Studying the white, bloodstained face lying against the blue cushion, he asked himself if Esther did really possess some terrible knowledge of which he was completely ignorant. Could her jumbled utterances be linked together into any sort of meaning? As if conscious of his unspoken question she stirred restlessly, muttering words he could not catch, then turned a little away from him on to her right side. As she did so his gaze fell upon her left coat sleeve. There was a spot near the shoulder, no bigger than a half-crown, where the material was oddly frayed and roughened. He examined it closely, then as gently as possible unfastened the coat and slipped it down from the shoulder…. What was this? The heavy crêpe-de-Chine blouse underneath, in the spot that corresponded, was punctured with tiny, round holes, a little constellation, thickly grouped. What did it mean? He laid his finger on the spot, but at the touch she recoiled from him with a shudder that shook her from head to foot.
"No, no, not again!" she cried out in her former accents of terror.
He soothed her, gripped by a sudden fear.
"Esther, darling, it's only me, Roger. I won't hurt you," he whispered softly. "Listen to me, dear. I want to know what these marks are on your arm. Try to tell me. Try to tell me where you have spent these past two days."
She opened her lips and moistened them painfully; then as he thought she was going to speak he saw her eyes fix themselves upon a spot above his shoulder, while her whole face became contorted with fright. Glancing behind him he saw that the doctor had quietly come near them again and was standing, a silent, bulky figure, at the foot of the canapé. Filled with annoyance Roger motioned to him to withdraw from the girl's sight, but already it was too late. With a tremor more violent than those preceding she buried her face in the cushion, then lay completely still, so still that Roger became seriously alarmed.
"Here, will someone fetch some brandy?" he demanded abruptly, looking around. "She's fainted. There's a bottle in the cupboard in my bathroom."
The voice of Chalmers answered quickly from the door-way, "Yes, sir,
I'll get it, sir."
Anxiously Roger fell to chafing the girl's cold hands then became unpleasantly aware that Sartorius was regarding him with a faintly sardonic expression on his sallow face.
"I suppose you have realised what those marks mean," the doctor said with a slight movement of his head towards the punctured sleeve.
"Well, what do they mean?" returned Roger aggressively.
"Simply what I ought to have guessed all along—that the unfortunate woman is the victim of a drug-habit."
He turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Roger to swallow his rage at what seemed to him an insulting suggestion. Drug-victim! Esther! What an absurdity! Besides, would anyone give herself injections through her sleeves? Preposterous! … He continued to slap the limp hands. Why did she show no sign of reviving? It seemed to him that her heart scarcely beat at all. The awful idea came to him that she might be dead from shock and weakness…. Why was Chalmers so long over getting the brandy? Becoming desperate with impatience he decided to go himself; perhaps the old man could not find the bottle.
"Dido," he said as his aunt approached with smelling-salts in her hand, "stay with her, don't leave her, do what you can. I'll not be gone a minute."
As the old lady took his place he quickly ran out and along the hall to his room. Reaching the open door he heard a curious sound which came from the lighted bathroom beyond. What was it? It seemed like strained and heavy breathing; then he caught muttered, angry words in French, an expletive that reeked of the gutter. What on earth did it mean? He strove to the door, then halted on the threshold, completely petrified. Speech deserted him, he could only stare, hardly able to credit what he saw.
Facing him, her back against the wall, was Thérèse, struggling with every ounce of strength she possessed to escape from a man who gripped her firmly by the wrists. Transformed into a tigress, her cheeks burning with passion, she writhed and pushed and panted in her efforts to free herself. Her captor's breath came hard; he was barely more than a match for her, yet he never relaxed his hold.
"Thérèse! What is the meaning of this?"
The man, whom he now saw to be old and grey-haired, turned and looked over his spare shoulder. It was Chalmers.
CHAPTER XXXIII
At sight of Roger the Frenchwoman uttered a cry and redoubled her efforts to get away.
"Roger, make him let go, the old swine, the beast, le sale chameau! I dismiss him here, now; he must leave my house. I will have him arrested for attacking me. I… Take him away, Roger, do you hear, do you see what he is doing?"
Before Roger could reply or adjust his confused impressions the old butler panted out:
"Just pick up that bottle from the floor, sir, if you don't mind, and put it in a safe place. Then I'll let her ladyship go."
Speechless from amazement, yet forcibly impressed by the old man's words and serious manner, Roger looked and discovered a bottle of Evian water standing on the tiled floor a few feet away. He picked it up and set it high on a shelf over the basin, then quickly closed the door and stood with his back against it.
"Release her ladyship, Chalmers," he ordered sternly, "and let me hear the reason of this extraordinary behaviour."
Like a steel spring unloosed Thérèse broke from the butler's grasp and hurled herself against the door.
"Let me out, let me out! Roger, I shall faint, I shall die!"
He looked at her curiously and stood firm as a rock, Chalmers mopped his brow with a handkerchief, still breathing with difficulty. Roger looked from him to Thérèse, who, half-sobbing now, threw herself again at the door, appealing to him desperately:
"I can't bear it, Roger; I can't breathe the same air with this horrible creature! Didn't you see how he had hold of me, how he——"
A glint came into Roger's eye; he held her off with one arm.
"Yes, Thérèse, I saw. Now I intend to know why he did it. Tell me the truth, Chalmers."
The old man, who was recovering his poise, coughed apologetically.
"I know how it must have looked to you, sir, but believe me I had a good reason. Perhaps you can persuade her ladyship to tell you what she was about to do with that bottle of mineral water when I came in and caught her at it."
The cry that burst from Thérèse's lips was like an angry snarl.
"Mineral water! What is the creature talking about I should like to know?"
Unmoved, the butler continued in reply to Roger's unspoken question.
"If her ladyship won't tell you sir, then I will. When I came in here to get the brandy, she had that bottle in her hand. She was just going to pour it down the bath, sir, when I managed to stop her."
"Pour it down the bath!"
"Yes, sir. You may believe it or not, sir, but I should say there was something in that water her ladyship would like get rid of."
Almost overwhelmed by the tumult of suspicion that rose within him, Roger found it hard to keep his head. Mastering himself with an effort and still holding Thérèse off with one arm he managed to ask evenly:
"What gave you this idea, Chalmers?"
"The nurse, sir," was the prompt reply. "There's something serious behind all this business, and it's my opinion the nurse knows."
Deeply shaken, Roger gazed into the old servant's eyes. What he saw convinced him that Chalmers had not spoken idly. For that matter he knew what a degree of certainty it must have required to make the man attempt such an unheard-of thing as to lay his hands on his mistress. The inference was staggering…. With a great effort he pulled himself together, remembering Esther.
