CHAPTER XIII
MR. AND MRS. ATKINS AT HOME
An urgent case necessitated my leaving Beverley at such an early hour that the city was still half asleep when I reached it. After driving from florist to florist in search of an early riser amongst them, I at last found one. I selected the choicest of his flowers, and ordered them to be sent to Miss Derwent by special messenger, hoping they would arrive in time to greet her on her awakening, and cheerfully paid the price demanded for them.
On reaching my office I was surprised to find a note from the irrepressible Atkins. You may remember, patient reader, that I had promised to dine with him on the previous evening. When I found that it would be impossible for me to do so, I sent word that I regretted that I could not keep my engagement with him. I naturally thought that that ended the matter. Not at all! Here was an invitation even more urgent than the last—an invitation for that very day, too. Unless I wished to be positively rude and to hurt the feelings of these good people, I must accept. There was no way out of it. So I scribbled a few lines to that effect.
I confess that when I rang the Atkins’s bell that evening I did so with considerable trepidation, for I was not at all sure how the lady would receive me. You see I had not forgotten the way she flounced out of the room the last and only time I had seen her. And yet I had been quite blameless on that occasion. It was the Coroner’s questions which had annoyed her, not mine. However, I was considerably reassured as to my reception by receiving a smiling welcome from the same pretty maid I had seen the week before. It is a queer fact that we unconsciously measure the amount of regard people have for us by the manners of their servants. That this theory is quite fallacious, I know; but I found it very useful on this occasion, for it gave me the necessary courage to enter the drawing-room with smiling composure.
The room was almost dark, and, coming from the brilliantly-lighted hall, it was some seconds before I could distinguish from its surroundings the small figure of my hostess, silhouetted against the crimson sky. Her shimmering black gown and fluffy hair caught and reflected her red background in such a way that for a moment I fancied I saw her surrounded and bespattered with blood. The effect was so uncanny that it quite startled me, but as she moved forward the illusion vanished, and I was soon shaking a soft, warm hand, which was quite reassuring.
“I just hope you don’t mind the dark,” she exclaimed, leading me to a chair and sinking into one herself, “but somehow the light has hurt my eyes lately, and so I don’t turn it on till it is so dark that I tumble all over the furniture. Mr. Atkins says I’m crazy and ought to buy a pair of blue goggles, and so I would, only they’re so unbecoming.”
“On the contrary,” I assured her, as I let myself cautiously down into one of those uncomfortable gilt abominations known to the trade as a Louis XVI. armchair, “I think this dim light just the thing for a chat; I always become quite confidential if I am caught between daylight and dark. The day reveals too much; it offers no veil for one’s blushes. The darkness, on the other hand, having no visible limits, robs one of that sense of seclusion which alone provokes confidences. But the twilight, the tactful twilight, is so discreet that it lures one on to open one’s heart. Luckily, no designing person has yet found out how weak I am at this hour, or else I should have no secrets left.”
“Oh, go along,” she giggled; “I guess you’re not the kind to say more than you mean to.”
“I assure you I am—” but here I was interrupted by my host, who called out from the threshold:
“Hello, sitting in the dark? This is really too absurd, Lulu.”
A flood of light followed these words and revealed young Atkins’s stalwart figure, irreproachably clad in evening dress.
“Well, I am glad to see you, Doctor,” he cried, as he wrung my hand vigorously. “Dinner’s ready, too, and I hope you’re ready for it.”
The folding doors leading into the next room slid back and disclosed a prettily appointed table, profusely decorated with flowers and silver. Soon after we had settled into our chairs, I seized a moment when I was unobserved to steal a look at Mrs. Atkins. She was certainly paler and thinner than when I had seen her last, but the change instead of detracting from her looks only added to her charm. Dark violet lines encircled her blue eyes and lent them a wistful, pathetic expression that greatly enhanced their beauty. Otherwise, I thought her less changed than her husband had led me to suspect and I could detect none of that extreme nervousness of which he had spoken; only when she turned towards him did her manner appear at all strained, and even this was so slight as to be hardly noticeable. In fact, of the two, it was he who seemed ill at ease, and I noticed that he kept watching her anxiously. I saw that she was conscious of his constant scrutiny and that at times she became quite restless under his prolonged gaze; then, tossing her head defiantly, as if determined to cast off the spell of his eyes, she would talk and laugh with renewed animation.
