will it take me to get to La Californie from here? Has Roger come back? Is the doctor getting the bandage ready for his hand? Oh, if it should already be too late!"
A torturing interval ensued. She left the loge and wandered out to the entrance. Rain had begun to fall, that would make it harder to find a taxi. It would happen, now of all times! Ten minutes passed, then up the street chug-chugged a somewhat battered motor-vehicle with the apache hanging on the step. Yes, it was a taxi, an antediluvian one, but she must not be critical. If a chariot offered one a lift out of hell, one would not stop to inquire its horse-power. The apache helped her in and closed the door. She turned grateful eyes on him through the open window and with an expressive gesture showed him she had no purse.
"Pas de quoi, mademoiselle," he responded gruffly, and her opinion of the French rose several points.
The chauffeur, a septuagenarian who smelled of wine, had a bulbous nose and was so deaf that it took her several seconds to make him understand where she wanted to go. When finally he grasped the address, he tapped his most conspicuous feature with a horny finger, and, his engine having by this time stopped, descended with creaks and groans to crank it up. He was so long over the operation that she began to be alarmed. However, he was not drunk, only senile. Of the two, his taxi was far worse—rickety, spavined, with every evidence of decrepitude. It started with a jerk which threw its occupant off her seat.
"At any rate I'm moving," she told herself with real relief. "I'm getting there at last. That's something."
Any sort of motion might be better than none, yet when she realised the pace at which she must crawl she suffered strong misgivings. To jog along like this when speed was a prime essential! Moreover they did not always jog, frequently they stopped dead still, while the ancient driver fumbled with the gear and eventually hit upon something which sent them forward again with a fresh spasm. It was so completely maddening that after the fifth attack she could bear it no longer. Thrusting her head out of the window she shouted shrilly:
"Vite! Vite! Je suis très pressé! Vite!"
She regretted her lack of expletives, but she need not have done so. The sole result, amid mumblings and grumblings, was an abortive spurt which ended in a breakdown more disastrous than any preceding. Minutes were lost while the septuagenarian got down for another cranking up, and then in the old fashion they chugged on again. At this rate it would take them more than half an hour to reach the villa, during which time anything might happen—would happen, in all probability. Still, she resolved not to risk another exhortation to speed, but to trust to luck to send another taxi in her way. She had no money to pay for this one if she abandoned it, but she reflected that she could give the old man her wrist-watch. It was a problem which need not have concerned her. Many taxis whizzed by, but not one was disengaged.
When they mounted the steeper part of the incline the unhappy engine so laboured that each revolution of the wheels threatened to be the last. Still they moved onward with a sort of grim persistence, and it occurred to Esther that if she did not go altogether mad in the interval there might just possibly be a glimmer of hope. They had passed many familiar landmarks; in a sort of fashion they were getting there. She sat on the edge of the lumpy seat, alternately praying and gibbering, her hands clenched, her head throbbing with the sharp pain born of fear.
"Oh, God," she murmured for the twentieth time, "don't let it happen, make him wait till I get there! Oh, God——"
The taxi slowed down with an ominous finality. Again the driver climbed down, fiddled about for several seconds, then with immense deliberation approached and opened the door. "What's the matter? Can't you get on? Qu'est-ce qu'il y a?" she cried, ready to shake him.
He shrugged his shoulders and blew his red nose on a huge filthy handkerchief. Then with an air of great philosophy he replied:
"Ça marche plus."
"Comment?" she screamed at him, although she had heard only too well.
"Plus d'essence," he explained briefly, spitting into a puddle. "C'est fini."
There it was concisely; she could take it or leave it. No more petrol, and still at least a mile away from the Villa Firenze. As well write "finis" to her whole desperate attempt. How she had got this far without fainting was almost a miracle; if she tried to walk the remaining distance she was quite certain to fall by the wayside. At the moment the one thing that would have brought her some slight relief would have been to slay this old man—and she had no weapon.
Slowly she got out of the mouldy cab and began automatically to unfasten the strap of her watch. At least she must pay her debts….
"Plus dessence… C'est fini…."
The words rang in her brain like a knell.
CHAPTER XXXI
"Chalmers, was that Mr. Roger who came in? I thought I heard him."
"Yes, miss, he's in his room, but I fancy he's on his way to you. He asked where you were."