"Take the brandy to Miss Clifford, Chalmers. I will stay here a moment."
He stood aside to allow the butler to pass, then shutting the door again turned resolutely to Thérèse, trying to conceal from her the quandary in which he found himself.
"I'm afraid this requires an explanation," he said to her coldly.
"Please tell me what you were going to do with that water."
She bit her lips and faced him defiantly.
"I shall not answer any question that is put in such a way," she retorted. "Let me pass; I insist on leaving this room."
"Listen to me, Thérèse. A little while ago Miss Rowe made a terrible accusation concerning you and Sartorius. I begin to think her statement has got to be investigated. I am giving you a chance now to explain matters."
"Investigated! Are you serious? Surely you saw for yourself that the girl is out of her senses?"
"In view of what Chalmers has just told me I am not entirely sure."
"Absurd! Why, the doctor said before she left that he considered her abnormal. I am sure I have no idea what mad story she has invented, but as for taking her seriously——!"
"Very well, then, tell me what you were going to do with that water.
Why were you trying to throw it away?"
As he spoke it flashed upon him that on another occasion she had been in his room. He recalled her flimsy excuse, which she had later on contradicted.
She began to laugh, cajolingly.
"Don't be ridiculous, Roger; where is your sense of humour? I wasn't trying to throw anything away, I was fetching that water for Miss Rowe. I remembered there was none in my room——"
"And why were you sure there was some here? No, Thérèse, that's not good enough. Here, we can't go into the matter now while Miss Rowe's life is in danger, but for all that the thing has got to be talked out. Listen to me: I want you to go to your room and remain there quietly until that girl is sufficiently recovered to tell me what she knows. Until then no one can decide whether it is all nonsense or not. Come, please. I insist on it."
Anger flamed in her eyes.
"I am to remain a prisoner in my own house! You are raving!"
"I am perfectly serious, Thérèse; you have brought it on yourself. Don't argue. If you refuse you will force me to communicate with … the police."
She looked at him as she had done once before, all the venom of her hate concentrated in her eyes.
"Do you know what you are saying to me?" she whispered between dry lips. "Do you realise what this means?"
"I do. I have no wish to make this affair public, any more than you have. Just as long as there remains the possibility of all this originating in Miss Rowe's imagination, I shall do nothing unless you compel me to. Come now, what I suggest is in your own interests. If there's nothing in all this, you are at liberty to bring a suit against me for libel or anything else you can think of."
After a moment's thought she bowed her head very slightly. He moved away from the door and let her precede him. As he passed through his bedroom he put his hand inside the top drawer of his dressing-table and, feeling half ashamed, slipped something he had not used since the war into his pocket…. Was the whole thing a monstrous mare's nest? Was he going to despise himself later on?
With a mind full of doubt he followed the slender black-clad figure out into the hall.
"The other door, please," he ordered, feeling uncomfortably a brute, as she was about to go through the boudoir.
With a slight shrug she walked on and entered her own bedroom, closing the door behind her. He hesitated, then opened the door again, transferred the key to the outside, and turned it in the lock. He was putting the key in his pocket, with a rather guilty feeling, when Chalmers approached him.
"I may have done wrong, sir," he whispered; "if so I am willing to suffer for it. I followed my instinct, sir, if you understand what I mean, and there wasn't much time to think."
A look passed between them.
"You needn't say any more, Chalmers, I know you would never have acted as you did without a strong reason. I take it you heard something from Miss Rowe when you let her in."
"I did, sir, and I was fair paralysed with what she told me. What's more, I could take my oath she's as sensible as you or me, let them say what they will."
The old man's habitually wooden face showed deep emotion.
"See here, Chalmers, lock the door of my room and bring me the key. We'll see that no one gets in there to tamper with that bottle, just in case there's anything wrong."
"Yes, sir, and if you'll take my advice, sir, you'll keep an eye on that doctor. I don't think we can trust him, sir."
With this parting counsel, spoken in a tone of strong conviction, the butler departed on his mission.
Although burning to know what Esther had said to Chalmers on her precipitate dash up the stairs, Roger felt his curiosity must remain unsatisfied for the present. At the moment all that mattered was her safety, already he had left her too long. He suddenly realised that he had been away at least five minutes, and assailed by fresh fears he hurried at once into the boudoir.
He entered confident of finding his aunt in charge of the situation. The next instant he cursed his folly in ever leaving the room. The old lady was not there. Instead, the clumsy figure bending over the couch and concealing its occupant from view was that of Sartorius. To his excited brain there was a sinister suggestion in the heavy body that approached so close to the girl lately terrified into unconsciousness. Roger did not stop to think. He strode forward and with a brusque movement caught hold of the man's arm and pulled him away. As he did so his nostrils detected a familiar odour and he caught sight of some object held in the doctor's hand. Was it a hypodermic syringe? A sick feeling swept over him.
"What are you doing to her?" he demanded furiously.
The doctor straightened up and for a second the two eyed each other in tense silence. Then a shadow of contempt passed over the taller man's face.
"My dear Mr. Clifford," he replied deliberately, "if you go away and leave this woman in a critical condition for a considerable length of time, you can hardly expect me not to do what I can for her. You may even admit that my knowledge of what is best is perhaps more extensive than yours."
Steadily Roger's eyes met the gaze of the doctor's little cold greyish ones.
"I don't question your superior knowledge, doctor," he replied with careful emphasis. "But I am not convinced that you were trying to revive her. How do I know"—he paused a moment, then continued slowly—"that you were not doing something to keep her unconscious?"
The suggestion amounted to a slap in the face. He watched keenly to note the result, and saw the heavy figure draw itself up to its full height, seeming at the same time to swell out. The broad face with its sloping, flattish forehead betrayed little if any change of expression.
"You overreach yourself, Mr. Clifford. Your gross insinuation compels me to go at once to Lady Clifford and inform her that I cannot remain longer under the same roof with a person who has so offensively outraged my professional dignity."
He was moving away when Roger stopped him with a gesture.
"I am afraid in the light of what has happened I must make it plain to you that you are not to hold any communication with Lady Clifford for the present. I must ask you to remain at the other end of this room until I give you leave to withdraw."
A sudden gleam shot into the dull little eyes.
"May I ask by what authority you issue orders in this house?"
"I would prefer you didn't ask," retorted Roger with an unwavering gaze, "because the only answer is an extremely direct one."
As he spoke he slipped his right hand into his pocket with a movement there was no misunderstanding.
"This is intimidation, Mr. Clifford."
"You are at liberty to give it any name you like. The point is that only by doing as I say can you avoid at the moment a legal investigation."
