“What treatment does Lady Evenden receive?” asked Wilfred.
“The Mohenloeffer treatment,” replied Laidlaw. Wilfred bowed.
“That includes a certain amount of psycho-analysis as well as certain injections, doesn’t it?” he asked.
“Precisely,” replied Laidlaw. “That is why it was necessary for me, and me only, who have been dealing with the case all along, to come at the time of its crisis.”
“Isn’t this psycho-analysis a sort of hypnotism, or mesmerism, or some other similar thing?” asked Mr. Benson.
“Not exactly,” said Wilfred with a smile. “I’ll explain it to you afterwards.” Mr. Benson nodded, and turned again to Laidlaw.
“That night we met, Lady Evenden and I, and I gave her a draught and an injection. I was just in time, for she was hysterical and her mind was tottering. She came by way of the secret staircase from the lawn. She used her own private staircase from her boudoir to her morning room, which has French windows opening on the lawn, only a few yards away from the Prior’s Tower. I waited in the angle of the tower, and we went into that crypt place, where I have met her since and where you kidnaped me.” Laidlaw shuddered a little as he spoke. “Well, we had been there only a short time, when suddenly I heard a shriek from upstairs—somewhere overhead—and I immediately rushed to the staircase which leads to the Prior’s Room.”
“How did you know of its existence?” asked Mr. Benson.
“Because I’d used it often when visiting Lady Evenden privately,” replied the doctor at once.
“Oh, then it wasn’t your first visit to that tower?” the lawyer asked.
“No,” replied Laidlaw, while Mr. Benson and Wilfred exchanged glances. “I rushed to the staircase, and, as I did so, I heard a thud—somebody falling helplessly on to the floor, it sounded like. Lady Evenden was behind me. I knew that any excitement would be fatal to her, so I begged her to go back—and, though she protested at first, she subsequently obeyed me and returned. I told her to forget the incident—and she forgot it.”
“What the devil are you talking about?” asked Mr. Benson, indignant and puzzled. “How could you tell her to forget—and she would——”
“Yes, he could,” interrupted Wilfred. “I’ll explain all that later. I know what he means perfectly well.”
“In my method of treatment it is necessary for the practitioner to have some definite control over the will of the patient,” explained Laidlaw. “Well, I was saying, she went by the way she had come, and I went up the secret staircase to the Prior’s Room. The light was full on, and on the floor was lying a man in his pyjamas—it was John Evenden.
“Beside him was standing a dark man. He looked bronzed, like a sailor to me, and on the other side of him was a girl, with her face covered with a handkerchief. I stepped forward into the room, and at the same moment the man saw me, turned round, and struck me a foul blow. I staggered and fell. When I recovered, the man and the girl had disappeared. I went down the staircase, and I thought I saw some one precede me up the stone stairs to the lawn. But, though I looked carefully when I got up, I saw no one.
“In view of the compromising circumstances, I decided to say nothing to anyone. That is all I know.”
CHAPTER XVI.
HELP FROM WITHOUT
When the doctor finished speaking he looked at his two listeners; and, if he expected to see surprise on their faces, he was not disappointed. Wilfred looked at him as if partly satisfied and yet partly amazed and perplexed. Mr. Benson looked at him in frank astonishment.
“Who were they, these people?” he asked. “Had you seen them before? Have you seen them since? Why on earth did you not accept my invitation to tell me what you knew, because you knew perfectly well that I was not acting for the police, but for Lady Evenden and Frank Gough?”
“I had never seen them before,” declared Laidlaw. “Nor have I seen them since. You see how hopeless was my position. If you don’t believe me, how much less would the police?”
“Yes, that’s all right,” said Mr. Benson, who was rapidly recovering his poise, “but what have you to give as evidence that there were indeed any people there at all, except your word? You say that you saw a man and a woman. What do you suggest was the reason of their visit there? How do you suggest that they knew of the existence of the secret passages? Your story is very thin, Dr. Laidlaw. Very thin.”
“Mr. Benson,” said the unhappy little doctor, “whether you believe me or not, I have told you the exact truth. You say you cannot accept my word. Very well, I will put the alternative to you. Tell me, if you don’t believe me, how do you account for the murder? If I, as you suggest, murdered Sir John Evenden, why did I do it? So far as I can see, from my knowledge, there is only one other person upon whom suspicion could possibly fall, and that is Lady Evenden. Do you, in your suspicion, suggest that she did it? If she did, why should she?”
“I do not suggest for a moment that she did,” replied Mr. Benson. “On the other hand, I am quite sure that she did not. But you do not clear the ground quite so easily as that. Don’t forget that the most mysterious thing about this murder is the presence of some curious poison in the brain of the late baronet. I am a layman, and profoundly ignorant of these matters, but it strikes me with irresistible force that some person with a considerable knowledge of medicine, and poisons, was responsible for the crime. I am not concerned to impute motives. I am concerned with facts.”
“I can only say that I have told you the exact truth,” said Laidlaw wearily. “You can do what you like. You can murder me in cold blood if you like, for I am helpless. But you will be committing a ghastly murder. I saw the man and I saw the woman—I know I saw them. That is all I know. Lady Evenden had nothing to do with the murder—nor had I.”
“Would you like to know what I think?” asked the old lawyer, standing up and bending over the shaking doctor. “I’ll tell you what I think happened. You probably went up that staircase, and through the Prior’s Room, for some reason best known to yourself, and at the point of safely leaving the room you were met by the late Sir John, returning from his visit to Mr. Frank Gough’s room. He, knowing of your sinister relation with his stepmother, grabbed you and insisted upon your telling him the truth. You probably tried to get away, and seized something and struck him. Probably, to give you your due, you did not intend to kill, but when you found that you had done so, you sought to confuse the issue by injecting some of your filthy poison into the dead man’s brain. I wouldn’t mind betting that I’m not far out in my calculation.”
“You are utterly wrong,” said the doctor earnestly. “I assure you that there were the man and the woman there, and that the murder had been committed before I came upon the scene. I did not even examine the dead man; I hurried away as quickly as I could.”
“I think I’d better have a word with you,” said Wilfred to the lawyer. Mr. Benson looked at him sharply, saw that his young friend had obviously something to say of importance, then went to the door.
“Joe,” he called, and almost as soon as he spoke Joe Litt and one of his assistants appeared.
“Watch him!” the lawyer instructed, and Wilfred and he left the room. They went out into the farmyard, and it was not until they were well out of earshot of the house that Wilfred spoke.
“He’s not telling the exact truth,” he said. “But, on the other hand, he’s telling some truth.”
“Surely by now,” said Mr. Benson, “you must see the advisability of taking me into your confidence?”
“I am determined to keep to my policy of absolute silence,” replied Wilfred stubbornly. “But I will tell you enough to enable you to check Laidlaw’s account. This is the serious divergence between what he says and what I know happened. He says that Lady Evenden went as far as the staircase leading to the scene of the tragedy. There he is wrong—both she and he went into the room. They remained there for perhaps three minutes, during which time there was a sound of some scuffling overhead, and after that Lady Evenden certainly came down alone. He followed—perhaps two minutes after that.”
“You saw all this?” asked the lawyer.
“Yes, I saw it,” replied Wilfred.