The dinner was delicious and well served; my hostess extremely pretty; my host almost overpoweringly cordial, and the conversation agreeable, if not highly intellectual. We had reached the fruit stage, and I was leaning contentedly back in my chair, congratulating myself on my good luck in having happened on such a pleasant evening, when Mrs. Atkins exclaimed:
“I say, Doctor, you haven’t told us a thing about your thrilling adventure. What a blessing the madman didn’t succeed in killing you. Do tell us all about it.”
After her husband’s warning me that the bare mention of the tragedy excited her I had naturally taken great pains to avoid all reference to the subject. I was, consequently, a good deal surprised to hear her broach it with such apparent calmness.
I glanced inquiringly at Atkins.
“Yes, do,” he urged, still looking at his wife.
“I’m afraid there isn’t much more to tell,” I hesitatingly replied; “I gave the newspapers a pretty straight account of the whole affair.”
“Oh, but you were much too modest,” she cried; “a little bird has told us that you are a great detective, and suspected Argot from the first. Say, how did you manage to hit on him? We want all the details, you know.”
It was her flattery, I am afraid, which loosened my tongue and made me forget my former caution.
“Well, it was mostly luck,” I assured her, and then proceeded to give a long account of the whole affair.
“And now,” I said, warming to my topic under their evident interest, “I wonder if either of you, when you read over the description of the murdered man, or when you saw him, for the matter of that, noticed anything peculiar about him? I confess that it escaped me and my attention had to be called to it by Mr. Merritt.”
“Something peculiar,” she repeated. “What kind of a peculiarity do you mean?”
“Well, the lack of an important article of apparel,” I replied.
“No; I didn’t notice anything out of the way,” she answered, after considering the question for some minutes.
I turned towards her husband. He was leaning forward, so deeply absorbed in watching his wife as to be entirely unconscious of my presence, and on his ingenious countenance I was shocked to observe suspicion and love struggling for mastery. Struck by his silence, she, too, looked at him, and as her eyes encountered his I saw a look of fear creep into them, and the faint color fade from her cheeks. When he saw how his behaviour had affected her, he tried to pull himself together, and passed his hand swiftly over his face as if anxious to obliterate whatever might be written there.
“Well, what is this missing link?” he asked, with obviously enforced gaiety. He looked squarely at me, and, as he did so, I became convinced that he already knew the answer to that question. For a moment we stared at each other in silence. Were my looks tell-tale, I wondered, and could he see that I had discovered his secret?
“Say,” broke in Mrs. Atkins, “don’t go to sleep. What was this missing thing?”
I would have given anything not to have had to answer.
“No hat was found with the body,” I said. Atkins, I noticed, was again looking fixedly at his wife, who had grown deathly white, and sat staring at him, as if hypnotised. Both had, apparently, forgotten me, but yet I felt deeply embarrassed at being present, and dropped my eyes to my plate so as to give them a chance to regain their composure unobserved.
“Has the hat been found?” I heard her inquire, and her high soprano voice had again that peculiar grating quality I had noticed during her interview with the Coroner.
“Yes,” I answered, “it was found in Argot’s possession. He actually wore it, and laid it down under my nose. Insanity can go no further.”
“But how did you know it was the missing hat?” demanded Atkins, without taking his eyes off his wife.
What could I answer? I was appalled at the dilemma into which my vanity and stupidity had led me.
“I suspected it was the hat which was wanted,” I blundered on, “because Mr. Merritt had told me he was looking for an ordinary white straw containing the name of a Chicago hatter. Argot’s hat answered to this description, and, as the Frenchman had never been West, I concluded that he had not got it by fair means.”
“So the dead man hailed from Chicago, did he?” inquired Atkins.
“The detective thinks so,” I answered.
“Have the police discovered his name yet?”
“I—I am not sure!”
“You are discreet, I see.”
“Indeed, no,” I assured him. “The last time I saw Mr. Merritt he was still in doubt as to the man’s real name.”
“He only knew that the initials were A. B.,” said Atkins, quickly.
I glanced, rapidly, from the husband to the wife. They sat, facing each other, unflinchingly, like two antagonists of mettle, their faces drawn and set. But the strain proved too much for the woman, and, in another moment, she would have fallen to the floor if I had not managed to catch her. Instead of assisting me, her husband sat quite still, wiping great beads of perspiration from his forehead.