A second or two elapsed while the doctor looked at him silently, evidently considering the matter. Then without a word he turned and walked heavily towards the fireplace, where he seated himself in the big arm-chair. At this precise moment Miss Clifford came back into the room with a basin of water and a towel. She glanced at the distant figure of the doctor with slight surprise, then at Roger as though scenting something amiss.
"He sent me to get these," she murmured uncertainly. "Is she coming around?"
"You shouldn't have let him come near her," he returned, shaking his head. "I thought you understood."
She glanced at him in distressed astonishment. Plainly her belief in the doctor remained quite unshaken; she had as yet not the faintest conception of the suspicions in her nephew's mind.
"Did I do wrong?" she whispered. "I didn't see how it could make any difference as long as the poor girl wasn't conscious, and I began to be frightened. Her pulse is so terribly weak!"
"We must get another doctor here as quickly as possible," announced Roger with decision. "Ring for Chalmers; he will attend to it. I daren't leave the room."
However, it was unnecessary to ring. Chalmers entered at that moment and slipped a key into Roger's hand.
"I'll telephone at once, sir," he said. "There is a doctor quite close by, a French one, of course, but I dare say he will be good enough."
"Yes, Chalmers, tell him to come at once, that it is serious. If you can't get him, try another one; don't leave the telephone until you've found someone. And send one of the maids for a hot-water bottle."
With a nod of understanding the butler went quickly out.
"I'm afraid Thérèse is rather upset by all this," remarked the old lady as she gently bathed the bloodstains from Esther's pale cheek. "She can't stand much of this sort of thing."
It seemed to Roger incredible that his aunt should not suspect something was wrong, yet it was true that she remained in ignorance of what had taken place in his bathroom a few minutes ago. She was merely aware that Thérèse had retired to her room without offering to assist them. Without comment Roger renewed his efforts to resuscitate the fainting girl. Her face was ashy, her lips bluish. There was no apparent change in her condition; she continued to lie there so limp and lifeless that Roger became more and more frightened. Yet great as was his fear he dared not call in the services of the man by the fire. Aware of his aunt's mystification and disapproval, he still considered the doctor the more serious of two dangers.
"It is the strangest case I have ever known," murmured old Miss Clifford in perplexity. "What do you suppose is the reason for her turning against the doctor so suddenly? Why, I thought they were on the best of terms? And where do you suppose she has been? Did you notice all this mud down the side of her clothes? And no hat, nor bag—so she must be without money."
He nodded gravely, watching eagerly for the least sign of returning consciousness. He could not tell whether Sartorius had administered a piqûre of some kind to her or not, and the uncertainty filled him with apprehension. He could not rid his mind of Esther's stricken cry, "If he does that again I'm finished!" What was it she meant? Was it possible that those red dots on her arm furnished the answer? She might have been out of her senses when she said that, of course. If what the doctor averred was the case, then it was part of her delusion to believe he was trying to injure her. How could one know the truth? She might die now, so easily; then one could never find out.
She might die——! The fear of this tortured him. The solution of the mystery, even the question of whether his father's death had been due to natural causes or not sank into comparative insignificance beside that terrifying possibility. Nothing could undo what was done, nothing could bring his father back—but here was this girl whom he loved apparently about to slip over the border-line before his eyes and he could do nothing to save her. The thought drove him distracted.
A maid brought the hot-water bottle: they put it near Esther's feet, which were icy to the touch, even through her thin stockings. They loosened her clothing, although there was not much to be done in that line, her slender body being innocent of stays. Presently Miss Clifford raised an anxious face.
"Don't you think we'd better get him to do something after all?" she whispered nervously. "I'm rather frightened!"
He frowned and shook his head, at the same time realising how strange his refusal must strike her. Before he could frame a reasonable reply Chalmers returned to inform him that he had found a doctor, who would be with them in a few minutes.
"Thank God! Dido, we'll wait for him."
"Very well, my dear, if you think it's safe."
She glanced doubtfully at the inert form under the pink coverlet.
"I know what you're thinking," he said softly, putting his hand on her shoulder, "but I believe I am acting for the best. You must simply take my word for it."
Purposely disregarding her puzzled glance he consulted his watch, then looked towards the figure seated in the armchair by the fire. Sartorius, perfectly self-contained, was making entries in a notebook, apparently little concerned with what went on behind him. A certain scornful touch about his absolute sang-froid unnerved Roger somewhat. It made him feel that perhaps he was acting the fool, jumping at false conclusions. Was Esther's dread of this man purely the creation of a disordered brain?
"Pardon, mademoiselle!"
A woman's voice in the doorway back of him made him start suddenly to find Thérèse's maid, Aline, eyeing them with a slightly hostile curiosity.
"La porte de Madame est fermée à clef. Je demande pardon se je dérange Mademoiselle et Monsieur!"
With a deprecatory manner that was irritatingly exaggerated she crossed the room on tip-toe, bestowing a single searching glance on the sofa and its occupant. Roger wondered how much she had heard in the kitchen. He was sure Chalmers would give nothing important away to the other servants.
"I wonder why Thérèse has locked her door?" Miss Clifford remarked wonderingly when Aline had disappeared into her mistress's bedroom. "She doesn't usually…. Listen, Roger, was that a car outside?"
Two minutes later Chalmers, with an air of relief, announced:
"Dr. Bousquet, sir."
CHAPTER XXXIV
"Bonsoir, Madame! Bonsoir, Monsieur! I hope I have not kept you long. I came as quickly as I could. This is the patient, I suppose?"
He spoke in excellent English, and had a brisk and businesslike air. He was a small and dapper man with ginger hair cut en brosse, and red-brown eyes behind thick glasses. Setting down his bag on a chair, he cast a professional glance at the prostrate figure under the pink quilt, then running his eyes over the room he discovered Dr. Sartorius. At once a look of puzzled recognition, tinged with deference, came over his sharp little face. He bowed stiffly.
"Ah, doctor, how do you do?" he greeted his colleague in a slightly diffident tone. "Am I to understand that … may I ask if I am intruding, or…" and he broke off, obviously uncertain as to the position of things.
Sartorius rose and stood stolidly beside his chair.
"Not at all, doctor," he replied coolly. "Mr. Clifford will no doubt explain why you were sent for. There appears to be a good reason."
Expectantly the little man turned to Roger, who, seeing the necessity of some explanation to satisfy him on a point of professional etiquette, said quietly:
"This lady, doctor, is a nurse who has been employed in our family until my father's death a few days ago. After the funeral she left the house, then this evening she returned suddenly in a very strange and excited state. A few minutes after she entered the room here she became unconscious. The reason Dr. Sartorius does not attempt to do anything for her is that when he did try she became much worse. It seems that she has taken a marked antipathy to him, we don't know why."