“Then what do you think of his story about a man and a woman who were, I take it, the actual murderers?” asked Mr. Benson.
“I can’t say,” Wilfred replied slowly, gazing across the marsh. “I certainly saw no man, but immediately after Lady Evenden came down the staircase, crossed the crypt, and went out through the entrance to the lawn, a woman followed her. I saw no man.”
“Where were you?” asked the lawyer.
“In the crypt,” Wilfred replied.
“What did you do when you saw Lady Evenden come out? And this other woman? What sort of a woman was she?” The lawyer frowned as he put the question.
“It would be very difficult to say,” Wilfred replied. “I saw Lady Evenden leave, and I identified her because Miss Kilby was with me. She had followed her mistress out and had met me on the lawn. We descended the staircase after her, and first of all heard her talking to Laidlaw in the crypt. Then, as we heard them move to the other staircase, we followed. We hid in that little vestry place where all of us hid last night. I repeat, the first person to come downstairs was Lady Evenden, then another woman came down and went out. I saw her silhouetted against the moon light as she went up the stone staircase to the lawn. Then, after that, Laidlaw came.”
“But how did you know that Lady Evenden was ever in the Prior’s Room?” The lawyer surveyed his young friend, and noted the troubled look on his face.
“Well, as I told you, I was with Miss Kilby,” he said, after a pause. “When Laidlaw and Lady Evenden disappeared up the staircase to the Prior’s Room, Jill followed. She got as far as the wardrobe, then she came down again—terrified. Now that’s all you must ask me.”
“But, my dear chap, I differ from you,” said Mr. Benson. “I’m the last person in the world to cause any trouble for your fiancee or yourself, but don’t you see that you have said too much for the matter to be left there? Don’t you see that your fiancee’s evidence can probably clear Frank Gough and be sufficient to exonerate Lady Evenden? My dear chap, that evidence must be given.”
“That’s just the difficulty,” said Wilfred, in some excitement. “You really must not pursue this matter by ingenious roundabout ways such as I suppose lawyers delight in. Believe me, Mr. Benson, you will regret it to the last days of your life, if you do. I might be able to produce sufficient evidence to clear Frank Gough. But there is certainly not enough evidence to clear Lady Evenden, who, mark you, is, in my opinion and in Jill’s opinion, just as innocent of the murder.”
“Well, surely there is also her word,” said the lawyer. “She can testify to having seen this other mysterious woman and possibly the mysterious man that Laidlaw says was there, can’t she?”
“No, she can’t,” said Wilfred decidedly. “She doesn’t remember a thing about the whole affair.”
“How on earth do you make that out?” asked Mr. Benson, stopping in his walk, and turning to face Wilfred, bewilderment in his eyes.
“It will take me a long time to explain the exact circumstances governing the relations between that little doctor and Lady Evenden,” he said. “But in the meantime it is sufficient for me to tell you that there is a process, not unlike hypnotism, whereby a strong character—and Laidlaw is that, despite his appearance—can obtain a complete control of a weaker. Now that process is tremendously accelerated where circumstances permit of the exercise of some definite lever for the stronger to hold over the weaker. In this case the lever is obviously the unfortunate circumstances of Lady Evenden’s past.
“Laidlaw is probably letting the unfortunate lady believe that she murdered her first husband—I wouldn’t be surprised if he is, anyhow—hence the blackmail. Now, then, don’t you see that, having established that mental control, making her believe a certain thing, he can easily extend that and make her believe something else? The whole thing boils down to this. If Laidlaw were to be apprehended for this murder, it wouldn’t surprise me if we were to be confronted by a confession by Lady Evenden that she had done it.”
“God bless my soul!” The old lawyer was flabbergasted at the prospect.
“There you have the whole difficulty,” said Wilfred. “And there you have the keynote to my policy. Until you can table the evidence to convict either Laidlaw or some one else, Then, for the sake of Lady Evenden, who is manifestly in Laidlaw’s power, you must say nothing, and I, for my part, will not be moved to say anything. There it is.”
For ten minutes after Wilfred had finished speaking, they walked about the yard in silence; then Mr. Benson said.
“But you say that he is not telling the whole truth, even now? That is a sign of guilt, isn’t it?”
“Yes—it might be,” Wilfred partially agreed. “On the other hand, there is not a very great discrepancy between what he says and the truth. He might have wanted to emphasize that Lady Evenden was not actually in the room, purely in her interest. He is right about the strange woman. But if there was a man there as well, the question is, where did he get to? Miss Kilby and I saw no man.”
“For the love of heaven, what did Miss Kilby see?” asked the lawyer, removing his hat and mopping his brow.
“I shall certainly not say that, or allow her to say what she saw,” Wilfred replied. “You may be certain of this—she did not see the actual murder committed, she saw no other man but Laidlaw, and she certainly saw a woman standing with her back towards her, who afterwards came down the stairs—that’s all.”
Again there was silence. Presently the lawyer appeared to make a decision.
“Very well,” he said. “Come along.”
They went back through the farmyard to the kitchen, and through to the room where Laidlaw was sitting anxiously awaiting his fate.
“I have discovered a way of testing your story,” said Mr. Benson. “You will remain here until I decide to release you. Look after him, Joe,” he said, turning to Joe Litt. “See that he is under constant guard, and I’ll see you to-morrow.”
Wilfred and the lawyer rode home across the marsh almost in silence. Wilfred looked at the face of his companion, from time to time, and could not make out a certain look of almost triumphant satisfaction that he saw there. Arrived at the Priory, the horses were immediately given over to the groom, and the lawyer invited his companion to a late lunch, which was readily accepted. All through the meal Mr. Benson spoke but little, and immediately afterwards he suggested that perhaps Wilfred would like to see Jill, which offer was also accepted, more readily still.
So, for some time Jill and Wilfred strolled about the lawn together, talking over things that interested only themselves, forgetting even the tragic events so closely connected with them.
Meanwhile Mr. Benson was at his papers and on the telephone. He had called a London number, and soon the call came through.
“Is that Sir Francis Waveryon?” asked Mr. Benson. “Ah! this is Chris Benson! How are you, old man? Oh, yes, fit as a fiddle, and likely to be when your grandchildren are suffering from rheumatics in their old age. Look here, old man, do you know anything about this psycho-analysis business—hypnotism—strong-willed doctors governing patients who are inclined to be a bit on the mental side? Yes? Well, look here, who is the best—the very best man? Can you get him for me immediately? Ah, yes, my dear chap, but this is not a case of etiquette. Look here, I mean this—this is actually a case of life and death—a murder trial, no less, and a diabolical mess. You will? Thanks very much. Tring—Rushton Tring. I see. He’ll be here to-morrow, will he? Early? Oh, yes—any fee. To-night would be all the better. That’s the thing. What? Well! well! I’ve been so busy, Francis. You shall have a brace of the best to-night, sure. Good-bye, old man.
“That’ll do the trick,” said Mr. Benson to himself as he hung up the receiver and went to see Lady Evenden.
Lady Evenden was very much better, and received Mr. Benson in her boudoir as soon as he presented himself. He talked cheerfully of various subjects, spoke optimistically of the coming trial, and never referred to Dr. Laidlaw at all. He remained with Lady Evenden for half an hour, then returned to the library, where he went through a number of papers connected with the coming trial and saw the latest copy of the amended brief for Sir Courtney Caldecott, which awaited his initialing.