“Come here,” I said, “and help me to carry your wife to the window.”
He got up, as if dazed, and came slowly toward me, and, together, we carried her to a lounge in the drawing-room.
“Look here, you told me yourself that all mention of the murder made your wife extremely nervous, and yet you distinctly encouraged us to talk about it this evening. Do you think that right?”
He stared at me with unseeing eyes, and appeared not to understand what I was saying.
“I had to find out the truth,” he muttered.
“Look here, man,” I cried, shaking him by the arm, “pull yourself together. Don’t let your wife see that expression on your face when she comes to. This is not a simple faint; your wife’s heart is affected, and if you excite her still further you may kill her.”
That roused him, and he now joined to the best of his ability in my endeavors to restore her. She soon opened her eyes, and glanced timidly at her husband. He managed to smile affectionately at her, which seemed to reassure her.
“How stupid of me to faint!” she exclaimed, “but it was so very hot.”
“Yes, the heat is dreadful; you really should not overtax yourself during this weather,” said her husband, gently, laying his hand on hers. She beamed at him, while a lovely pink overspread her pale face.
“As a doctor, may I urge Mrs. Atkins to go to bed immediately?” I said.
“Oh, no, no,” she cried petulantly; “I’m all right.” But as she tried to stand up she staggered helplessly.
“I insist on your going to bed, Lulu; I shall carry you up-stairs at once.” And the big man picked her up without more ado. She smiled at me over his shoulder, dimpling like a pleased child.
“You see, Doctor, what a tyrant he is,” she cried, waving her small hand as she disappeared.
When Atkins returned, I rose to say good night, but he motioned me to return to my seat, and handing me a box of cigars, insisted on my taking one. Then, dragging a chair forward, he sat down facing me. We puffed away for several minutes, in silence. I was sure, from his manner, that he was trying to get up his courage to tell me something.
“You said just now that Mrs. Atkins has something the matter with her heart?”
“I’m afraid so; but I do not fancy it is anything very serious, and if it is taken in time, and she leads a quiet, happy life, there is no reason that she should not recover completely.”
He got up and paced the room.
“I love her,” he murmured.
I watched him with increasing perplexity.
“Well, if that is so, treat her differently. You sit and watch her in a way that is enough to make anyone nervous, let alone a delicate woman. Forgive my speaking so plainly, but I consider it my duty as a physician. I am convinced that the extreme nervousness you spoke of (and which, by the way, I have failed to observe) is not to be attributed to the murder at all, but to your behaviour. I don’t think you have any idea how strange that is.”
“Oh, but my wife has not been nervous since the Frenchman was arrested. We watched him being taken away from your house, and last night she slept quietly for the first time since the tragedy.” He paused and looked at me as if he longed to say more.
“Well, that is quite natural, I think. I can imagine nothing more alarming than to know that you are living under the same roof with an undetected criminal, who might at any time make use of his freedom to commit another murder. Till she knew who was guilty, she must have suspected and feared everybody. Now that she knows the fellow to be under lock and key, she can again sleep in peace.”
Atkins sat down.
“Doctor, men of your calling are the same as confessors, are they not?”
“If you mean as regards the sanctity of professional communications, yes.”
“Then I should like to confide a few things to you under the seal of that professional secrecy.”
“All right; go ahead.”
“Do you know that my wife is from Chicago?”
“Yes.”
“I have never been there myself, and consequently know none of her friends. You may have heard that my father was very much opposed to my marriage. He collected a lot of cock-and-bull stories about my wife, which, needless to say, I did not believe. So the wedding took place, and, until a week ago, I can truthfully say that I have been perfectly happy.”
“What happened then?”