The Frenchman raised his bushy red brows.
"Ah, ah?" he commented. "May I inquire if you had any knowledge of this antipathy before she went away?"
"I had," replied Sartorius heavily. "I mentioned the fact to Lady Clifford. I had begun to suspect at the last that she might be suffering from some rather obscure mental derangement."
"I see, I see! I daresay you have come to no conclusion as to her present state, doctor?"
"I have not had an adequate opportunity of judging."
"Yes, yes, I quite understand the difficulty you were placed in. Very annoying, very annoying! With your permission, then, I will try to see what it is all about."
During this polite interchange Roger had difficulty in restraining his impatience. It seemed possible that Esther might perish while these two medical men discussed the situation. He watched tensely while the little doctor got out various instruments and bottles, changed his thick pince-nez for a pair of spectacles with tortoiseshell rims exactly matching his eyebrows, and finally proceeded with a maddening deliberation to study the patient, listening at her heart, feeling her pulse, turning back her eyelids. At last he raised a grave face.
"How long has this condition lasted?" he asked, frowning.
"About twenty minutes, I should say."
The Frenchman pursed his lips and shook his head slightly as he proceeded with the examination. Roger grew more and more alarmed. Thinking to facilitate matters, he pointed out the holes in the coat-sleeve.
"What do you make of those, doctor?" he demanded.
The bristling brows rose in astonishment.
"Ah, ah?" their owner exclaimed, sliding the two sleeves deftly off the shoulder and scrutinising the red dots on the skin, round which a bruise was beginning to form. "Tiens, tiens, this begins to be more clear. Doctor," he said, turning to Sartorius, "had you any suspicion that this young woman was addicted to the use of a drug?"
Roger glanced searchingly at the man by the fireplace. The sallow face showed no alteration whatever.
"I admit I did not come to that conclusion during the time she was here," the doctor made answer, "but her conduct at times might have suggested it. Those marks enlightened me."
In spite of his resolution to restrain himself, Roger took a step forward angrily.
"Do you mean to insinuate that she gave herself those injections—through both sleeves?" he burst out.
Sartorius turned slightly away without replying. Dr. Bousquet shrugged his shoulders and removing his spectacles wiped them carefully on a purple silk handkerchief.
"It would be unusual, monsieur, certainly, but not impossible. There is no accounting for the vagaries of these victims. Whatever the case, she is under the influence o£ morphia now. It appears to be morphia," he added cautiously.
"Then if she is," declared Roger, losing all control, "that man over there is responsible for it. He gave her the last of those injections not a quarter of an hour ago."
There is no describing the effect of this bombshell. There was shocked silence, during which both Miss Clifford and the little doctor regarded the speaker with a mixture of embarrassment and incredulous concern.
"Roger! My dear! Do you know what you are saying?" the old lady whispered in pained remonstrance.
Chagrined that he had committed himself so incautiously, Roger turned and stared down at Esther, biting his lip. Plainly this was not the time for straightforward speech. Besides, he caught a glance of sympathy mingled with scorn for himself exchanged between the two physicians.
"Never mind how she got any of the injections," he amended hastily, addressing Bousquet in a low voice; "all that concerns us now is how to save her. It was unwise of me to speak as I did."
The doctor's silence and a touch of asperity in his manner conveyed a definite reproof. Shaking his head dubiously, he put his spectacles into their case and blew his nose on the purple handkerchief.
"Well, Mr. Clifford," he said at last, "the best thing we can do at the moment is to get this young person undressed and into a bed. I can then ascertain if there are other hypodermic needle marks on her, and perhaps come to one or two other decisions about which I am doubtful. Can this be arranged?"
"Certainly. I will give orders at once to have a room got ready for her."
He rang the bell, then, returning, put a direct question to the
Frenchman.
"Tell me, doctor, do you consider her in danger?"
The little man glanced towards the inert figure doubtfully.
"It is difficult, extremely difficult, to say anything with certainty until the effect of the drug has worn off. She appears to be suffering from severe nervous exhaustion as well as from morphia, which complicates matters. It also seems likely that she has gone without food for some time. Her vitality is very low, very low indeed—although I cannot say there appears to be anything organically wrong with her heart."
Again Roger visualised the dreadful picture of the girl wandering, out of her head, through the streets. It fitted in so aptly with this suggestion of her being without food and in an exhausted state. It was with an effort that he thrust aside the morbid idea to speak to Chalmers.
"Miss Rowe's room is ready for her, sir," the butler replied quietly. "I took the liberty of having it done, sir, thinking you'd want to put her to bed. Shall I lend a hand to carry her in, sir?"
It was an easy matter to transfer Esther from the couch to her former quarters. Roger remained in the hall within reach of the boudoir, and spoke once more to Dr. Bousquet before returning to resume his self-constituted guard of Sartorius.
"I think I ought to tell you, doctor, that before she became unconscious she made a very startling statement. We cannot tell whether there is any truth in what she said or not—but I may say that a great deal depends on the establishment of her sanity. I suppose you have no way of telling——?"
A pleasantly contemptuous smile hovered in the red-brown eyes behind the thick glasses.
"Monsieur, persons who form the morphia habit become, as you are aware, notoriously untruthful. They invent extraordinary stories, make incredible—and often convincing—accusations. I do not of course know anything about this young woman, but——" And he left the sentence unfinished.
It was a diplomatic way of damning in advance any evidence Esther might give. The man, on his own statement, knew nothing, had no prejudice for or against. He was merely voicing a medical fact.
With a mind torn by fresh doubts Roger walked slowly back into the boudoir. He could not help beginning to be afraid that he was acting foolishly. The high-handed manner in which he had dealt with his stepmother and Sartorius might yet land him in most unpleasant difficulties. Obviously he had no right to restrain their movements, and the fact that he had actually threatened Sartorius was sufficient to bring down punishment upon him. Still, he knew in his heart that if he had the thing to do over again he would behave in much the same way. Certainly he felt sure that whether they were malefactors or completely innocent, both Thérèse and the doctor had acted in a manner to arouse suspicion.
As he entered the room, from the opposite door Aline approached him. Her black gimlet eyes surveyed him with a baleful glare as with a distinct touch of irony she inquired if it were permitted that she should bring Madame something to eat.
"Naturally; bring Madame whatever she requires," he replied indifferently.
With a toss of the head she departed, hostility in every inch of her stiff body.