“I won’t initial the thing at all yet; let’s see what another day brings forth,” said Mr. Benson to himself. He saw Wilfred for a moment at five o’clock, when the young doctor presented him with a fully-written foolscap statement of what Dr. Laidlaw had said. Mr. Benson thanked him.
“Now look here, my young friend,” he said. “I’m going to be busy for the rest of the evening, and I don’t want you or anyone else to disturb me. I have someone coming down from London, and he and I will dine together. You get hold of your Mary Ellen, or Jill, or whatever your cunning little girl’s name is, and spend a bit of time with her. I’ll see you in the morning, and it is possible I may see you later to-night, though not probable. In any case, you have the room next to me if I do want you last thing, haven’t you?” Wilfred agreed to follow the old man’s advice, which was very palatable to him, and left the library, leaving the old man studying the statement he had written out.
At ten minutes past eight Mr. Rushton Tring arrived, and was shown immediately into the library, where he was greeted cordially by Mr. Benson. Mr. Tring was a tall man. He stood over six feet, three inches in his socks, and he wore very apparent socks—deep red with brown rings. He had a remarkable head, long and pointed. His forehead was high, but narrow; and his eyes, which were never still, were guarded by a pair of large gold-rimmed spectacles. His mouth was so thin that it rarely could be seen. There was just an indication of a sort of crease instead of a definite lip line. Mr. Tring’s nose was long and sharp—an inquisitive nose—but the whole effect of his features was good-humored. His eyes danced about, and though you could not see it, you felt that there was a perpetual smile somewhere hidden away on the face of Mr. Rushton Tring, the greatest alienist and psycho-analyst in London.
Dinner was throughly enjoyed by Mr. Tring. He complimented Mr. Benson on the Bordeaux, he complimented him on the pheasants, the port sent him into ecstasies, while he found no words with which to describe the old liqueur brandy. During the meal not a word was spoken of the case in hand. But, afterwards, when he was comfortably seated in the library opposite his host, Mr. Tring listened very carefully to all that Mr. Benson had to say.
Nothing was kept from him; he heard all that Mr. Benson knew, and very carefully read the statement of Dr. Laidlaw. When he had heard everything he asked unexpectedly:
“Have you a photograph of the lady? And another of the doctor?”
“I can get you one of Lady Evenden immediately,” said the lawyer, and left the room. He returned from the drawing-room with a studio-portrait of Lady Evenden, which he handed to the great psychologist.
“H’m!” said the great man, “H’m! Not a note of music! Not a scrap of art—a heart which obviously directs her head! Terribly strong capacity to feel, ruinously strong, and nowhere to divert the energy when customary channels are blocked. H’m! Very dangerous; very dangerous, indeed!”
He continued gazing at the portrait in silence, after making his first remarks; then he said:
“Well, now, we’ll find some excuse for taking our friend Lady Evenden out for a drive to-morrow. We’ll take her to your curious old farm in the marshes, and we’ll see what happens when I confront the two.”
“But, my dear chap,” said Mr. Benson, “she’s very awkward to deal with just now. What if she won’t go?”
“No one is awkward at all,” said Mr. Rushton Tring quietly. “We only imagine each other’s awkwardness. She will come the very minute I ask her.”
CHAPTER XVII.
MR. TRING TRIES IT ON
The morning following the arrival of Mr. Rushton Tring, Mr. Benson sent word to Lady Evenden that he and a colleague wished to see her most particularly, and at once. She agreed immediately, and looked in some surprise as the great psycho-analyst entered in the wake of the lawyer.
Mr. Benson managed the introduction with an easy grace, and Mr. Tring put out his hand, which Lady Evenden took in a rather puzzled, almost reluctant grasp. She could not understand this man with the curiously quiet, humorous, but penetrating eyes.
“You have had a very restless night, Lady Evenden,” observed Mr. Tring, and the lady nodded. “Mr. Benson and I have to drive over the country for a few miles this morning,” went on the specialist. “You had better come with us; the air will do you a power of good.”
“Thank you very much, but I am afraid I must excuse myself,” said Lady Evenden. “I have not been out recently, and I have no desire to go. I think I will try to rest presently. It may be that the sleep denied me in the night may be coaxed this morning with the aid of a draught my medical adviser prepares for me.”
“I am a medical man,” said Mr. Rushton Tring. “May I please see the draught?”
“Well,” said Lady Evenden, after some hesitation, “I really don’t know that it matters, Mr. Tring, does it? I can assure you that I am quite satisfied with it. It does me good.”
“All the same, I think I would like to see it, if you don’t mind.” The words were spoken quietly enough, but Mr. Benson noticed that as the specialist spoke his eyes were fixed upon those of the lady of the Priory, and, though he also noticed a little color of resentment rise in her cheeks, in a moment her eyes seemed to drop before the magnetic eyes fixed so quietly, and yet so keenly, upon her. She raised her eyes again, and seemed upon the point of refusing.
“Please!” Mr. Tring only spoke the one word, but it was sufficient.
“Very well,” said Lady Evenden resignedly, almost dreamily, as she rose to leave the room.
“Please don’t trouble to go for it,” said Mr. Tring. “Send.”
“I can get it quite easily, thank you,” she replied, moving towards the door.
“Please send.” Mr. Tring walked beside her, and, apparently accidentally, placed himself between her and the door. Again the lawyer watched with fascinated eyes the battle of will, and again he saw the specialist triumphant.
“Very well,” she replied again, and slowly walked back to her seat, looking with puzzled eyes on this strange man whom to hear seemed to mean to obey. Mr. Tring rang the bell, and, when a servant appeared, he turned expectantly to Lady Evenden.
“Ask Miss Kilby to give you my sleeping-draught,” said the latter, and the servant withdrew. In silence the three remained in the room until the maid returned with a bottle containing a brown mixture. Mr. Rushton Tring smelt it carefully when he had withdrawn the cork; his eyebrows contracted, and he smelt it again—longer the second time. He threw a quick glance at Lady Evenden; then he looked for a moment at the lawyer.
“I think you had better have something rather different,” he said, and, as she looked in annoyance at him, he met her gaze, smelt again, and said: “Rather stronger.”
“Now, my dear lady,” he continued, corking and pocketing the bottle, “you will go and put on your outdoor things and accompany Mr. Benson and me for a drive in the car. You will not be long. Don’t think about it at all—just go and get ready, will you?” She stared at him for a second, vacantly. “Will you, please?” he repeated, and, though he asked a question, the question was a command. Without a word she arose, looked at Mr. Benson for a second; then, after momentary hesitation, looked again at the specialist and obeyed him. Mr. Rushton Tring never took his eyes off her until the door had closed behind her; then he turned to Mr. Benson.
“This becomes exceedingly interesting,” he observed. “Now there are one or two points I want you to understand—quickly. The first is, I can in no circumstances undertake any responsibility for this kidnaping venture of yours. You must, in the remote chance of any trouble arising, say that I was not informed of that. The second is, you had better allow me to supply you with a specially-trained nurse for Lady Evenden. I will recommend one. Unless I am very seriously mistaken, the stuff that I have in this bottle contains a dangerous amount of heroin. I do not like to voice the suspicions at present very virile in my mind, but I tell you this much now: I am interested—keenly interested.”