Chalmers came a step farther into the room, rubbing his grey chin in an undecided fashion. There was plainly something on his mind.
"I wish, miss, we could manage to keep Mr. Roger from going about in all weathers the way he's doing. With this fever on him I'm afraid he'll come to harm. It fair frightens me to see him looking as he does and taking no care of himself."
The old lady shook her head in despair.
"I know, Chalmers; you are perfectly right—but no matter what I say it does no good. He is worried for fear something has happened to Miss Rowe, and he insists on making efforts to trace her. I'm sure I don't know what to do with him—and he really is ill."
The butler looked at the carpet and cleared his throat slightly, the action constituting a tactful but unequivocal indication that in his own opinion the search for the missing person was a complete waste of energy. Miss Clifford understood the cough, and agreed with its main contention that her nephew was not in a fit condition to be wandering about the streets.
"If you'll pardon the suggestion, miss, hoping you'll not think it's an impertinence, it strikes me the thing to do is first to get Mr. Roger into bed and then to give him a good strong sleeping draught. If he still is bent on going out to-morrow, miss, with your permission I'd take away his clothes."
"It's not a bad idea, Chalmers," replied Miss Clifford, smiling in spite of herself. "But I hope it won't be necessary. He's half promised me to give up the search after to-day—it really seems quite useless—and let us look after him properly. I'm waiting now to hear what news he has; then I shall try to persuade him to go to bed."
"Here is Mr. Roger, now, miss."
He stood aside to admit the young man, who entered with a dragging step, then after a single searching glance at the drawn and haggard face he quietly withdrew. Miss Clifford also scrutinised her nephew closely through her spectacles. He seemed to her appreciably thinner, and there was a feverish glitter in his blue eyes that filled her with alarm.
"Roger, my darling, do please undress and get into bed at once. I will come and talk to you there."
He shook his head obstinately, and sat down on the chaise-longue beside her, deeply dispirited, yet with a look of concentrated purpose.
"I'm not ready to give up," he said slowly. "Not just yet, there's too much to do. However, if it's any satisfaction to you to know, I took my temperature just now to make sure, and as I thought it was a bit lower than it was this time yesterday, I am inclined to think I'm over the worst of this."
"I don't see how you can be; you look very ill indeed," sighed his aunt. "You are only keeping about from sheer will power, and I'm afraid you'll pay for your stubbornness later on. Tell me, though," she went on, slightly lowering her voice. "Is there any news of her?"
He shook his head and drew a long discouraged breath.
"None whatever; not a word, not a sign. It is most mysterious. I've done everything I could think of. There may possibly be a pension or two I haven't discovered, but even so it's very odd that not one of the taxi-drivers in Cannes can recall taking a fare on Tuesday afternoon that answers her description. I've investigated it thoroughly."
"Don't you think the driver may have forgotten?"
"Most unlikely. It was sufficiently odd picking up an American girl in the street with her luggage, to say nothing of the broken-down car; the circumstances were unusual enough to impress themselves on a man's memory for a couple of days at any rate. I have even looked up two chauffeurs who were home ill, but it was no good."
"It is indeed most odd! Have you done anything else?"
"Yes. I've seen the police and reported her as missing."
"Oh!"—in a shocked tone—"Do you consider it as serious as that?"
"What do you think? If Esther were my sister and went off like that, leaving no trace, wouldn't you consider it serious? Here is a young girl in a strange country, without friends. If we don't take an interest in finding her, who will? All sorts of things may have happened to her, things one doesn't like to think about." He moistened his lips, continuing with difficulty. "She may have been decoyed and robbed, or—or even something much worse. It's no good shutting one's eyes to the possibility of it."
His face betrayed the serious disturbance of his thoughts. For several seconds his aunt went on with her knitting. Then laying down her work she said in a guarded tone, glancing at Lady Clifford's door:
"Of course there's one thing that would alter all that. Suppose what
Arthur Holliday told Thérèse wasn't true."
"You mean he may have invented that story of the breakdown? Yes, it's quite possible. Only in that case…"
"Don't misunderstand me, Roger," interrupted the old lady quickly. "I could never bring myself to believe anything wrong of that nice girl, I simply couldn't—that is if she were quite herself, responsible, and all that. Only I can't help wondering if you have heard what the doctor hinted to Thérèse about Miss Rowe, about his thinking that sometimes she was—was not quite——"
"Has Thérèse repeated that nonsense to you too?" he demanded angrily.