“I had to go out of town for two days on business, and got back very late on Wednesday night, having been delayed by an accident on the line. I was careful to be very quiet as I let myself in, anxious not to wake up my wife, who, I expected, would be fast asleep at that hour. I was therefore surprised and pleased to find the hall still ablaze with light. So, she had sat up for me after all, I thought. Taking off my hat I turned to hang it on the rack when I noticed a strange hat among my own. I took it down and examined it. It contained the name of a Chicago hatter and the initials A. B. were stamped on the inside band. At first I was simply puzzled, then it occurred to me that its owner must be still on the premises. That thought roused all my latent jealousy, so, putting the hat quietly back, I stole on tiptoe to the parlor. Peeping through the portières, I saw my wife lying asleep on the sofa. She was quite alone. To whom then did the hat belong? What man had left in such hurry or agitation as to forget so essential a thing? All the stories my father had told me came back to me with an overwhelming rush. Then I blushed at my want of confidence. All I had to do, I assured myself, was to wake up my wife and she would explain everything at once. I should not need to ask a question even; she would of her own accord tell me about her visitor. Full of these hopes I entered the room. She opened her eyes almost immediately and greeted me with even greater warmth than usual. I responded as best I could, but my impatience to hear what she had to say was so great as to render me insensible to everything else. I soon led our talk round to what she had been doing during my absence. She told me in a general way, but, Doctor, she made no mention of a gentleman visitor! I think I was patient. Again and again I gave her the chance to confide in me. At last, I asked her right out if she had happened to see any of her Chicago friends. She hesitated a minute, then answered, deliberately, No! To doubt was no longer possible. She was concealing something from me; therefore, there was something to conceal. And yet she dared to hang around my neck and nestle close to me. It made me sick to feel the false creature so near. I don’t know what came over me. The room swam before my eyes, and starting to my feet I flung her from me. She fell in a heap by the window and lay quite still, staring at me with speechless terror. I had had no intention of hurting her and was horrified at my brutality. I went to her and tried to raise her up, but at my approach she shrieked aloud and shrank away from me. I was thoroughly ashamed now and begged her to forgive my behaviour. But for some time she only shook her head, till at last, overcome by her emotions, she burst into hysterical sobs. This was too much for me. I forgot everything except that I loved her, and, kneeling down, gathered her into my arms. She no longer resisted me, but like a tired child let me do with her what I would. I carried her upstairs and soon had the satisfaction of seeing her fall asleep. From that day to this neither of us has ever referred to this occurrence! I didn’t, because—well, my motives were very mixed. In the first place, I couldn’t apologize for my behaviour without telling her the reason first, and that I was unwilling to do unasked. I was ashamed of my suspicions, and wanted the explanation to be offered by her and not solicited by me. And then, underlying everything, was an unacknowledged dread of what I might discover, and terror that I might again forget myself. But what were her reasons for never asking for the meaning of my conduct? Why did she not make me sue on my knees for pardon? She has always made a great fuss whenever I have offended her before; why did she pass over this outrage in silence? Did she fear what questions I might ask? Did she suspect the cause of my anger? That night, before going to bed, I took that accursed hat and flung it out of the dining-room window. It fell to the court below, and there Argot must have picked it up.”
“When did you first become convinced that that hat had belonged to the murdered man?”
“Not for several days. In fact, I have never been perfectly sure till this evening.”
“Really?”
“Yes; you see it did not occur to me for some time that there was any connection between my wife’s visitor and the—the victim.” Here the poor fellow shuddered. “Her manner was slightly constrained, and I saw she was depressed, but I thought that a natural result of the coolness that had arisen between us. I soon found out, however, that although our strained relations might weigh on her somewhat, the chief cause of her trouble was the murder. She hardly ever spoke of it, but I could see that it was never out of her mind. She used to send out for all the papers and pore over them by the hour, and was so nervous that it was positively painful to be in the room with her. She would start and scream with or without provocation. Another peculiarity she developed was an extreme disinclination to leaving the house. She went out on Thursday afternoon, I believe, but from that day to the time of Argot’s arrest I don’t think she ever left the building unless I insisted on it. And another queer thing she did, was to stand behind the curtains and peer at your house. I would catch her doing this at all hours of the day and night. Then I began to wonder more and more why this murder had such an effect on her. I read and re-read all that was printed about it, and suddenly it came to me that no hat had been found with the body. I searched the papers again feverishly. I had not been mistaken. Every article of clothing was carefully enumerated, but no hat was mentioned. It was then I first suspected that the dead man and my wife’s visitor were one and the same person. It was an awful moment, Doctor.”