Mr. Benson had not time to ask anything further; for, at that moment Lady Evenden appeared, wrapped in a fur coat and carrying a pair of gloves.
“Driver discreet?” whispered Mr. Tring, and the lawyer nodded his assurance.
Within a few minutes they were being driven along the road that led to the marshes by the same young chauffeur, who had shown his intimate knowledge of the dangerous marsh road two nights before.
Lady Evenden remarked that she had only twice before been over the part of the district they were covering, and then upon some expedition to try to see some specimen of the bittern’s nest which had been reported by gamekeepers.
Mr. Rushton Tring immediately manifested interest, and spoke of the various authorities on the habits and life of the rare bird. Soon the marsh was crossed, and they approached Swinerigmire. The car halted at the front door of the farm and was met by Joe Litt, looking very worried and anxious. He drew Mr. Benson to one side immediately he alighted, and it was evident that something was wrong. The old lawyer seemed on the verge of having an apoplectic fit as he expressed his extreme disapproval of something to Joe Litt, who seemed exceedingly crestfallen. Mr. Tring and Lady Evenden remained standing beside the car.
When the lawyer rejoined them, he took Mr. Tring to one side and said:
“This is terrible. The little scoundrel has got away.”
Mr. Tring raised his eyebrows.
“Yes,” repeated Mr. Benson, “he’s outwitted us. Listen to what Joe Litt says; he’ll tell you in his own words. Get her ladyship to go back into the car, and come here.”
Mr. Tring said something to Lady Evenden, whereupon she reseated herself in the car as the wondering psychologist accompanied Mr. Benson to where Joe Litt was standing.
“Tell this gentleman all there is to tell,” said the lawyer, and Joe Litt, after casting an appraising glance at Mr. Tring, said:
“Well, sir, last night I had two of my lads watching him, and they had a mug of beer each and some bread and cheese by way of supper, but both were fast asleep when I looked round before turning in—and the little man had gone! They had not drunk all their beer, so I thought maybe he had poisoned them. Later on they came to, but they both had very bad heads, and I kept the beer just as it was, in case they had been poisoned, because they are the last lads in the world to leave good beer.”
“Let me have a look at the beer,” said Mr. Tring, and Joe led the way into the farm kitchen. He took from the cupboard two half-full mugs of beer. Mr. Tring looked at one of them, smelt it, looked at Mr. Benson, and smiled.
“Give me an empty bottle, will you, please?” he asked Joe, and immediately the man left to get one. While he was away, Mr. Tring said to the lawyer:
“Doped, my dear chap! The little man is evidently a master hand at poisoning, in various degrees.” Mr. Benson looked extremely worried—too greatly worried, indeed, to be vexed—and after a pause said, quite mildly:
“Then I suppose, after all, I have failed.”
“I wouldn’t say that yet,” said Mr. Tring. “I wouldn’t say that yet. We might get some very valuable information from the lady, yet. All the same, I am extremely sorry that the little chap has eluded you.”
Joe Litt came back with an empty bottle, and Mr. Tring emptied the contents of one of the mugs into it.
“We will see what the analysis of this brings forth,” he said.
“Have you made any search for the little scoundrel?” asked Mr. Benson.
“Four of the men are out now, searching the marsh,” replied Joe Litt.
“You will let me know immediately if you hear anything,” the lawyer instructed him, and, having got Joe’s assurance, he and Mr. Tring rejoined Lady Evenden in the car. Mr. Benson during the ride home was unusually silent; for indeed, he was exceedingly disappointed, and looked it. Very greatly had he built upon the result of the visit of Mr. Rushton Tring, and now it seemed as if all was useless. The doctor had won.
On Mr. Tring’s features, however, disappointment was the last thing indicated. He chatted with Lady Evenden of all sorts of topics, and by the time they reached the Priory, she had got quite to like the strange man whom she could scarcely understand, and yet who seemed to have such a curious power over her.
When the car arrived at the Priory, Lady Evenden went straight to her room, and Mr. Benson and Mr. Rushton Tring to the library.
“I want to make one or two experiments,” announced the specialist. “Can you arrange for me to be undisturbed in a bath room for about two hours?”
Mr. Benson agreed, and immediately Mr. Tring adjourned to a large bath room on the first floor of the house. He took with him a hand-bag, and shut the door securely.
Long before the two hours had expired he presented himself to Mr. Benson in the library.
“It is as I thought,” he said. “Lady Evenden has been taking terrific quantities of heroin. Probably she has been gradually accustomed to the doses, which have steadily increased. The amount that she is capable of taking now, however, is dangerous in the extreme, and frightfully demoralizing. As far as the beer is concerned, the cunning little doctor must have managed to secrete a substantial dose of an opium product in his watchers’ drink, with the result that they would certainly go off for a couple of hours and awaken with bad heads. The doctor has gone—you can reconcile yourself to that, my friend. Now, the thing that remains is for us to see what we can do with our charming hostess, Lady Evenden.”
“The whole thing is terrible, terrible,” said Mr. Benson. “I can’t express how disappointed I am. I don’t know what to do.”
“You can’t help it,” said Mr. Tring philosophically. “You certainly were not in the least to blame. Indeed, I think you are much to be congratulated on the steps you have taken. You have shown wisdom and discretion in all your movements in this extraordinary business. I am not sure but that, so long as we take measures to see that the doctor does not reach Lady Evenden, we will get more out of her in his absence than we would have done in his presence.”
“When do you intend to see her?” asked the lawyer.
“In the next hour or so,” replied Mr. Tring.
The lawyer and the psychologist lunched together, and then, without advising her of their coming, they went to Lady Evenden’s apartments. She admitted them at once, and Mr. Tring lost no time in coming to the object of his visit.
“Lady Evenden,” he said, “in your own interest, and in the interest of your son, I have come down to straighten one or two matters out. Now, I am sorry for occasioning you the distress that reference to unpleasant subjects must cause you; but again I assure you that I am here, and asking these questions, in your own, and your son’s, interest. Now tell me, Lady Evenden, who killed your stepson?”
The effect of the question was pitiful to witness. Lady Evenden’s eyes dilated; she clutched the arms of her chair with her hands, and trembled as with an ague. Fully a minute passed before she replied:
“You—you—ask me—who killed Jack? How can I tell you? Not my son—not my son.”
“I know that,” said Mr. Tring. “Come now, Lady Evenden, I am a friend, and will remain a friend, but I must know. Tell me now, who killed your stepson?”
Lady Evenden looked as if she were about to faint.
“I don’t know,” she said, between great gasping breaths. “I cannot tell.”
“You were there.” The voice of Mr. Tring was definite—accusative even, Mr. Benson thought.
“Yes—I was there,” came the reply, slowly, deliberately.
“Dr. Laidlaw was there also.” Mr. Tring bent his head forward, and the old lawyer thought the amount of force he managed to concentrate into his gaze amounted to positive cruelty; nevertheless, he did not interfere.