"Well, I—I admit it startled me very much. I could scarcely believe there was anything in it. I'm sure I never noticed anything the least bit odd about her, and I was amazed to hear that anyone had done so. Yet the doctor is so positive about it, although he hasn't said much. And when a man like that makes a statement, one is almost forced to believe there must be something in it. In any case it occurred to me that if his theory is true she might have left Cannes and gone away, quite forgetting for the moment that she was going to communicate with us. She may even have lost her memory, you know."
"Then if she has," declared Roger firmly, getting to his feet, "there's all the more reason for my making every effort to find her. Although, Dido, I may as well tell you I don't take very much stock in that idea of the doctor's. Oh, I've had a talk with him; he was very scientific, very convincing. He assured me there are a great many people walking about with the same complaint who regard themselves and are generally regarded as perfectly normal. He says they unconsciously invent and believe all sorts of preposterous things. He says no one could predict at what moment they might suddenly go off the handle and behave quite irrationally. No doubt what he says is entirely true, only I can't see it applying to Esther. Why, if I'd been asked to pick a thoroughly normal, well-balanced woman——"
"Yes, yes, I know. I should have said so too."
"He made a good deal out of a trifling incident that I shouldn't have bothered to repeat at all—something about dropping a basin of water. Utter nonsense, I call it. Then he said that she had taken a marked antipathy to him without any reason, and behaved queerly towards him. I'm sure I didn't notice it."
"Of course, Roger, there was one odd thing that appears to bear out his theory. You know how just as she was leaving she sent you that message? Chalmers tells me she was terribly agitated, quite beside herself. Yet before you could get downstairs…"
"I know, I know," he interrupted her, as if the subject were painful to him. "It does seem to fit in with what he says, and yet…"
He lit a cigarette thoughtfully and after a few puffs threw it away. Then, walking to the nearest window, he parted the curtains and stared out into the cloudy darkness.
"There's no use talking, Dido, I'm frightfully worried. I can't throw this thing off at all. I've got a feeling there's something not quite right, but I'm damned if I can put my finger on the trouble. If someone could have lied to her, if she has some grudge against us for any reason so that she doesn't want to see us again … oh, God knows what it is, but the whole atmosphere here has got on my nerves to such an extent that I am anxious to get away. I feel I'll get better, too, once I'm out of the house."
She nodded sympathetically, though with an eye on Thérèse's door.
"I should like to leave, too, my dear. Somehow I can't bear the house since your father's death. I'd like to go back to England, though it's a little early."
"I'll tell you. If there's no news of Esther in a couple of days, why not pack up your things and we'll move along to some other spot—Antibes, perhaps."
"But, Roger, you're not fit to travel at all. It would be madness! I couldn't permit it."
"Oh, well, let's leave La Californie and go to an hotel in Cannes. If you insisted, I'd send for a doctor—another one," he added, looking rather shamefaced.
The old lady gazed at him in frank amazement.
"My dear, you couldn't do that! Why, it would offend poor Thérèse terribly. I doubt if she'd ever get over it." She paused and lowered her voice confidentially. "Perhaps you don't realise that she is keeping Dr. Sartorius here entirely on your account."
Her nephew turned brusquely and stared at her, his brows knit with annoyance.
"Are you sure of that?" he demanded.
"Why, of course! Why else should she go on having him here? It must be a great expense. Besides, she told me so herself; she said your father would have wished you to have the very best attention."
"Best fiddlesticks!" he retorted sharply. "Good Lord, why should I have a private physician? I'm not the King. Thank heaven you told me this. I shall let her know at once that I don't intend to make use of him. She must let him go."
"My dear, do be careful!" his aunt implored him. "You know how dreadfully sensitive she is; don't risk hurting her feelings! It would be such a poor return for all her kindness."
"Leave it to me; I'll do it very tactfully. Really, it's too much! If I'm going to be ill, I must be allowed to choose my own physician and pay the bill myself. It's not that I haven't confidence in this man, but somehow I can't bear his personality."