He paused a while to control his emotions. “After that I kept continually puzzling as to how the fellow could have come by his death. Thank God, I was quite sure my little wife had no hand in that! You say Argot killed him; perhaps he did, though I can’t imagine why or how. As soon as Mrs. Atkins heard that the Frenchman had been arrested her whole manner changed. Her nervousness disappeared as if by magic, and to-day she resumed her usual mode of life. She has even talked about the murder occasionally. But the barrier between us has not diminished. I can not forget that she concealed that man’s visit from me. I have longed, yet dreaded, to have the police discover his identity, fearing that if they did his connection with my wife would also come out; and yet so anxious am I to know the nature of that connection as to be willing to run almost any risk to discover the truth. But things have come to a crisis to-night. We can no longer go on living side by side with this secret between us. She must tell me what there was between them. And now, when I can bear the suspense no longer, you insist that she must not be excited.”
I felt terribly sorry for the poor fellow, and hesitated what to advise.
“Get a good doctor,” I said at last, “and have Mrs. Atkins’s heart examined. Her trouble may not be as serious as I think it is, and in that case there would be no further need of caution.”
“Won’t you undertake the case?”
“Have you no family physician?”
“Yes; Dr. Hartley.”
“He is an excellent man, and I think it would be much less agitating to Mrs. Atkins to be treated by her own doctor. You see it is very important that she should be kept quiet. I should like to ask you one thing, however: Don’t you think you ought to tell the police that it was you who first found the hat and who threw it into the yard?”
“I don’t think it the least necessary,” he answered, in great alarm; “what harm can this additional suspicion do Argot? There is no doubt that he tried to murder you, and is quite irresponsible. Why should he not be guilty of the other crime? You suspected him before you knew that the hat was in his possession.”
“That is all very true. And the man is hopelessly insane, I hear, and, guilty or not guilty, will probably spend the rest of his life in a lunatic asylum. Well, I must be off. Let me know what Dr. Hartley’s verdict is. I am especially anxious that my fears may prove groundless, because I am sure that if you and Mrs. Atkins could have a frank talk everything would soon be satisfactorily explained.”
“Do you think so?” he exclaimed, eagerly.
“I’m sure of it,” and, with a hearty handshake, I left him.
CHAPTER XIV
MY HYSTERICAL PATIENT
That night I could not sleep, and when on receiving my mail the next morning I found that it contained no line from Fred, my anxiety could no longer be kept within bounds, and I determined that, come what might, another day should not pass without my seeing May Derwent. I left the hospital as soon as I decently could, but, even so, it was almost one o’clock before I was once more on my way to Beverley. On arriving there, I found to my disgust that there were no cabs at the station. An obliging countryman offered to “hitch up a team,” but I declined, thinking it would be quicker to walk than to wait for it, as the Derwents’ house was hardly a mile off. A delicious breeze had sprung up and was blowing new life into me, and I should have enjoyed my walk except for the fact that, as my visit must necessarily be a very short one, I begrudged every minute spent away from May Derwent. I was, therefore, trudging along at a great rate, entirely absorbed in reaching my destination in the shortest possible time, when I was surprised to perceive in the distance a woman running rapidly towards me. As there was neither man nor beast in sight, I wondered at the reason of her haste. A sudden illness? A fire? As the flying figure drew nearer, I was dismayed to recognize May Derwent. I rushed forward to meet her, and a moment later she lay panting and trembling in my arms. As I looked down and saw her fair head lying on my breast I felt as if I were having a foretaste of heaven. I was recalled to earth by feeling her slight form shudder convulsively and by hearing an occasional frightened sob.
“What has happened, May? What has frightened you?” I feared that she would resent this use of her Christian name, but she evidently did not notice it, for she only clung the tighter to me.
Mrs. Derwent, whose approach I had been watching, here joined us, hot and out of breath from her unwonted exertion. Her indignation at finding May in the arms of a comparative stranger was such that she dragged her daughter quite roughly from me.
“You must really calm yourself, May,” she commanded, with more severity than I had thought her capable of.
But the poor child only continued to tremble and cry. As it seemed a hopeless undertaking to try and quiet her, Mrs. Derwent and I each took her by an arm and between us we assisted her home. As we were nearing it, I saw Norman hurrying towards us.
“What’s the matter?” he inquired, anxiously.
As May had grown gradually more composed, her mother felt she could now leave her to my care, and, joining Norman, they walked briskly ahead, an arrangement which I don’t think that young man at all relished.
My darling and I strolled slowly on, she leaning confidingly on me, and I was well content.
“You are not frightened, now?” I asked.
She raised her beautiful eyes for an instant to mine.
“No,” she murmured; and all I could see of her averted face was one small crimson ear.