There was a pause, then Lady Evenden replied: “Yes, Dr. Laidlaw was there, also.” Her eyes were fixed upon the eyes of her remorseless questioner. She seemed to have forgotten the very presence of Mr. Benson. Her eyes never left the psychologist’s face.
“What did you see?”
She blanched, then looked more earnestly than ever into Mr. Tring’s eyes. She seemed to make a gigantic effort to look away, but failed, and looked back again.
“I saw him—dead,” she replied in husky tones and seemed in imminent danger of fainting. Indeed, so distressed did she appear that Mr. Benson moved forward to assist, but Rushton Tring waved him impatiently back.
“Who did it?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she replied, wearily but apparently truthfully.
“Why did Dr. Laidlaw do it?” Tring asked the question with great precision, weighing carefully every word, and giving expression to every syllable.
“I don’t know,” she replied absently, dreamily.
“Did he do it?” The question was asked more sharply, but the reply came in the same dreamy accents:
“I don’t know.”
“You do know,” Tring looked coercive power incarnate as he pressed his head forward. Her eyes opened wider still; she gasped, as if for air. Mr. Benson held his breath. A full minute elapsed:
“No. I—no, I don’t know.” Then she fainted.
“My God! This is awful!” exclaimed Mr. Benson running forward. “Shall——”
“Be quiet, man.” Mr. Tring held up an authoritative hand, and his eyes glowed with determined purpose. “Leave this to me; she will be all right in a moment. Remember, we must get the truth—we are on the verge of getting it.”
In silence they sat and watched. Mr. Benson was on the point of interfering several times, but always he was waved back by the specialist. At last Lady Evenden opened her eyes.
“Now tell me,” said Mr. Tring. “Why do you say Laidlaw murdered him?” She looked dazed for several moments, then answered:
“He did not murder him.”
“You and he were there,” Mr. Tring declared.
“Yes,” she said.
“Why did you murder him?” The question was unexpected, and Mr. Benson nearly collapsed. But the effect upon Lady Evenden was not nearly so startling as the previous ones had been.
“I did not murder him,” she said.
“Tell me all you know! Tell me all you know! You must tell me all you know!” Strength, determination, and inexpressible power were charged in the words of Mr. Rushton Tring as he made his final command. She met his gaze, hesitated, then said slowly:
“He said I do not know, and I do not know. I do not want to know. I do not know.”
Again there was a complete silence for several minutes. Mr. Tring kept his eyes fixed upon Lady Evenden, while she looked vacantly and dreamily back at him.
“Well, now.” Mr. Tring completely changed his tone. He sounded quite cheerful—almost frivolous—as he arose. “My dear Lady Evenden, you really must take a little rest. You will go to bed now and sleep for three hours. For three hours.” As he repeated the words “three hours” he resumed his seriousness of voice and expression, but immediately lost it again as he went on. “Then you will wake up a new person—completely refreshed. I will see you later. In the meanwhile, good-day, Lady Evenden.” She bade him good-day, and, accompanied by Mr. Benson, who also paid his compliments to the lady, he left the room.
When they got into the corridor, Mr. Benson, unable to control his curiosity any longer, said:
“Well? What do you think. What, in heaven’s name, is the truth of this terrible business?”
“Well,” replied the specialist quietly, “the whole position remains in doubt and open to speculation. Only one or two things can be stated with assurance. One is that Dr. Laidlaw has an absolute control of her. She does not know who murdered her stepson for the simple reason that Laidlaw has superimposed his will upon hers, and has ordered her not to know. The truth is that probably she does know; but, we will have to keep her separated from Laidlaw for some considerable time to wear down the effect of his control.”
Mr. Tring coughed, then continued:
“Again, another thing that is clear is that she needs Laidlaw. He has supplied her with drugs that require increasing quantities to be of any use. She is beginning to feel the need of more already. If we manage to keep her separated from him for the next few days, we may be able to get from her all we need. I shall probably be able to take the place of Laidlaw in her scheme of things, in a day or so.”
They walked on to the library.
“The whole thing is very troublesome—very terrible,” said Mr. Benson. “I wonder whether——”
He was interrupted by the butler.
“Mr. Joe Litt to see you, sir, and another little man that he has got fastened to a piece of rope.”
CHAPTER XVIII.
JOE LITT’S ENTERPRISE
Mr. Benson glanced across at Mr. Rushton Tring and said at once:
“Bring him in.” A moment later the butler announced with comic disapproval:
“Mr. Joseph Litt—and a person,” and Joe Litt entered the room accompanied by a strange mud-covered figure. Mr. Benson had thought at once, when he heard of a person accompanying Joe, that it could be only one person—Laidlaw. It was not, however, but a stiffly-built man stouter than Laidlaw, but about Laidlaw’s height.
“Who have we got here, Joe?” asked the lawyer, the while he gazed at the stranger.
“Well, sir, after you went, I made a search of the marshes, because even in daylight it is easy for a stranger to come to grief or get himself tangled up in a maze if he doesn’t know the marsh, and I thought it was just possible that I might find the little man somewhere. I looked all round, and I sent the others in opposite directions, but I had no success. I finished my search at Eggleham, on this side of the marsh, and I went into the Four-in-Hand for a glass of beer. When I came out I walked down the village on my way home, when suddenly I saw a motor car stop at the post office and a man get out. As he got out, although I was on the opposite side of the road, I thought I saw the funny little man’s face leaning forward speaking to him. Then I was sure, because he yelled out to his friend, who was just entering the post office:
“ ‘Say about three hours—not longer.’
“I rushed across the road, but even as I rushed, the little fellow saw me.
“ ‘On!’ he shrieked. ‘Quick! Get on!’ And the man that was driving set off with a jerk and I was flung into the road, for I had one foot on the step. I just caught the back number of the car before it disappeared, and it was RU 5667. Then I turned to look for the man that had gone into the post-office. When he heard the car starting he rushed out again and began to run up the road after it. I chased him—and here he is.”
“Wonderful,” said Mr. Rushton Tring, his eyes on the little man.
“I think you deserve a medal for this, Joe,” said Mr. Benson; then he turned to the stranger.
“What’s your name, my man? Who are you?”
“What’s your authority for pinching me?” countered the stranger. “You can’t pinch people for nothing in England, you know. It’s a free country.”
His little piggy eyes flashed wickedly, and he made his point about the irregularity of his detention in an indignant manner, through which, nevertheless, could be traced a certain uneasiness. He wanted to know really why he was being detained—he hoped, or seemed to hope, that bluff might see him through as he drew himself up to his full height of five feet two inches. Then, he threw his shoulders back and stared with scowling mien at the lawyer. His right sleeve was pulled back as he tried to slacken the rope which Joe Litt had round it, revealing an elaborate tattoo design.
“I’m not quite sure that it is a free country,” said the lawyer, with a little grimace. “Anyhow, since you want—and very reasonably want—some excuse for your detention, I will set your mind at rest. I am a lawyer, and I am also a Justice of the Peace for the county. I am prepared to sign a warrant for your detention now.”
“On what charge?” asked the man, the truculence leaving him.
“On the charge of conspiring with Dr. Laidlaw to murder the late Sir John Evenden,” said Mr. Benson. The man’s face blanched.
“Murder—conspiring to murder? S’help me, I don’t know anything about a murder, and I never heard of Sir John Evenden. I’ve done no murder, guv-nor, straight I ’aven’t.” The stranger’s agitation was very genuine, as also was his denial of association with the murder.
“Well,” said Benson, “if you are innocent of association with that murder, I can assure you that the man in whose company you were to-day is not. In this country there is such a thing as an offense called ‘wilfully seeking to defeat the ends of justice.’ In the case of a murder charge, that becomes very important—very serious. Now, if you wish to clear yourself, give us the doctor’s address.”
“Course I will,” said the man at once.
“What is it?” asked Mr. Benson.
“No. 246 Baker Street, London,” replied the man.
“What were you doing down here at all? How did you come to pick up Dr. Laidlaw to-day?” Mr. Benson asked, looking up from writing down the address.
“I was going along the road in a car, and I saw the doctor. I had expected to meet him yesterday, and I looked round and round the countryside for him, thinking that he might have meant another lane to meet in. When I got no message I just continued to look for him, in case he was taken ill on one of his walks. I saw him coming across a bog—and he shouted. I stopped the car and I took him in. Then he asked me to telephone for him at a post office, and I got out to do it. The next thing was—I heard the car set off, and ran out to see what had happened, and this great long fellow hit me and sent me into the mud.” He looked maliciously at Joe Litt, who grinned. “But I’ll have the law on him for it. Look here, you say you’re a J.P. I give this man in charge for assault.” He pointed dramatically to Joe, who grinned more broadly than ever.
Mr. Benson bowed gravely.
“We’ll consider that presently,” he said. “In the meantime, what is your business with Dr. Laidlaw?”
“Just what you’ve said—my business,” replied the man at once.
“You refuse to state that?” Mr. Benson’s eyes narrowed.
“Yes—I do. It’s my business.” Defiance was written in the set of the stubborn jaw and in the light gleaming through the shifty little eyes.
“Perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling us where you live?” The suave voice of Mr. Rushton Tring spoke the words. The little man turned to him.
“No, why should I?” he replied.
“Oh, I think you should—I think you will. What is your address? What is your address?” Mr. Tring never raised his voice, but even to his hearers to whom the questions were not addressed it was apparent that there was more than a repeated question. There seemed to be an indefinable, compelling power in Mr. Tring’s tones—suave, quiet, even gentle, but there was danger in the suavity. Mr. Benson was reminded of the gentle, gliding movements of a panther through jungle undergrowth which preceded a deadly spring. Evidently the little man felt it. He moved a step, rallied all the resisting power he could into an attempt at defiance, and said:
“I am not going to tell you my address.” Even as he spoke Mr. Tring took a step forward.
“Oh, yes, you will,” he said. “Not now, but later you will; you will tell us later.”
“I will tell—no, I won’t. I won’t.” The man almost shouted the last “I won’t.” “I know what this is,” he cried. “This is a bit of third degree business. It isn’t legal here. I’ve had it all right in New York and ’Frisco; but you can’t do it here. You won’t mesmerize me, nor hypnotize me, nor nothin’ like that. It took ’em three days knocking me about and starving me before I fell under their ‘suggestion’ bloke. I’ll give you a run.”
Mr. Benson stared at him in blank surprise; he thought the little man had taken leave of his senses. Mr. Tring nodded gravely.
“I’m not surprised,” he said. “I should have judged that your resistance would be probably something like three days—even longer. But, my dear fellow, why should you fear to be subjected to any ‘third degree’ treatment here? What have you done to lead you to anticipate it?”
“Well, I’ve been pinched, anyhow,” the man said. “The manner of my pinchin’ is not regular, and the ways you perform may not be regular either. Anyway, I know you are a ‘suggestion’ bloke; you don’t need to tell me anything about it—I know.”
“Why won’t you tell us anything about yourself?” asked Mr. Tring.
“ ’Cos I say nothing until I’m charged with something, and then only in court. I know somethin’ about making statements, I do.” There was sullen defiance on the man’s face and a certain curious apprehension and distrust, almost amounting to fear, as he looked at Mr. Rushton Tring.
“I think we’d better have a talk,” said Mr. Tring to the lawyer, and, with a word to Joe Litt to keep an eye on the prisoner, Mr. Benson led the way to the morning room nearby.
“He’s a particularly tough chap this,” said Mr. Tring. “I should say he’s a sailor, and it would certainly be interesting to know what is his business with Laidlaw. But it is simply impossible to get much from him at present. I suggest that you release him and follow him. Can you get that done efficiently?”
“Dr. Barlow is here, and might do?” said the lawyer questioningly.
“Yes,” agreed Tring. “Get him—the very man. He’s intelligent, and the man has not seen him so far as we know.”
Wilfred was sent for and the situation explained to him. He was exceedingly disappointed at the disappearance of Laidlaw, and welcomed the opportunity of shadowing the stranger. Wilfred decided to go just as he was, without carrying a bag, and went into the drive to be ready to follow the stranger when he appeared from the house.
First of all he had a word with Jill, and told her that he was going to London on business connected with Mr. Benson, and promised to wire from there.
Tring and the lawyer went back to the library, and there they saw the little man glowering more evilly than ever at Joe Litt, while the latter held up a crumpled paper in his hand.
“He tried to burn this,” Joe announced, and immediately Mr. Benson went over, took the paper, and read it. There were only three lines of writing on a piece of thick note paper, written by an obviously uneducated person. Great sprawling characters formed the letters. Mr. Benson thought they were written by a woman.
“Dear Mr. Laidlaw,” read the note, “she is goin on terrible i ave given er another powder which is to much as she is stil unconshus she give me a dot with the poker yesterday.”
With upraised brows Mr. Benson handed the note to Tring, who read it, nodded, and said:
“Let us search him.”
“Turn out his pockets, Joe,” ordered Mr. Benson, and Joe commenced to search the pockets of the captive.
He had just begun to search a side jacket pocket, however, when the man hit out maliciously. Joe dodged, but the blow just grazed his face. Instantly Mr. Rushton Tring sprang forward with a bound, which again reminded Mr. Benson of a panther. He made a couple of quick, flashing movements, far too quick for Mr. Benson to follow. But there followed a shrill scream of anguish from the man.
“Very well, my friend,” said Mr. Tring. “I’ll loosen the grip a bit if it’s too tight for you—but be careful. I could break your arms like sticks if I wanted to.”
Joe Litt and the lawyer then saw that Tring had both the arms of the man behind his back, the elbows pointing downwards and the forearms bent right up behind the shoulder blades. Beads of perspiration stood on the captive’s brow, and he gasped with pain.
Joe completed the search. There were six pounds in money, three stamps, a metal watch, a return ticket from Norwich to Annan, a tin of tobacco, and a pipe—nothing that bore a name, and nothing to indicate where the man lived, or whence he came, except the ticket, which evidently had been purchased three days previously in the border town.
“Let us make sure there is nothing more,” said Tring, as, with a deft movement, he opened the man’s waistcoat. Joe Litt completed a very careful search, but nothing more was found.
“Well, my man, in view of the fact that you have given us the doctor’s address, we are going to release you upon your giving us your address,” said Mr. Benson. “You will have to appear to give evidence at a trial presently. What is your address?”