They fell into silence, each busy with disturbing thoughts. Even Miss Clifford did not know to what an extent Roger was concerned over this matter of Esther's whereabouts. The complete uncertainty, linked as it was with the doctor's guarded implications, had strung him up to a pitch of nerve-racking apprehension. Moreover, not until this had happened did he fully realise what Esther meant to him, how differently he regarded her from any other girl he had ever known. Could it possibly be true that she was in some obscure way slightly unbalanced? If he shut out the thought from his mind, he felt himself at once faced with another equally unpleasant—that never-annihilated possibility that she had gone off with Holliday somewhere. Perhaps she was with him now, in Monte Carlo, or Nice, Paris even. Thérèse would not know, of course. Arthur would be careful to keep it from her. The mere idea of it made him writhe, while he felt his skin flush all over as though a fire flared up inside him.
The door behind him opened quietly, and Thérèse came in, dressed for dinner.
"How damp it is this evening!" she said, shivering slightly. "Chalmers must bring up some more wood for the fire. I am glad you are in, Roger; I have been so unhappy about you. Are you feeling better?"
"Yes, thank you, Thérèse, I rather think this bout isn't going to amount to much after all. It looks like a false alarm."
"Ah, that would be too marvellous! Perhaps you have a very strong—what do you call it?—constitution. Dido, darling, will you be an angel and fasten this strap for me? Aline is out on an errand."
She leant over so that her sister-in-law need not rise. Her dead-black, filmy gown had wide transparent sleeves that fell back to show her white arms, she wore no ornaments except her row of lustrous pearls. She looked fragile and lovely, her hair loosely waved with the artlessness of a child's, her grey eyes with their flecks of gold wide and clear, like the eyes of a beautiful Persian cat.
"Thérèse," Roger said abruptly. "Sit down, I want to suggest something to you."
She patted the old lady's shoulder for thanks and sat down in the blue damask bergère beside the fire, looking up at him expectantly.
"Yes, certainly; what is it?"
"Thérèse, you mustn't misunderstand what I am going to say. It's awfully difficult. The fact is, I've only just realised you are keeping Sartorius here on my account. You'll think me incredibly stupid, but I supposed he was staying on as a—a guest."
"Well?" she returned, quite tranquilly, though watching him closely, he thought.
Mechanically she put out her hand to take a cigarette from the table, keeping her eyes on his. He bent forward with a match for her, and the perfume from her hair, her skin, her dress met him in a cloying wave. Why, in spite of all, did he shrink from that scent? He couldn't explain it, it wasn't exactly unpleasant….
"Well," he replied, finding it hard to proceed, "now that I do understand, I must really beg you to get rid of him. I'm not ill enough to need any physician's undivided attention, and besides"—he hesitated, then took the plunge—"I feel I've got to get away. Since Father's funeral this house seems to get on my nerves. I'm horribly depressed. Do you know what I mean?"
Expecting to see her face cloud with the look of resentful suspicion he knew so well he was agreeably surprised when she merely smiled faintly and replied:
"My dear, of course I know! It is most natural. I too would like to get away. Why don't you go to a nursing-home for a bit?"
Both he and his aunt could hardly believe their ears. Thérèse was surely becoming much more reasonable than formerly.
"Perhaps, it depends on how I feel. It's jolly decent of you to understand. Of course it's nothing but nerves——"
"Oh, my dear, don't trouble to explain! As if I didn't know what nerves are! I don't suppose, in that case, you will want Sartorius?"
"Well, I——" He broke off, embarrassed, scarcely able to keep the amazement out of his voice.
"Because I think he wants to run down to Algiers for a little rest.
He's only staying to please me."
The matter had cleared up in the simplest fashion. Roger felt a rush of slightly ashamed gratitude towards his step-mother, feeling a little reluctantly, as he had done once before, that he had misjudged her. Confused by her kindly impulses he stooped to pick up the wisp of a handkerchief she had let fall to the floor. As he laid it in her lap she uttered a sharp little cry.
"Roger—your hand! Let me see, please. Why, it's bleeding again!
Aren't you doing anything for it?"
He allowed her to examine it, while his aunt adjusted her spectacles and moved nearer to see.
"My dear, that is bad! I'd almost forgotten it, but it isn't healing at all, it looks quite inflamed."