Finding it a disagreeable matter to remain in the same room with the phlegmatic figure still seated in the bergère by the fire, Roger crossed to one of the French windows, and opening the casement stepped outside on the narrow balcony. There was a misty drizzle of rain which cooled his burning face, the air was mild enough, but saturated with moisture. The leaves of the trees glistened with heavy drops. Along the balcony to the right showed the light from Thérèse's room in a bar across the wet stone. Her curtains had not been drawn, and for a few seconds he could see her silhouette framed in the window…. What was she thinking? what was going on in that brain, which he now felt he had never understood? Was it possible she was guilty of the cold-blooded act Esther had accused her of? His mind could not yet take in the enormity of it, the thought was too staggering. It scarcely seemed credible that so ethereal, so delicate an exterior could hide the consciousness of crime. It was far easier to believe there was some hideous mistake about it all, that Esther, if not deranged, had been misled by appearances…. What appearances? What could have given her this idea? He resolved to question Chalmers at once, to find out what he knew. Esther had certainly told the old man something which had profoundly impressed him, that much was evident.
He found Chalmers in the hall, on his way downstairs. Motioning him to approach, Roger spoke to him in a voice cautiously subdued.
"Let me hear, Chalmers, exactly what Miss Rowe said to you when you let her in. What did you think of her—how did she strike you?"
"You saw for yourself what she looked like, sir," replied the old man quietly, yet with an undercurrent of excitement that was not lost on Roger. "I almost took her for a ghost. She fell into the hall when I opened the door, hardly able to stand, she was, sir. I put out my hand to steady her. 'Lord, miss,' I said, 'where have you come from?' I said. She gave me a sort of wild look, sir, then she says, half-choking like, 'Chalmers, where's Mr. Roger? Has the doctor bandaged his hand yet?'"
"Did she ask you that straight off?" demanded Roger, frowning in deep thought.
"Yes, sir, she did. I believed as you did that she was quite off her head. I told her you were in this room with Miss Clifford, and that I thought the doctor was with you, though I wasn't sure. She went as white as a sheet, sir; I was afraid she was going to drop down, but she didn't. She took another sort of spurt, as you may say, and was up those steps so fast she left me behind. I heard her say, 'He's trying to kill him; he's going to give him lock-jaw, and everybody'll believe it's an accident.'"
"Lock-jaw!"
Complete bewilderment was in Roger's face as he repeated the word in a whisper.
"Yes, sir, I was as astonished as you. It seemed as though she must be raving, but then when she said…"
He was interrupted by a sudden peal at the doorbell, loud and long, supplemented by violent blows of the brass knocker. Both men jumped at the sound, then exchanged glances of puzzled apprehension. Who at this particular moment was in such a hurry to enter?
"Beg pardon, sir, I'd better see who that is, I expect."
"Yes, yes, Chalmers, you can finish telling me afterwards."
Revolving in his mind the astounding information he had just received, Roger reëntered the sitting-room. The ghastly audacity of the idea that Sartorius had a moment ago been on the very point of introducing the germs of lock-jaw—tetanus to give it its proper name—into the wound on his hand seemed on the face of it beyond the bounds of possibility. Why, what man would dare to do such a thing? The risk of it! … Yet was there so great a risk? Hadn't the doctor repeatedly warned him of the danger he was running? Why, if there was nothing in it, did he examine him so carefully just now, paying special attention to his face and jaw? It had certainly given the impression that he suspected the beginning of certain tell-tale symptoms. Had he done it in order that later the eye-witnesses could recall every detail and make it appear like a purely accidental seizure? Then that bit of white something which Sartorius had dropped into the fire. It might have been of no importance, yet again…
He looked curiously at the ragged cut on his thumb and barely repressed a shudder. If such a thing was true, by what a narrow margin had he escaped a horrible death…. Across the room the object of his suspicions continued to sit calmly figuring in a notebook, never glancing around. His attitude was a declaration of the fact that the young man behind him was an excitable firebrand, whose behaviour was scarcely worth troubling about. Let him alone, he will come to his senses, that broad, imperturbable back seemed to say….
Suddenly a revulsion swept over Roger. He felt a bit of an ass. Of course there could be no truth in this mad story, such things didn't happen. Though of course if it was entirely fiction, it put Esther in a queer light, however you looked at it. Either it was the result of those "confusional attacks" the doctor had hinted at, or she was, as both doctors now implied, a victim of morphia-mania…. Unthinkable! Esther!
What was this noise outside the door? Confused voices reached him speaking in French, together with the heavy tread of several men, who apparently were tramping up the stairs. The following instant Chalmers threw open the door, his face a study.
"The police, sir," he announced.
Roger sprang to his feet.
CHAPTER XXXV
"The police!"
"Yes, sir, three officers. They say someone telephoned for them, but I can't for the life of me say who it could have been, sir. Who would want to?"
In blank astonishment Roger stared as three men in uniform filed into the room and stood at attention. Two wore the regulation dress of sergents-de-ville, the third was clearly of superior rank. He was an aggressive, youngish fellow with a sharp, sallow face and a black, bristly moustache, cut very short. He began by eyeing Roger all over with a sort of dark suspicion, then addressed him in French.
"I take it that you are Monsieur Clifford?" he interrogated accusingly, keeping his smouldering black eyes fixed on Roger's face, while with his right hand he brought a notebook out of his pocket.
"Certainly my name is Clifford, but perhaps you will be good enough to inform me why you——"
"That can wait. You are English, monsieur?"
"Naturally. And I refuse to answer another question until you tell me how in thunder you come to be here," replied Roger, rapidly losing his temper.
"English, British subject," muttered the officer, writing busily with a stump of a pencil and ignoring utterly Roger's statement. "Occupation, monsieur?"
"Who sent for you to come here?" demanded Roger, more and more irate.
The question had an unexpected reply.
"C'était moi, messieurs, qui viens de vous téléphoner. Moi je suis Lady Clifford."
The voice, metallic and defiant, rang out from the door leading into the right-hand bedroom. The officer stared in surprise, while Roger wheeled with a brusque movement of incredulity to behold Thérèse facing them.
"You telephoned them?" he repeated, hardly able to believe his ears.
"Certainly. I simply reported the fact to police headquarters that I am being kept a prisoner in my bedroom."
She eyed him squarely, the yellow flecks in her grey irises plainly apparent. For two seconds she flashed him a challenge, while he regarded her steadily in complete silence. Then with a sudden softer air and a little gesture of appeal, she turned to the officer in charge and spoke rapidly in French.
"This is the gentleman, monsieur, my stepson, Mr. Roger Clifford."
"Your stepson, madame?" reiterated the man in a shocked tone.