“Same as the doctor,” said the man, with surprised relief.
“What is it though?” pressed Mr. Benson.
“I told you—246 Baker Street, London,” replied the man, after a moment’s hesitation. Mr. Benson glanced at Mr. Tring significantly, and the other nodded.
“Very well—you may go,” said the lawyer, holding open the door, after ringing for the butler.
“See him out,” he said, and the man went with a quick step in the wake of Evans.
“False address, of course,” said Tring. “By Jove! I hope to goodness that Barlow manages to follow him.”
“It would appear that there is a reference in the note to a woman being drugged,” said Mr. Benson; “evidently a lunatic, or something of the sort. At least I read that from the account of her having given some one ‘a dot with the poker.’ ”
“Perhaps,” Mr. Tring smiled. “On the other hand, she may be some one that he is detaining. In any case, I should very much like to know where the letter came from and why it was necessary to send it, personally, by hand. There is something very suspicious about the whole thing, Mr. Benson. You note the caution of the illiterate writer of the note. She neither puts the address on the paper nor does she sign it. Furthermore, if you will look at it again, you will notice that this is a piece of very good paper, and that the heading has been torn off. The man gives a London address—obviously false; he can hardly remember the number he gave the first time when asked to repeat it in half an hour, and is in possession of a return ticket to Annan. Do you know Annan, at all?”
“No,” replied Mr. Benson. “Except that I think I have been through it, on my way to Glasgow. It is a border town.”
“Exactly,” said the psychologist. “I happen to know the country round there, rather well. I have shot over the moors there for some years. It is a town on the Solway—a pretty little town—but the surrounding country adjoining the Solway Firth is bleak and lonely. The Solway itself stretches at low tide over miles, and miles, of black mud; there are houses there as isolated as your curiously named old farm which we visited in the marshes this morning.”
“You think that’s where the little man will make for?” asked the lawyer.
“Yes, I do,” replied the other, “but we’ll see what Barlow does.”
Meanwhile Wilfred saw his man leave the front door and walk down the drive towards him. He turned suspiciously, once or twice, then continued his way along the drive, to the lodge gates. Arrived there, he looked round again, hesitated, looked both ways along the road, then took the right and went along the main road, at a smart pace. Wilfred followed at a discreet distance. A cart was going slowly along the road, and Wilfred saw the man ask the driver a question.
Evidently he obtained the information he sought, for he nodded and kept straight on—evidently making for the station. Wilfred let the cart remain between him and the man, and followed just behind it for a mile. He saw the man gradually increasing the distance between them, so he decided to abandon the shelter of the cart, and he walked on in front of it, looking for suitable places in which to hide should the man turn round.
The hedgerow was high and thorny, but Wilfred kept close in, and presently, when the man turned quickly round, Wilfred threw himself backwards into the hedge and remained there for a second, in great discomfort. The man apparently was satisfied that he was not followed; for, he turned again and kept on in the direction of the station, which at last he reached.
A train was signaled, and a small crowd of people were gathered on the platform.
“Where is this train going?” asked Wilfred, and the clerk told him it was going to Dereham. Wilfred took a ticket and walked out upon the platform. The train arrived, and the man entered a third-class smoker. Wilfred got into the next compartment. At the first stop, Wilfred looked carefully out of the window, but the stranger did not alight. At every station subsequently, Wilfred looked out, but still the man remained. At last Dereham was reached, and the man got out, gave up his ticket, and left the station. Wilfred followed.
His man walked down the main street and approached a garage, where for some time he seemed to be arguing with the proprietor. At last an old touring car was brought out, and a young lad put an overcoat and cap over his brown overalls and took the driving seat. The man entered and sat beside him, and the car set off.
“Got another car—quick?” asked Wilfred, running up to the proprietor.
“No,” said the proprietor; “that’s the only one we have that you see just going there.”
“Have you a motor-bike? Quick, man. This is serious.” The man looked at him suspiciously.
“I always want a deposit——” he began.
“Look here, lend me a motor-bike at once—quick,” he said, “I must follow that car—this is a matter of justice. What deposit do you want?”
“Twenty pounds,” said the man. Wilfred produced it, and immediately the proprietor turned to a machine behind him.
“There you are,” he said. “My own. A Rudge five, and full of juice.” He stared wonderingly at Wilfred as he mounted the machine and tore off in pursuit of the car.
CHAPTER XIX.
THE EVE OF THE TRIAL
Wilfred took every ounce out of the motor-cycle. When he was once clear of the narrow streets of the town, he soon came to a division of roads. Without slackening speed, he decided to take the road to the right. It seemed a road more used; otherwise he had nothing whatever to guide him.
Two miles were quickly traversed, and then he thought he saw the grey car ahead. He tried to increase the speed of his motor-cycle, but it was doing its full capacity. And, in any case, he narrowly avoided collision with a farmer’s trap which turned unexpectedly out of a blind side-road. At last came a fairly steep gradient, and he now saw that he was definitely gaining on the grey car. He was not quite sure what to do. Should he follow at a distance and risk the car slipping away unexpectedly? Or, should he risk following closely, with the consequent risk of detection? He decided to follow at a distance.
Village after village was passed, and still the car in front maintained a general westerly direction. At last, outside a village public-house, it stopped, and its occupants went inside. The car remained on the broad approach. Wilfred waited at the entry to the village, half-hidden by an enormous tree whose trunk jutted out into the road. A quarter of an hour went by, and then the little man came out of the inn; and, taking a swift glance up and down the road, he entered the car and drove off. Wilfred was astounded. The hired chauffeur had been left behind in the inn. Was this accidental? Or, had the little man come to an arrangement with him? Wilfred felt that the answer probably would be that the chauffeur was deliberately left behind by the strange passenger.
Nevertheless, Wilfred did not stay there to investigate. Instead, he immediately set off after the car. The village was soon left behind, and the road broadened out. In front, in the distance, was the grey car. The light was just beginning to fail; visibility was restricted to a comparatively short distance; the horizon was merely a blur. Wilfred sincerely hoped that he would be able to keep in sight of the grey car without approaching closer, and especially without having to light up, thus betraying his presence. Mile after mile was covered, and still the grey car maintained its way. At last it took a turn and shot along a side road indicated by a dilapidated guide-post as leading to several remote hamlets. Wilfred followed. The surface was rough. But that, he decided, would make it worse going for the car, than for him. The road wound in curve after curve, between high hedges, until it entered a wood. Scared pheasants ran across the road before the unwonted sight and sound. The road took a sudden curve now; then another almost in the form of a swan’s neck. And there, round the second curve, blocking the way, was the grey car. Wilfred had no time to stop. He tried to pass it on the side, and just drew level when something happened—he felt a push, there was a rattling, grinding sound, a crash, then—nothing more.
When he woke up, he found himself half in, and half under, a quickset hedge. Near him on the road was the motor-cycle. He felt bruised and stiff, and there was a terrible pain in his head and left leg. He tried to move the left leg. It was very stiff. But, there were no bones broken. He felt his head, and found it covered with dry mud, and there were traces of blood, but he could not feel any open wound. Meanwhile, the darkness had completely fallen. With trembling hand, Wilfred struck a match and looked at his watch. Twenty minutes past seven. That meant he must have lain there for over two hours. He looked for the motor-cycle, and found it lying near him, in the road. He tried to light the lamp, and at last succeeded; then he made a careful examination of the machine. The handle-bars were bent. But, he soon straightened them out again, set the machine up on its stand, and tried the engine, which, after a little while, began to run.
Wilfred felt shaken and almost light-headed, but he determined to mount the machine and get to where he could reach a telephone. He tried, and the machine began to run, but the bumping was terrible. He dismounted, and a glance at the back tire soon revealed the trouble. There was a long knife-gash in the tire and tube. The position now was hopeless so far as the cycle was concerned, and Wilfred looked around to see if there were any indications of houses. There was none. He was in the midst of a wood.
He left the motor-cycle where it was, at the roadside, and laboriously walked along the narrow road by the way he had come. Emerging from the wood, he saw across the fields the twinkling of a light, and he determined to reach it. He sought for a while for a side road leading to it; but, finding none, he entered a field by a gate and set off across it. He came at last to a lonely farmhouse, and made himself known to the surprised inhabitants. He said he had had an accident, and the hospitable people at once took him in and said they would send a lad with a cart to collect the motor-cycle.
Wilfred thanked them, and told them it would require at least two men to handle the cycle; so, it was decided that, when the cattle were bedded down for the night, another man would go, as well. Wilfred examined himself thoroughly, and was delighted to find that no serious cuts had resulted. He was scratched badly and suffered a little from shock; but, he was already recovering.
When the motor-cycle came, he was able to effect the repairs necessary, in the large back kitchen of the farm. He took the address of the farm, and he was surprised to find it thirty miles from Dereham. He decided to go back to the Priory, direct, by a road which he traced on the local map lent him by the farmer.
So, after making his farewells to his hospitable friends in need, Wilfred, set off. It was nearly ten o’clock when he returned to the Priory, and he found Mr. Benson and Mr. Rushton Tring foregathering in the library.
They listened to Wilfred’s story with sympathy and interest.
“That shows the little man has Laidlaw hidden somewhere, locally. Probably his headquarters are local,” said Mr. Benson.
“No,” said Mr. Tring. “It only shows that the little chap whom we had the pleasure of talking to in this room realized that he was being followed, and was ingenious enough to shake the shadower off. Mind you, it also shows that there is reason for great secrecy on the part of Dr. Laidlaw and his confederates. When a comparatively uneducated man like the little fellow with the tattooed arms will demonstrate such ingenuity as he has done to-day, you can be certain that there is something pretty big to hide.”
“What are we going to do now?” asked Mr. Benson. “You realize that the trial begins on Tuesday?”
“A great deal will depend upon the condition of our hostess,” replied Mr. Tring. “At present I cannot do much——”
“No, no.” The old lawyer shivered. “We don’t want the poor thing tortured any more.”
“It will not be a question of torture,” Mr. Tring returned quietly, “I very nearly—much more nearly than you think—obtained all we wanted; but, as I said at the time, it is the influence, the dominating influence, of Laidlaw that at present blocks the way. If we can make absolutely certain that she does not see Laidlaw before Tuesday, I think we can consider that we will win.”
“By Tuesday?” asked Mr. Benson. “Running it a bit close, you know.”
“We shall see,” replied the psychologist. “We shall see. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll turn in. I rise early, and like early hours.” He bade good-night to Mr. Benson and Wilfred; then he left the library. The lawyer continued to talk to Wilfred for over an hour; and then they, too, went to bed.
The night passed without interruption or disturbance. Joe Litt and a trusted mate, by Mr. Benson’s instructions, had sat up all night in the tiny vestry of the secret crypt, in case Laidlaw, after all, should return to see Lady Evenden. But, in the morning they had nothing to report, when Mr. Benson interviewed them after breakfast. They had left the hiding-place soon after daybreak, and the night had gone by, they said, without a single interruption of the silence of the secret place.
Mr. Tring spent the day in taking long walks in the surrounding country. Mr. Benson attended to his everlasting papers and his telephonic. And, in the afternoon, he drove over to Norwich, where he remained some time in his offices. He arranged to see Frank Gough the following day in his cell, and he reflected, as he drove home, that that would be his last visit to Frank, until the trial. Would it be necessary for him to visit Frank after the trial? If so, in what sort of cell? Mr. Benson, shuddering, wrapped his fur coat more tightly round him, while his face assumed a very determined, hard expression.
Wilfred spent a little time with Jill. They lunched together and talked over the coming trial. Wilfred explained to her that he had not gone to London, after all, but that he had had to take a ride into the country on a motor-cycle. The cuts on his face, he explained, were the result of a slight accident. Jill was not quite satisfied. She felt that he was hiding something from her. But, she refrained from pressing him for more details.
She told him that, several times during the night, Lady Evenden had got up to go to the window of her room and gaze across the park, as though looking for something; that she had continued staring for quite five minutes upon each occasion; but that evidently she had found nothing she had sought, for soon thereafter she had retired to bed again. Wilfred arranged with Jill that if Lady Evenden should repeat those watches on the following, or on any other, night, and if in consequence of what she might see in the park, she should leave her room, then Jill surely was to follow her. But, first of all in order to warn him of what was happening, she must go along to his room and tap on the door.
Wilfred determined to inform the lawyer of this matter. In his own mind he felt certain that Lady Evenden was awaiting a signal from Dr. Laidlaw.
The lawyer was most interested, even excited, and at once put himself in touch with Mr. Rushton Tring; and, the psychologist also held himself in readiness for a signal.
Again, however, the night passed without their being called on; though, in the morning, Jill said that Lady Evenden had again at the same times looked across the park.
The week-end dragged slowly by; to Mr. Benson the days were becoming intolerable. The ordeal of Tuesday, without more knowledge than he had at the moment, was almost unthinkable. On Monday he sought Lady Evenden, alone. He found her distressed and nervous, full of fears and forebodings of the coming trial of her son that was to open on the following day. But, though he begged pathetically for her to arm him at that late hour with all the information at her disposal, she steadfastly refused.
Mr. Tring kept very much alone. When the old lawyer suggested to him that he should interview Lady Evenden, and again try to obtain the secret from her, he refused gently.
“Wait,” he said. “We must wait. At present, regrettable as it is, we can do nothing. Her mental condition is such at the moment that her brain would actually break down before she could be forced to speak. Something may happen to-morrow to give us our opportunity.”
“What may happen to-morrow I fear to contemplate,” replied the old lawyer. “Never have I entered a case of greater and more terrible importance; and, never have I entered a case with such a dangerously incomplete defence.”
Later that day a telephone message announced the arrival of Sir Courtney Caldecott, K.C., at a Norwich hotel, and Mr. Benson invited him over to dinner. There the distinguished barrister met Wilfred, Mr. Rushton Tring; and, for three minutes, he was received by Lady Evenden, in her boudoir.
“You will obtain the lease of my unfortunate son?” the lady begged pathetically.
Sir Courtney gave her a few cheering words. Though he, himself, remained quite bright and optimistic about the prospects on the morrow, while in the presence of Lady Evenden, Wilfred noticed that a dark frown sat upon the great advocate’s brows all through the dinner.