“I hope you will never be afraid when I am with you,” I said, pressing her arm gently to my side. She did not withdraw from me, only hung her head lower, so I went on bravely.
“These last forty-four hours have been the longest and most intolerable of my life!”
She elevated her eyebrows, and I thought I perceived a faint smile hovering around her lips.
“Indeed!”
“I hope you got some flowers I sent you yesterday?”
“Yes. Didn’t you receive my note thanking you for them? They were very beautiful!”
I loudly anathematised the post which had delayed so important a message.
This time there was no doubt about it—and a roguish smile was parting her lips. This emboldened me to ask: “Were these roses as good as the first lot? I got them at a different place.”
“Oh, did you send those also? There was no card with them.”
“I purposely omitted to enclose one, as I feared you might consider that I was presuming on our slight acquaintance. Besides, I doubted whether you would remember me or had even caught my name.”
“I had not.”
There was a pause.
“Oh, what must you have thought of me! What must you think of me!” she exclaimed, in tones of deep distress, trying to draw her arm away. But I held her fast.
“Believe me, I entertain for you the greatest respect and admiration. I should never dream of criticising anything you do or might have done.”
She shot a grateful glance at me, and seeing we were unobserved I ventured to raise her small gloved hand reverently to my lips. She blushed again, but did not repulse me.
On arriving at the house, I insisted on her lying down, and, hoping the quiet would do her good, we left her alone. On leaving the room, we passed Norman pacing up and down outside, like a faithful dog. He did not offer to join us, but remained at his post.
I had not questioned May as to the cause of her fright, fearing to excite her, but I was none the less anxious to know what had occurred. Luckily, Mrs. Derwent was as eager to enlighten me as I was to learn.
“You know, Doctor Fortescue, how I have tried lately to keep everything away from my daughter which could possibly agitate her. However, when she suggested that she would like to walk to the village I gladly acquiesced, never dreaming that on a quiet country road anything could occur to frighten her, nervous as she was. With the exception of last Sunday, this was the first time since her return from New York that she had been willing to go outside the gate; therefore I was especially glad she should have this little change. I offered to accompany her or rather them (for Mr. Norman, of course, joined us), and we all three started off together. When we had gone some distance from the house, Mr. Norman remembered an important letter which he had left on his writing-table and which he was most anxious should catch the mid-day mail. So he turned back to get it. I noticed at the time that May appeared very reluctant to have him go. I even thought that she was on the point of asking him not to leave her, but I was glad to see that she controlled herself, for her horror of being separated from that young man has seemed to me not only silly, but very compromising. So we walked on alone, but very slowly, so that he could easily overtake us. The road was pretty, the day heavenly, and my shaken spirits were lighter than they had been for some time.” Mrs. Derwent paused a moment to wipe her eyes. “Did you happen to notice,” she continued, “that clump of bushes near the bend of the road?”
“Certainly.”
“Well, just as we were passing those I caught sight of a horrid-looking tramp, lying on his back, half hidden by the undergrowth. May was sauntering along swinging her parasol, which she had not opened, as our whole way had lain in the shade. She evidently did not see the fellow, but I watched him get up and follow us on the other side of the bushes. I was a little frightened, but before I could decide what I had better do he had approached May and said something to her which I was unable to catch. It must have been something very dreadful, for she uttered a piercing shriek, and turning on him like a young tigress hit him several times violently over the head with her sunshade. Dropping everything, she fled from the scene. You know the rest.”
The last words were spoken a trifle austerely, and I saw that Mrs. Derwent had not forgotten the position in which she had found her daughter, although she probably considered that that position was entirely due to May’s hysterical condition and that I had been an innocent factor in the situation.
“What became of the tramp?” I inquired, eagerly. “I saw no one following your daughter.”
“He did not do so. I stood for a moment watching her tear down the road, and when again I remembered the man I found he had disappeared.”
“Would you know the fellow, if you saw him again?”
“Certainly! He was an unusually repulsive specimen of his tribe.”
As Mrs. Derwent had failed to recognise him, the man could not have been her son, as I had for a moment feared.
“By the way, Doctor, May is still bent on going to New York.”
“Well, perhaps it is advisable that she should do so.”
“But why?”