"It's a beastly nuisance, it keeps catching in things and tearing open again. I haven't had a bandage on it since——" He left the sentence unfinished, for it had brought up memories of Esther. "Oh, well, it's nothing serious. Still, I had better let Sartorius attend to it, I suppose—sterilise it and so forth. Don't you think? He was after me this morning about the risk I was running of getting it infected, but I wouldn't wait."
He was pleased to have thought of this; he felt it made a sort of amends to Thérèse for the blow he had dealt her—if it was a blow. He was glad to see that she looked slightly gratified, it mitigated his guilty feeling.
"It is just as well to look after that sort of thing," Miss Clifford remarked placidly. "I can't help recalling poor Smithers, one of your father's foremen, who got a scratch from a bit of wire on one of the looms and died two weeks later of blood-poisoning."
As she spoke the door to the hall opened and the doctor came in, greeting the three with his usual phlegmatic calm. His presence put an immediate pall on the conversation which Miss Clifford made an effort to lift.
"Any news?" she inquired. "I suppose you have had no word from our
Miss Rowe?"
He turned a speculative eye upon her, pausing a moment as if trying to recall who Miss Rowe could be.
"Miss Rowe!" he repeated vaguely, moving towards the fire. "No, I have heard nothing. But then I have no reason to believe she will take the trouble to communicate with me."
The slight emphasis on the final word annoyed Roger, who glanced at the doctor keenly, wondering what was in the man's methodical, unemotional mind. Was he keeping something back? Did he know more of Esther than he was willing to say? It had not occurred to him until now.
Thérèse made a sudden graceful and impulsive movement.
"Doctor—will you be good enough to look at Mr. Clifford's hand? I am sure his thumb should be attended to at once: it really is in a shocking state."
Roger held out his injured hand for inspection. Very deliberately the big man adjusted the nearest lamp so that its rays shone where he wished them, then he bent his head and frowningly examined the wound. He took so long about the matter that Miss Clifford put down her knitting to watch. Could anything be wrong? Roger himself began at last to wonder. He submitted quietly while Sartorius felt his arm at intervals exploringly up to the shoulder, but he began to feel a little impatient when the examiner took hold of his face to turn it to the light and with a tentative finger commenced to prod his jaw.
"No peculiar sensation there, I suppose?" the doctor asked as he touched the muscles just in front of the ears.
"No, certainly not."
What was the man getting at? It was exceedingly tiresome. At last the inquisition ended; the doctor straightened his tall bulk and spoke, non-committally, but with raised eyebrows.
"I must certainly disinfect it at once. That at least one can do."
This remark and the tone in which it was uttered were both so far from reassuring that Miss Clifford hastened to inquire: "Has it become infected in any way, do you think?"
"I trust not. I trust not. I fancy some dirt or grit has got into it, and no wonder; still … will there be time to see to it before dinner? It really shouldn't be left."
"Oh, it is only ten minutes past eight," replied Thérèse, glancing at the clock, "and I ordered dinner for half-past."
"Very well, I will attend to it now."
When the doctor was out of the room Roger laughed a little, examining the raw, inflamed fissure on his thumb.
"He's not the most cheery person in the world, is he? I've begun to imagine I've caught some terrible germ or other."
Thérèse smiled as she rose from her chair.
"I shouldn't worry, that is simply his way. I am sure he didn't mean to alarm you. I am just going to scribble a note before dinner, while that is being done," she added, and went into her own room, closing the door.
"That was a stroke of luck," whispered Roger. "She wasn't in the least offended, was she? She positively met me half-way."
"She really is a good sort, Roger," returned the old lady cautiously.
"I only wish we…"
She was unable to complete the sentence because of the doctor's re-entry. He approached the table near the fire and laid his leather case upon it, then carefully began to spread out various things—cotton-wool, gauze, scissors, a bottle of iodine. With mechanical precision he prepared a long strip of gauze, plodding steadily ahead, entirely concentrated on his occupation. His broad back was turned to Roger and also to the hall door. He did not even trouble to turn around when the door opened rather suddenly, and the voice of Chalmers, sounding somewhat strained, spoke.
"Beg pardon, miss, but here is Miss…"
He did not finish, for just then an apparition, startling in the extreme, pushed violently past him and into the room. It was a girl's figure, hatless, bedraggled, mudstained, her hair wild and drenched with rain, her eyes staring strangely, while one lividly pale cheek was defaced by a long smear of blood. Her breath came in gasps, laboured, terrible to hear, as though her heart threatened to burst its walls. She cast one swift, penetrating glance at the three occupants of the room, then a sort of hoarse scream came from her lips.
"Roger——!"
Almost speechless with incredulity, Roger leapt to his feet.
"Esther! You—where have you come from?"
"Roger! Roger!" came the odd, croaking voice again. "Stop him—don't let him touch you—for God's sake don't let him touch your hand!"
Utterly astonished, the sickening suspicion rushed upon him that the doctor was right. She was in the grip of some dreadful delusion. At the same moment he was poignantly aware of her slenderness and fragility, the trembling of her hands. He reached her side, put out his hand to her to find her still staring at him, wild-eyed, panting for breath.
"Don't touch that bandage, he wants to kill you. He killed your father, he and Lady Clifford between them, now he's trying to get you, too. Oh, oh! thank God I reached you in time!"
Something seemed to snap, she wavered an instant like a drunken person, then all at once crumpled into a heap on the floor, where she lay shivering and sobbing.
CHAPTER XXXII
For a full second all the onlookers merely gazed, completely dumbfounded. Miss Clifford seemed unable to make a move, the doctor stood rooted to the spot by the table, his face expressionless, his fingers holding the long strip of gauze, which fluttered in the draught from the open door. The first to stir was Roger, who knelt beside the sobbing girl, and putting his arms around her body tried to lift her a little. The startling denunciation she had given voice to had hardly registered upon his brain, meaning to him only a confirmation of the deplorable truth which Sartorius had foreseen. She was, almost without doubt, unhinged: her whole appearance and manner went to prove it. In an agony of mind Roger took in the details of her sodden clothing, her wet, tangled hair, her dreadful pallor. His imagination flashed a swift vision of the poor girl wandering alone in the streets of Cannes for two days and nights. What was this terrible idea that obsessed her? how had she come by it? He spoke to her as to a child, with extreme gentleness.
"Esther, you poor little thing, what on earth is this all about? Try to tell me where you've been since you left here."
Her eyes, which were falling shut from exhaustion, tried to open for a moment. She made an effort to speak, but could not manage it, convulsive sobs still shaking her like a storm. The doctor and Miss Clifford had now come up and were bending over her.
"Oh, oh, so he was right, after all!" the old lady murmured in deep pity and consternation. "Poor girl; what a dreadful condition! What on earth can we do for her?"
Less moved than the others Sartorius motioned to Roger with his head, at the same time putting a firm hand on Esther's trembling shoulder.
"I will attend to her, Mr. Clifford, leave her to me. I have dealt with these cases often. It is a mistake to sympathise too much; what they are playing for is sympathy. Just help me to get her to that sofa."
Right or wrong the cold-bloodedness of his attitude repelled Roger strongly. He could not believe that Esther was playing for sympathy, but before he was able to voice any objection a fresh alarm came from his half-fainting charge. As though galvanised into life by the doctor's touch, she uttered a shriek and cowered away from him.
"No! No! Not again! If he does that again I'm finished!"
The note of abject terror in the appeal struck a chill to Roger's heart. Whatever this delusion was, it had reduced Esther to a serious state. Trembling violently she clung to him, her face buried in his neck. Miss Clifford, who had hastened to arrange the cushions on the high-backed canapé that was set against the wall at the right of the room, looked on nonplussed, then after a moment approached and spoke soothingly.
"My dear, my dear, it's quite all right, the doctor won't hurt you.
There's nothing to be afraid of."
"But there is, there is!" Roger heard a low whisper between chattering teeth. "For God's sake protect me, don't let him come near me!"
Sartorius straightened up slowly and shook his head in a disparaging fashion.
"I was afraid of this," he commented coldly. "It is going to be a little difficult to deal with her, unless——"
"Leave her to me, doctor," Roger said in a low tone. "It's no good exciting her."
He picked her up and carried her to the canapé, where very gently he laid her down. Even in that disturbed moment the touch of her damp curls and the faint odour of her skin moved him strangely. She might be demented, but it was not easy for him to forget that she was Esther.