"Yes, monsieur, the son of my late husband, Sir Charles Clifford, who has been dead less than a week."
There was a slight tremor in her voice, and, Roger could almost have sworn, tears in her eyes. The officers averted their eyes decorously, while Roger gazed at her with aloof impersonality, simply curious. He watched her score her point and wondered just how far she intended to pursue the advantage. What was her plan? Was she, after all, technically innocent, able to prove the fact? Or was this a bold stratagem, to throw dust in his eyes? He was totally unable to choose between the two diametrically opposed theories.
The officer in charge shot a black glance at him and made ready to write further particulars.
"Pray proceed, madame. Will you kindly inform me as to the exact nature of this gentleman's conduct towards yourself."
"Monsieur, it is simply what I told you on the telephone. My stepson, who is a guest in my house, had the audacity to force me, under threats, to enter my room, after which he turned the key on me."
The man looked nonplussed, but intensely respectful.
"But, madame, permit me to suggest that you do not appear to be a prisoner."
"I will explain, monsieur. He did not lock that door there, it was not necessary, since he has never left the room. He has, in, fact, been on guard here. But the outer door, leading to the hall, is fastened, as you will see if you care to look."
At a sign from the superior officer one of the sergents-de-ville stepped into the hall and quickly returned to confirm Lady Clifford's statement. The chief representative of the police then drew a long breath and spoke to Roger in a threatening voice.
"Monsieur, you have heard Madame's statement to the effect that you, a guest in her house, forced her to remain in her bedroom by locking the door and removing the key. Do you deny this?"
"Not at all, it is perfectly true."
The reply was so cool that the interlocutor's self-possession wavered for an instant.
"Ah, indeed, then, monsieur, you make no attempt to contradict Madame's accusation?" inquired the man importantly the repetition giving him time to arrange his thoughts.
"It is true as far as it goes," Roger replied coldly. "If you wish to know the whole of the matter I must refer you to Madame."
There was an uncomfortable pause while the officer bit the end of his stubby pencil, evidently uncertain how best to proceed. Twice he glanced at Lady Clifford, and once he opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. Suddenly, with an impulsive gesture, Thérèse turned directly to Roger.
"How can you say such a thing, Roger?" she inquired with an air of frankness and mild reproach. "I know only too well that in your heart you have always disliked me, have always been jealous of any little influence I may have had with your father, but how can you stand there and suggest that I can tell this gentleman why you behaved as you did when I don't know the reason?"
The stroke told; moreover, the absolute candour with its hint of lurking tears enhanced the strong appeal which her beauty had already exerted over the three limbs of the law. Not wishing to disclose anything more than was necessary Roger remained stonily silent, letting the officers think what they pleased. He felt the triumph in Thérèse's voice when she spoke again.
"You see, monsieur, Mr. Clifford does not care to reply. I leave you to draw your own conclusions. For me it is quite evident that he is unwilling to reveal his reasons for subjecting me to this treatment."
The man with the black moustache shifted from one foot to the other. From his expression it became apparent that he was growing ill at ease, scenting the presence, perhaps, of some purely domestic difference which lay outside his province. As he hesitated his roving eye caught sight of Sartorius, who had risen unobtrusively and was regarding the scene with dispassionate interest.
"May I be permitted to inquire, madame, who this gentleman is?"
"But certainly, monsieur. This is Dr. Gregory Sartorius, who for some weeks has been my husband's private physician. He is still staying here, as a favour to me, in order to be of service to my stepson, who has not been well."
The officer bowed, plainly as much impressed by the lady's generosity to her ungrateful relative as by the magnificence of having a private physician in attendance. He cleared his throat and turned again to Roger with a resumption of his truculent manner.
"Monsieur, the reasons for your inexcusable action have no interest for me. The point is that the law does not allow you to restrict the liberty of this lady in any way whatsoever. If you even attempt to do so, you will find yourself in serious trouble. Are you, or are you not, prepared to hand over the key to Madame's door?"
Without hesitation Roger put his hand in his pocket and took out the key.
"Here it is," he said simply, and held it out to the astonished officer, who shot him a puzzled and suspicious glance from under his black brows.
"Furthermore, monsieur, I warn you in the presence of witnesses that if you make a second attempt to molest Madame, I shall be compelled to give you in charge."
Roger offered no comment. The dark man looked from one to the other around the room, and although he had delivered his ultimatum in a hectoring tone, it was plain that he found himself dissatisfied with the situation. Perhaps he was uncertain whether or not the whole thing was a hoax and himself the butt of a joke, to be laughed at later for treating the affair in a melodramatic way. The faces before him told him nothing. At last he cleared his throat again with finality, and bowing to Lady Clifford with something approaching a flourish, extended the key to her.
"Voilà, madame!" he announced triumphantly. "I think there is nothing more that can be done at the moment." He moved closer to her and, speaking in a confidential tone added, "I fear it is impossible for me to arrest this gentleman, as he has withdrawn from his offensive position. All it is in my power to do is to warn him not to repeat the insult. I rely upon you, madame, to keep me informed in case of further trouble."
Thérèse smiled with a clear-eyed serenity which enslaved the posse to a man.
"Thanks to you, monsieur, I do not anticipate any further trouble," she replied with a glance from under her lashes. "Only this was the sort of thing I felt I could not deal with alone."
"Naturally not, madame," rejoined the officer, flattered but embarrassed. "While I am entirely in the dark as to the motives underlying this gentleman's conduct, I can safely promise that the law of France will protect you from him."
With another fierce glance in Roger's direction, he turned to go, making a sign to the sergent-de-ville.
"One moment, messieurs! It would give me pleasure to have you partake of some refreshment before you leave. Aline!" she called, and the maid appeared instantly from the open door behind. "Aline, show these officers to the dining-room and ask them to have a glass of port."
"Madame is most kind! With Madame's permission we will drink Madame's health!"
She flashed a gracious smile at the three who departed, led by Aline. Roger watched them go, conscious that Thérèse was regarding him out of the corners of her eyes. A moment later he felt rather than saw her withdraw, with a sort of elaborate nonchalance, to her own room once more.
As on former occasions Roger was revolted by what he considered her innate vulgarity, but this time he was puzzled as well, unable to decide whether it covered innocence or guilt. Quite possibly he was doing her the grossest injustice. In any case he now knew that he had acted foolishly in trying to restrain her movement. He had been moved by an impulse and regretted it. Until he had more trustworthy information he could do nothing whatever, take no step against either her or the doctor. It was lucky for him, indeed, that the latter had not seen fit to inform the police of the threat used against him. The fat would have been in the fire then and no mistake. Why had the fellow kept quiet? It argued against him, although perhaps he considered that even an unsubstantiated charge would do no good to a professional man…. Thérèse, too, had carefully avoided giving any details of the affair, for which he was heartily thankful. For a moment he had been paralysed by the dread lest the whole business concerning Esther should be dragged into the open. It was not a matter for the public yet, and might never be.