“The quiet of the country does not seem to be doing her much good, does it? Let us, therefore, try the excitement of New York, and see what effect that will have. Besides, I am very anxious to have Miss Derwent see some great nerve specialist. I am still a very young practitioner, and I confess her case baffles me.”
“I see that you fear that she is insane!” cried Mrs. Derwent.
“Indeed, I do not,” I assured her, “but I think her nerves are very seriously out of order. If she goes on like this, she will soon be in a bad way. If you wish me to do so, I will find out what specialist I can most easily get hold of, and make arrangements for his seeing your daughter with as little delay as possible.”
“Thank you.”
My time was now almost up, so I asked to see my patient again, so as to assure myself that she was none the worse for her fright.
I found her with her eyes open, staring blankly at the ceiling, and, from time to time, her body would still twitch convulsively. However, she welcomed us with a smile, and her pulse was decidedly stronger. It was a terrible trial to me to see that lovely girl lying there, and to feel that, so far, I had been powerless to help her. I thought that, perhaps, if she talked of her recent adventure it would prevent her brooding over it. So, after sympathising with her in a general way, I asked what the tramp had said to terrify her so much. She shook her head feebly.
“I could not make out what he was saying.”
I glanced upwards, and caught a look of horror on her mother’s face.
“Oh, indeed,” I said; “it was just his sudden appearance which frightened you so much?”
“Yes,” she answered, wearily. “Oh, I wish I could go to New York,” she sighed.
“I have just persuaded your mother to spend a few days there.”
She glanced quickly from one to the other.
“Really?”
Mrs. Derwent nodded a tearful assent.
“And when are we going?” she demanded.
“To-morrow, if you are well enough.”
“Oh! thank you.”
“But what will you do with your guest?”
“Mr. Norman? Oh, he will come, too;” but she had the grace to look apologetic.
Once outside the room, Mrs. Derwent beckoned me into her boudoir.
“Well, Doctor Fortescue,” she exclaimed, “what do you think of that? May turns on a harmless beggar, who has done nothing to annoy her, and beats him! She is not at all ashamed of her behaviour, either.”
“I confess, Mrs. Derwent, I am surprised.”
“Oh, she must be crazy,” wailed the poor lady.
“No, madam—simply hysterical—I am sure of it. Still, this makes me more than ever wishful to have another opinion about her case.”
Before we parted, it had been decided that the choice of suitable rooms should be left to me.
Back again in New York, I went immediately in search of them. I was so difficult to satisfy that it was some time before I selected a suite overlooking the Park, which seemed to me to answer all demands.
May and her mother were not expected till the following afternoon, so I tried to kill the intervening time by making the place look homelike, and I succeeded, I think. Masses of flowers and palms filled every nook, and the newest magazines and books lay on the tables.
I met the ladies at the station, where they parted from Norman, whom I had begun to regard as inevitable. It was, therefore, with a feeling of exultation that I drove alone with them to their hotel.
When May saw the bower I had prepared for her she seemed really pleased, and thanked me very prettily.
I left them, after a few minutes, but not until they had promised to dine with me at a restaurant that evening.
CHAPTER XV
A SUDDEN FLIGHT
One of the many things and people which I am sorry to say my new occupation as Squire of Dames had caused me to neglect, was poor Madame Argot. On leaving the Derwents, I determined to call on her at once. To my surprise, I found Mrs. Atkins there before me. The poor Frenchwoman was crying bitterly.
“Look here!” I said, after we had exchanged greetings; “this will never do. My patient must not be allowed to excite herself in this way.”
“Ah, mais monsieur,” she cried, “what vill you? I mus’ veep; zink only; vone veek ago an’ I ’appy voman; now all gone. My ’usban’, ’e mad, and zey zay ’e murderer too, but I zay, No, no.”
Mrs. Atkins patted her hand gently.
“Monsieur Stuah, ’e tell me to go,” she continued, “an’ I don’ know vere; me not speak English vera good, an’ I mus’ go alone vid peoples zat speak no French. Ah, I am a miserable, lonely woman,” she sobbed.
Mrs. Atkins consoled her as best she could, and promised to get her a congenial place. It was a pretty sight to see the dashing little woman in that humble bed-room, and I had never admired her so much. When she got up to leave, I rose also, and, not wishing to pass through Mr. Stuart’s apartments, we left the building by the back way. When we were in the street, Mrs. Atkins started to walk up town.
“Are you going for a walk?” I asked.