"Don't be afraid," he whispered in her ear. "I promise you he sha'n't come near you."
She sank back with a quivering sigh; only the faintest pressure of her hand on his showed him she understood. He looked about with the idea of discovering some cover to put over her, for she seemed on the verge of a chill. As he did so he discovered Thérèse standing motionless in her doorway, a silent spectator. His eyes caught hers, and the expression on her face made him stare fixedly at her. Why was she gazing in that way at him and at Esther? He felt he had caught something in her eyes which she had not meant to be seen. What was it? It looked like fear—sudden, abject fear. Why were her eyes widened in that fashion? He found himself examining her curiously….
All at once an impossible idea shot across his brain, searing it like a red-hot iron. Could there, after all, be some underlying grain of truth in that wild accusation Esther had uttered a moment ago? At least some deceptive semblance of fact in it? It was nonsense, of course, to consider such a thing, yet… The expression in the grey eyes altered completely, the look he had seen was gone. Lady Clifford came forward with an exclamation of concern.
"Mon Dieu, what is all this? How did that poor creature get here, and in such a state? Why, look—her clothes are soaking! She must have been in the rain for hours! And blood here on her face!"
The old lady whispered an explanation.
"She rushed in here a moment ago, Thérèse, you must have heard her.
She seems so queer and upset, and has been saying the wildest things!
And, isn't it odd, she refuses to allow the doctor to come near her at
all!"
"Does she? Very odd, indeed!"
With another glance at the canapé, Lady Clifford turned towards the doctor.
"What do you think one ought to do, doctor?" she inquired. "She can't stay here, naturally. Don't you think one should try to get her into some really safe place, where she could be properly looked after?"
Something a little tense and sharp in the tone riveted Roger's attention. With his arm still about Esther he turned his head and listened. He heard the heavy tones of Sartorius make answer evenly, without emotion of any kind:
"She is still raving; we must simply let her be for the moment till she quiets down. I will see what can be done. There is a mental home near Grasse where I believe they would take her; I can telephone and find out. They would keep her under observation until we can get in touch with her people."
"Oh, doctor, do you really think that will be necessary?" asked Miss
Clifford regretfully.
She had just come out of Thérèse's room bringing a rose taffeta quilt to throw over the shivering girl. Roger made an impatient sign to the others to be careful what they said, but to his relief Esther appeared not to hear. He himself was peculiarly upset by the doctor's matter-of-fact reference to the mental home, and on the spot he resolved firmly to defeat any arrangements that might be made for placing the girl where she could be kept "under observation." Yet what ought one to do? She was clearly in need of medical attention. She seemed now to be delirious, babbling incoherently, repeating in an undertone and in that strange hoarse voice fragments of words and phrases that in spite of their wildness arrested his attention. Listening closely to her he thought that all the happenings of the past two months of her life had become interwoven into the fabric of her delusion. Such words as "typhoid," "toxin," "hypodermic," "bandage," recurred again and again, then "culture"—she was back in the doctor's laboratory now, without doubt, watching his experiments. Suddenly a name caught his ear, he bent closer. What was this she was saying about Holliday? Holliday? How did he come into it? A low, frightened whisper followed; he had to strain his ears to catch it: "She wanted the money now, you know, so she could keep him with her!"
He stared at the girl searchingly. Her eyes were closed, she had the look of complete exhaustion. He could almost not believe she had spoken those significant words. Did she know what she was saying? Was it mere accident that her last sentence had sounded so astonishingly rational?
Still keeping one arm beneath her shoulders he once more looked around and took a cautious survey of the other end of the room. Thérèse was no longer to be seen; she must have slipped out, but his aunt was saying something in an anxious undertone to the doctor, who at that moment had moved nearer the fireplace. Watching narrowly Roger noticed the big man put out his hand towards the blazing logs, then saw a small scrap of something flimsy and white—it might have been paper, or perhaps a tiny piece of the medical gauze he had been using—flutter into the flames. The gesture was so negligent that in the ordinary way one would not have given it a second thought, yet now, because of Esther's unintelligible reference to a bandage, it awoke in Roger a vague uneasiness. Again the incredible suspicion crossed his mind; he caught himself wondering if just possibly there were more in this than met the eye.