More and more did it become difficult to know what course to pursue. Yet some bulldog instinct within him made him unwilling to relinquish his watch over the two people concerned.
Two things he was determined Thérèse should not do. One was to find her way into his bedroom, the other to hold any communication with Sartorius. This in mind, he lit a cigarette with at least an outward show of calmness, and took his seat near the door. From here he could see what went on in the hall, in case Thérèse should attempt to come outside, and at the same time keep a quiet eye on the phlegmatic figure of the doctor.
A dozen small incidents, hitherto scarcely noticed, recurred to him. Moreover the disjointed words uttered by Esther as she had lain with her head on his arm now linked themselves together to form a coherent meaning. Could it be possible that what both doctors suggested had any foundation in fact? It seemed unthinkable. His whole association with the girl rose before him to assert her unimpeachable normality. And yet there was proof that Sartorius, a physician of standing, had cast doubts upon her sanity long before her attack upon him. The condition he had attributed to her could so easily account for her dramatic reappearance and her invention of a mad story of crime and persecution, as easily as it could explain the morphia injections, self-inflicted. His aunt had no doubt that the doctor was right in his belief; no one had any doubt except himself—and Chalmers. In his own case his opinion might be influenced by his love for the girl—for it was love, there was no question in his mind now.
He heard the representatives of the police take their leave, with voluble expressions of gratitude for the hospitality of the house. A few minutes afterwards Chalmers came up to bring him some food and a whisky and soda.
"No good starving yourself, sir," he whispered, setting down the tray on a small table. "It won't help us to find out what we want to know. Shall I bring him something too, or shall I let him have it in the dining-room?"
Roger signified the latter, and the butler approached Sartorius with a confidential air and formally announced that dinner was served. It was all rather absurd, Roger thought. With a nod the doctor rose and lumbered from the room. It was now after half past nine.
Left alone Roger found himself too disturbed to eat more than a few mouthfuls. To his relief Chalmers returned almost at once.
"I've left Marie to look after him, sir," he said in a guarded tone, "thinking you'd be wanting to hear the rest of what I was telling you when we were interrupted. I know what happened with the police, sir, for I took the liberty of remaining in the hall while they were here."
"What do you think of it all, Chalmers?"
The old man narrowed his lips into a cautious line.
"Well, sir, her ladyship may be as innocent as the babe unborn, in which case I've a deal to answer for. But I believe, sir, that her sending for the police was just a part of her game—to pull the wool over our eyes, sir."
Roger shook his head slowly and drank his whisky before replying.
"I don't know, Chalmers, I'm completely at sea. Go on, though, let me hear all that Miss Rowe said to you."
"Well, sir, it was very little, but I caught something about a plot she'd got wind of, a plan between her ladyship and the doctor to kill Sir Charles by giving him typhoid fever, and you too, sir. She said something about germs, and—mind this, sir—Evian water. That's what made me act as I did, sir, in regard to her ladyship. There was no mistake about it; she was just going to pour that water away, sir, when it came over me what she was up to, and quick as a flash I grabbed her arm and wrenched the bottle out of her hands. If I were to go to prison for it, sir, I'd still swear I did right."
Roger nodded slowly, his face hardening.
"If this should be true, Chalmers, and not, as they want us to believe, a fabrication of Miss Rowe's brain, then——"
He broke off and for a second his eyes met those of the old servant.
Then the latter bent forward and finished the sentence for him.
"Then it's murder, sir, no other name for it. Those two killed Sir
Charles just as surely as if they'd put a bullet into him, and they
meant to get you, sir, one way or another. I'd take my oath on it.
It's my opinion the nurse got here just in time to save you."
"And yet, Chalmers, it's quite possible that business of the mineral water has some other, simple explanation. One must admit the possibility."
"Very good, sir, there's those who can examine into that bottle and say if there's anything amiss with it. I consider that bottle as evidence, sir, and I'm glad we've got it safely under lock and key."
"Yes, we can have it analysed. Perhaps I ought to have handed it over to the police…. I didn't do it because while the thing's in doubt one can't bring a horrible accusation, particularly against a member of one's family. My father's own wife——!"
The butler nodded understandingly.
"I suppose I'll have to be leaving here in the morning, sir: I sha'n't be wanted after what has happened. But I don't like leaving you alone to handle things, sir."
"We'll all go too, Chalmers, my aunt and I and Miss Rowe, if she's fit to be moved. You will come with us to an hotel for the present. I'm not going to bed at all to-night, I'm going to keep watch over Miss Rowe. If her story is true, Sartorius may try to get at her again; she mustn't be left."
"I shall keep about, too, sir, to know what goes on in this house."
"Right, Chalmers, it's a good idea. By the way, we'll keep as much as we can from my aunt, there's no good alarming her. I'll go now and inquire about Miss Rowe."
"Je demands pardon, monsieur!"
He jumped as the sardonic voice of Aline sounded in his ear, and the woman, with a covert glance of mock-servility, hurried past him with the empty tray. There were both malice and triumph in her bearing. Whether she knew anything or not—and it seemed impossible that she could surmise their suspicions—her manner conveyed unmistakably that she knew her mistress had scored a victory. A sudden misgiving swept over Roger. Supposing the hideous affair to be true, was it not extremely doubtful that they would ever be able to prove it? Might they not go on to the end of their days not knowing?
He crossed the hall and went along the passage to Esther's room. As he gently opened the door an odour of drugs or disinfectants met his nostrils, giving him a sinking feeling he had often experienced as a small boy on entering a dentist's room.
The little doctor was bending over the bed. From the other side Miss Clifford raised a white and tired face. Roger felt suddenly oppressed by fear. What were they going to tell him? He motioned to his aunt, who came towards him and answered the question he was afraid to utter.
"The doctor hasn't been able to bring her around, Roger, though he's done all he can. It's nearly an hour and a half, now, and she is still unconscious."
CHAPTER XXXVI
It was nearly midnight when Dr. Bousquet at last took his departure. An hour before that time Esther became conscious, but was so utterly weak he would not allow her to speak or make the smallest effort of any kind. She made no comment on finding herself back in her old quarters, and after a short interval drifted back into a natural sleep. The watchers felt a degree of relief.
"I think I may safely leave her now, monsieur," said the doctor, drawing on his gloves. "I will come again in the morning about ten o'clock, and if any complication should arise in the meantime, you will of course telephone me. She is suffering now from shock, it seems, combined with the after-effects of morphia. Later when she is less exhausted she may be intensely nervous. One must see that she is kept absolutely quiet, with nothing to agitate her. A fresh shock might do great harm."
Roger glanced at the grey-white face on the pillow. It was thin and drawn; it was hard to understand how it could have altered so much in these few days' time. What had happened to her to give her that pinched look? The shadows under the closed eyes were deep violet.
"Tell me, doctor," he whispered. "Have you been able to come to any conclusion on the subject of her mental condition?"
He brought out the last words with a painful hesitation.
"I am not an alienist, at least not an expert," replied the little man cautiously, elevating the reddish tufts of his brows. "Of course I have a general knowledge. During the short interval when she was conscious she did not appear to be other than normal, but that, I fear, is not conclusive evidence. One would have to study her. If, as Dr. Sartorius suggests, she may be suffering from confusional attacks, she would part of the time be so completely sane that one would suspect nothing wrong. Subjects of that kind often live a sort of double life. They are apt to invent romantic or mysterious histories about themselves, intrigues in which they figure, often as a persecuted victim. They make these tales so extremely convincing that they frequently succeed in imposing their belief on other people."
"You mean there would be nothing about her to make one know she was not normal mentally?"
"Quite so, unless one happened to possess proof that her stories were untrue."
Roger's heart sank. Horrible as it was to contemplate the thought of the crime committed in their midst, it was to him infinitely worse to think of Esther as mentally unbalanced.
"Have you noticed anything yourself which you would regard as a suspicious symptom, doctor?" he inquired with difficulty.
"Only her violent antipathy to Dr. Sartorius. I should consider that rather a bad sign. It is the sort of thing these subjects are prone to, monsieur," and the little man shook his head disparagingly.
Roger risked one more question, dreading the answer.
"How can we find out about her? You say she will have to be studied?"
"Very probably, monsieur. There are certain tests. I should suggest that if the young woman is someone in whom you are particularly interested"—he gave a tactful cough which Roger understood well—"the best thing you can do is to place her for a few weeks in a quiet sanatorium. There is one near Grasse; either Dr. Sartorius or I could arrange it, for you."
"I see, doctor. Well, we will think about it."
He watched the little man depart, grimly resolved never to let Esther be placed in a sanatorium, no matter what happened. Sartorius himself had mentioned the quiet place near Grasse. That fact alone was enough to decide him against it. He was alone now with Esther. A few minutes before he had persuaded his aunt to go to her room and try to sleep. She had demurred at first, but he had firmly led her to her door.
"I'll go if you insist," she gave in at last. "But you're so far from well yourself, it will be a great strain on you to sit up all night."
"Nonsense; this business has made me forget all about myself. If you insist on sharing watches, I will call you early in the morning."
She nodded reluctantly, then looked at him with a troubled brow.
"Roger, where in heaven's name do you suppose that poor girl has been these past two days?"
He shook his head slowly.
"If we knew that, Dido, we'd have the key to the whole damned mystery," he said.
Sinking down wearily in the chair beside the bed he painstakingly attempted to organise a plan of action. It was a difficult business when he had so little he could definitely go on. His efforts brought meagre results; moreover he felt confused, curiously fatigued in mind and body. In the dim light of the shaded lamp the figures on the Toile de Jouy danced incessantly before his eyes with an eerie effect; he felt himself enveloped in a phantasmagoria of which it was impossible to tell substance from shadow. Every few seconds his eyes kept gravitating back to the pale, fragile face of Esther, which was troubled even in sleep, the brow furrowed slightly, the muscles about the mouth twitching from time to time. Whatever the cause of her present state, he felt gravely apprehensive for her, afraid that she might be in for a serious nervous illness. Perhaps what she wished to tell him might be buried in oblivion for months, if indeed it ever came to light. It even occurred to him that she might wake up completely ignorant of everything that had preceded her collapse. In that case what should he do? how should he behave? He knew he could never rid his mind entirely of the suspicion she had planted there, yet how to prove it?
The door opened quietly, and Chalmers came in, bringing him a cup of coffee.
"The doctor's gone to his room, now, sir, otherwise I wouldn't be here.
I've stuck about the hall and stairs the whole time, sir."
"What about her ladyship?"
"She's never tried to leave her room, sir. I've heard her trying to get on to someone on the telephone, it seems as though she's been at it for hours, but I fancy she hasn't got through."
"Has she had any chance of speaking with the doctor?"
"She has not, sir, at least not without my knowing, and I daresay she didn't want to risk that. Aline, though—that's a woman I never could stick, sir, I don't mind telling you!—Aline has been prowling around the end of the hall near your room a couple of times. I caught her at it, and she pretended to be looking out of the window."
"You think she was trying to get into my room?" Roger asked thoughtfully.
"I'm pretty sure of it, sir."
Roger drank his coffee in silence, mentally reviewing this information.
"There is another little thing I've noticed, sir," Chalmers continued. "There are a number of keys gone from doors about the house. I've counted seven missing, and I could take my oath they were in the locks earlier in the evening. There's never any reason for taking them out."
"Then you think Aline has taken them to see if any of them will open my door?"
"That's it, sir. I could have told her there's no two keys alike in this house," he added grimly. "She came to me very friendly like at about ten o'clock, and tried to pump me to find out what I knew. Had the nurse come to, and was she able to talk yet? Was it true she had staggered in so drunk she couldn't see proper, and had fallen in a heap on the floor? Things like that, sir. Not much change she got out of me. I shut her up in no time, sir. I knew what she was after."
Hours passed. Roger sat on alone in the half-lighted room, analysing his impressions and going over in his mind the whole course of his father's illness, from the moment he had entered the house. To save his life he could not think of one suspicious circumstance, nothing that appeared even particularly unusual. Yet, no! What about that cablegram which was never sent? With a start he recalled it, wondering how it could have slipped his memory till now. What if Thérèse had had another and more vital reason than he had thought of for keeping him away? Was it possible she had been afraid to have him in the house? It was a fact that he alone knew her relations with Holliday, he alone had always to an annoying extent seen through her. He recalled with a feeling akin to nausea her recent attempts to placate him, to turn him from an enemy into an ally. Had she done that in order to blind him the more completely to what was going on? The idea suggested a degree of calculating inhumanity appalling to contemplate. He lived over again the moment when she had clung to him caressingly and pressed her perfumed cheek against his breast…. How could he have been such an utter fool? He set his teeth with a feeling of intolerable disgust….