“Yes; it is much cooler to-day, and I really must get a little exercise.”
“Do you mind my joining you?” I inquired.
“I’d be glad of your company,” she answered, cordially.
“It’s terribly sad about that poor woman, isn’t it?” she said, as we sauntered along.
“It is, indeed,” I replied; “and the hospital authorities give no hope of her husband’s recovery.”
“I suppose there is no doubt that he killed the man?”
Here we were again on this dangerous topic, and I glanced quickly at her, fearing a repetition of last night’s attack.
She noticed my hesitation, and laughed.
“Oh, you needn’t be so afraid of what you say. I ain’t going to faint again. I want to know the truth, though, and I can’t see why you shouldn’t tell me.”
“Well, if you insist upon it,” I said, “here it is: I really don’t know whether he is guilty or not; I have been convinced that he was till very recently, but Merritt (the detective, you know) has always been sceptical, and maintains that a woman committed the murder.”
“A woman,” she repeated, turning her eyes full on me. “But what woman?”
“Merritt refuses to tell me whom he suspects, but he promises to produce the fair criminal before next Tuesday.”
We walked on for about a block, when, struck by her silence, I looked at her, and saw that she had grown alarmingly pale. I cursed myself for my loquacity, but what could I have done? It is almost impossible to avoid answering direct questions without being absolutely rude, and as I knew the detective did not suspect her I really could not see why she should be so agitated.
“I guess I’m not very strong,” she said; “I’m tired already, and think I’ll go home.”
I wondered if my society had been disagreeable or, at any rate, inopportune, and had caused her to cut short her walk.
As we repassed my house, I caught Mrs. Atkins peering apprehensively at it. I followed the direction of her eyes, but could see nothing unusual.
When I got back to my office, I found that Atkins had called during my absence; I was very sorry to have missed him, as he no doubt came to report what Dr. Hartley had said about his wife.
That night I was called out to see a patient, and returned home during the small hours of the morning. I was still some distance from my house when I distinctly saw the back door of the Rosemere open, and a muffled figure steal out. I was too far away to be able to distinguish any details. I could not even be sure whether the figure was that of a man or a woman. I hastened my steps as I saw it cross the street, but before I had come within reasonable distance of it, it had disappeared round the corner.
The next morning I was aroused at a very early hour by a vigorous ringing at my bell. Hurrying to the door, I was astonished to find Atkins there. He was white and trembling. I pulled him into the room and made him sit down.
“What is the matter?” I asked, as I went to the sideboard and poured out a stiff glass of brandy, which I handed him. “Drink that, and you’ll feel better,” I said.
He gulped it down at one swallow.
“My wife has disappeared.”
“Disappeared!” I repeated.
He nodded.
“But when?—how?”
“I don’t know. At dinner yesterday she acted queerly. The tears kept coming to her eyes without any reason——”
“Before you go any further,” I interrupted him, “tell me if this was after the doctor had seen her?”
“Yes, and he practically confirmed all you said. He laid great stress on her being spared all agitation, and advised a course of baths at Nauheim.”
“Her tears, then, were probably caused by worrying over her condition,” I said.
“I don’t think so, for the doctor was very careful to reassure her, and I had not even mentioned that we were to go abroad. No, it was something else, I’m sure.” He paused. I wondered if anything I had said during our short walk had upset her.
“I suggested going to a roof garden,” continued Atkins, “and she acquiesced enthusiastically, and after that was over she insisted on a supper at Rector’s. It was pretty late when we got home, and we both went immediately to bed. Now, I assure you that ever since she fainted on Wednesday I have been most affectionate towards her. I had determined to bury my suspicions, and my anxiety for her health helped me to do so. She responded very tenderly to my caresses, but I could see that she was still as depressed as before, although she tried her best to hide it from me. I tell you all this so that you may know that nothing occurred yesterday between us that could have caused her to leave me, and yet that is what she has done.”
He buried his head in his arms. I laid my hand on his shoulder.
“Tell me the rest, old man.”
“The rest?—I woke up a short time ago and was surprised to find my wife had already left the room. Wondering what could be the matter (for she is usually a very late riser), I got up also. On the table beside my bed lay a letter addressed to me in her handwriting. I tore it open. Here it is,” and he handed me a small pink note redolent of the peculiar scent which I had noticed his wife affected. This is what I read: