Chapter XII: The Man Who Could Not Get Drunk (2)

“Unknown to me she sent for him—asked him to come at once—and he came. He was shown by the butler into the study, where I was still sitting at the desk, and he stopped motionless by the door staring at the body, which had not been moved. I was waiting for the doctor, and I got up surprised.

“‘The butler told me he had been shot,’ he said a little jerkily. ‘How did it happen?’

“‘I wasn’t expecting you, Sir Edward,’ I answered slowly. ‘But I’m glad that you’ve come. I’d like another opinion.’

“‘What do you mean?’ he cried. ‘Is there any mystery?’

“‘I’ll tell you exactly what happened as far as I know the facts,’ I said. ‘Lady Granger and her husband had a very bad quarrel to-night. Then she came to bed, and so did I. Shortly afterwards her husband came along into this room. Now, my bedroom is in the passage you have just come along, and about ten minutes after Sir Henry came in here, his wife followed him. I opened my door, because I was afraid they might start quarrelling again, and he had been drinking. I saw her come in; there was a pause, and then a revolver shot rang out.’

“‘Was this door shut?’ he snapped.

“‘Yes,’ I answered, ‘it was. I rushed along the passage and came in. I found her standing, with the revolver at her feet, staring at her husband, who was lying where he is now. She said: ‘There’s been an accident.’ And then she muttered something about a man and the window before she fainted. I went to the window, and there was no one there. I looked out; will you do the same?’

“I waited while he walked over and looked out, and after what seemed an interminable time he came back again.

“‘How long was it after the shot before you looked out?’ His voice was very low as he asked the question.

“‘Not a quarter of a minute,’ I answered, and we both stood staring at one another in silence.

“‘Good God!’ he said at length, ‘what are you driving at?’

“‘I’m not driving at anything, Sir Edward,’ I answered. ‘At least, I’m trying not to drive at it. But the man is dead, and the police must be sent for. What are we going to say?’

“‘The truth, of course,’ he answered instantly.

“‘Quite,’ I said slowly. ‘But what is the truth?’

“He turned very white, and leant against one of the old suits of armour, of which the dead man had a wonderful collection all over the house.

“‘Did Lady Granger see this man go out of the window?’ he asked at length.

“‘No, she only heard him open it. You see, she says he switched off the light. It was on when I rushed in.’

“‘A rope,’ he suggested.

“‘Impossible in the time,’ I said; ‘utterly impossible. Such a suggestion would be laughed out of court.’

“He came over and sat down heavily in a chair, and his face was haggard.

“‘Sir Edward,’ I went on desperately, ‘the doctor will be here shortly; the police must be sent for. We’ve got to decide something. This man didn’t go out by the door or I’d have seen him; only a fly could have gone out by the window. We’ve got to face the facts.’

“‘You don’t believe there was a man here at all,’ he said slowly.

“‘Heaven help me! I don’t,’ I answered. ‘It’s all so easy to reconstruct. The poor girl was driven absolutely desperate by what happened to-night, and by the last thing he said to her after their quarrel.’ I looked at him for a moment before going on. ‘He accused her of being in love with you.’ I said it deliberately, and he caught his breath sharply.

“‘Can’t you see it all?’ I continued. ‘She came in here, and she shot him; and when she’d done it her nerves gave, and she said the first thing to me that came into her head.’

“‘If you’re right,’ he said heavily, ‘it means that Ruth will be tried for murder!’ He got up with his hands to his temples. ‘My God! Stratton,’ he cried, ‘this is awful. Premeditated murder, too—not done blindly in the middle of a quarrel, but a quarter of an hour after it was over.’

“‘That’s how it would strike a jury,’ I answered gravely.

“‘Supposing she had done it suddenly, blindly’—he was talking half to himself—‘snatched the revolver off the table as he tried to make love to her, let’s say.’ And then he stopped and stared at me.

“‘Supposing that had happened, it would be better for her to say so at once,’ I said.

“‘But it didn’t happen,’ he answered; ‘it couldn’t have.’

“‘No,’ I agreed. ‘It didn’t happen; it couldn’t have. But supposing it had, Sir Edward, what then?’

“‘Stop, Stratton,’ he cried. ‘For Heaven’s sake, stop!’

“‘There’s no good stopping,’ I said. ‘We haven’t any time for argument. Your legal knowledge has suggested the same solution as occurred to me. If _now_, at once, when we send for the police, she says it was an accident—gives a complete story, chapter and verse——’

“‘Invents it, you mean,’ he interrupted.

“‘Call it what you like,’ I said, ‘but, unless she does that and substantiates the story, she will be tried for the premeditated and wilful murder of her husband. She’ll have to be tried anyway, but if she makes a voluntary confession—makes a story out of it that will appeal to sentiment—they will acquit her. It’s the only chance.’

“‘But it’s monstrous, man,’ he muttered—only now his eyes were fixed on me questioningly.

“‘Look here, Sir Edward,’ I said, ‘let’s discuss this matter calmly. Humanly speaking, we know what happened. Ruth came along that passage, opened this door, and shot her husband dead through the heart—that is the case as I should put it to the jury, the plain issue shorn of all its trappings. What is going to be the verdict?’

“Shoreham plucked at his collar as if he were fighting for breath.

“‘If, on the other hand, the shot was not immediate—and I am the only witness as to that; if I had heard his voice raised in anger; if he had sprung at her, tried to kiss her, and she blindly, without thought, had snatched up the first thing that came to her hand, the revolver, not even knowing it was loaded—what then? The servants can be squared. She was talking wildly when she mentioned this man—didn’t know what she was saying. And then, when she got back to her room she realised that the truth was best, and rang you up, a Judge. What better possible proof could any jury have of her desire to conceal nothing? And you with your reputation on the Bench——’

“‘Ah, don’t, don’t!’ he cried hoarsely. ‘You’re driving me mad! You’re—you’re——!’

“‘Why, Ned, what’s the matter?’

“We both swung round. Ruth had come in, unnoticed by us, and was staring at Shoreham with wonder in her eyes. Then, with a shudder, she stepped past her husband’s body and came into the room.

“‘They’ve just told me you were here,’ she said, and then she gave a little cry. ‘Ned, why are you looking like that? Ned! you don’t think—you don’t think I did it?’

“She cowered back, looking first at him and then at me.

“‘You _can’t_ think I did it,’ she whispered. ‘I tell you there was a man here—the man who shot him. Oh! they’ll believe me, won’t they?’

“‘Ruth,’ I said, ‘I want you to realise that we’re both of us your friends.’ Which is the sort of fatuous remark one does make when the tension is a bit acute. She never even glanced at me as I spoke; with a sort of sick horror in her eyes, she was staring at Shoreham, and I blundered on: ‘When you talked about this man you were unnerved—distraught; you didn’t know what you were saying. We both realise that. But now we’ve got to think of the best way of—of helping you. You see, the police must be sent for—we ought to have sent for them sooner—and——’

“She walked past me and went over to Shoreham.

“‘Do you believe I did it, Ned?’ she said quietly. ‘If I swear to you that I didn’t—would that convince you?’

“‘But, Ruth,’ he cried desperately, ‘it isn’t me you’ve got to convince—it’s the police. A man couldn’t have got out of that window in the time. It’s a physical impossibility. If you told it to the police, they’d laugh. Tell us the truth, my dear. I beseech you. Tell us the truth, and we’ll see what can be done.’

“She stood very still, with her hands clenched by her sides. And then quite deliberately she spoke to Shoreham.

“‘If you don’t believe there was a man here,’ she said, ‘you _must_ think I shot my husband. There was no one else who could have done it. Well—supposing I did. You acknowledge no justification for such an act?’

“I started to speak, but she silenced me with an imperative wave of her hand.

“‘Please, Bill——Well, Ned—I’m waiting. If I did shoot him—what then?’”

The Barrister paused to relight his cigar, and the others waited in silence.

“She was staring at Shoreham,” he went on after a while, “with a faint, half-mocking, wholly tender smile on her lips, and if either he or I had been less dense that smile should have made us think. But at the moment I was absorbed in the problem of how to save her; while she was absorbed in a very different one concerning the mentality of the man she cared for. And Shoreham—well, he was absorbed in the old, old fight between love and duty, and the fierceness of the struggle was showing on his face.

“There in front of him stood the woman he loved, the woman who had just shot her husband, and the woman who was now free for him to marry. He knew as well as I did that in adopting the line I had suggested lay the best chance of getting her acquitted. He knew as well as I did that the vast majority of juries would acquit if the story were put to them as we had outlined it. He could visualise as well as I the scene in court. Counsel for the defence—I’d already fixed on Grayson in my mind as her counsel—outlining the whole scene: her late husband’s abominable conduct culminating in this final outrage at her reception. And then as he came to the moment of the tragedy, I could picture him turning to the jury with passionate sincerity in his face—appealing to them as men—happily married, perhaps, but men, at any rate, to whom home life was sacred.

“I could hear his voice—low and earnest—as he sketched for them that last scene. This poor, slighted, tormented woman—girl, gentlemen, for she is little more than a girl—went in desperation to the man—well, he is dead now, and we will leave it at that—to the man who had made her life a veritable hell. She pleaded with him, gentlemen, to allow her to divorce him—pleaded for some remnant of decent feelings in him. And what was his answer—what was the answer of this devil who was her husband? Did he meet her half-way? Did he profess the slightest sorrow for his despicable conduct?

“No, gentlemen—not one word. His sole response was to spring at her in his drunken frenzy and endeavour to fix his vile attentions on her. And she, mad with terror and fright, snatched up the revolver which was lying on the desk. It might have been a ruler—anything; she was not responsible at the moment for what she did. Do you blame her, gentlemen? You have daughters of your own. She no more knew what she had in her hand than a baby would. To keep him away—that was her sole idea. And then—suddenly—it happened. The revolver went off—the man fell dead.

“What did this girl do, gentlemen, after that? Realising that he was dead, did she make any attempt to conceal what she had done—to conceal her share in the matter? No—exactly the reverse. Instantly she rang up Sir Edward Shoreham, whose views on such matters are well known to you all. And then and there she told him everything—concealing nothing, excusing nothing. Sir Edward Shoreham of all people, who, with due deference to such a distinguished public man, has at times been regarded as—well—er—not lenient in his judgments. And you have heard what Sir Edward said in the box. . . .”

Once again the Barrister paused and smiled faintly.

“I’d got as far as that, you see, before Shoreham answered her. And he had got as far as that, too, I think. He saw it all, built on a foundation of lies—built on the foundation of his dishonour. No one would ever know except us three—but that doesn’t make a thing easier for the Edward Shorehams of the world.

“And then he spoke—in a low, tense voice:

“‘If you shot him, dear,’ he said, ‘nothing matters save getting you off.’

“Some people,” pursued the Barrister, “might call it a victory—some people would call it a defeat. Depends on one’s outlook; depends on how much one really believes in the ‘Could not love you half so much, loved I not honour more’ idea. But certainly the murderer himself was very pleased.”

“The murderer?” cried the Ordinary Man sitting up suddenly.

“The murderer,” returned the Barrister. “That’s why I mentioned about my cigarette-case this morning. He had been standing behind the suit of armour in the corner the whole time. He came out suddenly, and we all stared at him speechlessly, and then he started coughing—a dreadful tearing cough—which stained his handkerchief scarlet.

“‘I must apologise,’ he said when he could speak, ‘but there was another thing besides shooting Granger that I wanted to do before I died. That was why I didn’t want to be caught to-night. However, a man must cough when he’s got my complaint. But I’m glad I restrained myself long enough to hear your decision, Sir Edward. I congratulate you on it.’

“‘You scoundrel!’ began Shoreham, starting forward, ‘why didn’t you declare yourself sooner?’

“‘Because there’s another thing I wanted to do,’ he repeated wearily. ‘In Paris, in the Rue St. Claire, there lives a woman. She was beautiful once—to me she is beautiful now. She was _my_ woman until——’ And his eyes sought the dead body of Henry Granger.

“Ruth took a deep breath. ‘Yes—until?’ she whispered.

“‘Until he came,’ said the man gravely. ‘And God will decide between him and me. But I would have liked to look on her once more, and hold her hand, and tell her, yet again, that I understood—absolutely.’

“It was then Ruth Granger crossed to him.

“‘What is her name and the number of the house?’ she said.

“‘Sybil Deering is her name,’ he answered slowly, ‘and the number is fourteen.’

“‘Will you leave it to me?’ she asked.

“For a moment he stared at her in silence, then he bowed.

“‘From the bottom of my heart I thank you, Lady Granger, and I hope you will have all the happiness you deserve.’ He glanced at Shoreham and smiled. ‘When a man loves everything else goes to the wall, doesn’t it? Remember that in the future, Sir Edward, when they’re standing before you, wondering, trying to read their fate. Someone loves them, just as you love her.’”

The Barrister rose and drained his glass.

“And that is the conclusion of your suffering,” he remarked.

“Was the man hanged?” asked the Soldier.

“No, he died a week later of galloping consumption.”

“And what of the other two?” demanded the Actor.

“They married, and are living happily together to-day, doing fruit farming as a hobby.”

“Fruit farming!” echoed the Doctor. “Why fruit farming?”

“Something to do,” said the Barrister. “You see, Sir Edward has never tried another case. Some men are made that way.”

_III_ _The Doctor’s Story, being Sentence of Death_

“SOONER or later,” began the Doctor, settling himself comfortably in his chair, “it comes to most of us. Sooner or later a man or a woman comes to consult us on what they imagine to be some trifling malady, and when we make our examination we find that it isn’t trifling. And occasionally we find that not only is the matter not trifling, but that—well, you all have seen Collier’s picture, ‘The Sentence of Death.’

“It’s a thing, incidentally, which requires careful thought—just how much you will tell. Different people take things different ways, and where it might be your duty to tell one man the half-truth, to another it might be just as much your duty to lie. But broadly speaking, I, personally, have always maintained that, unless the circumstances are quite exceptional, it is a doctor’s duty to tell a patient the truth, however unpleasant it may be. What would a man say if his lawyer or his stockbroker lied to him?

“Which brings me to the opening of my story. It was in the May before the War that a man came into my consulting-room—a man whom I will call Jack Digby. I motioned him to a chair on the other side of my desk, so placed that the light from the window fell on his face. I put him down as a man of about three-and-thirty who was used to an outdoor life. His face was bronzed, his hands were sunburnt, and the whole way he carried himself—the set of his shoulders, the swing of his arms as he walked across the room—indicated the athlete in good condition. In fact, he was an unusual type to find in a Harley Street consulting-room, and I told him so by way of opening the conversation.

“He grinned, a very pleasant, cheery grin, and put his hat on the floor.

“‘Just a matter of form, Doctor,’ he said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs. ‘I’m thinking of entering for the matrimonial stakes, and before saddling-up I thought I’d just get you to certify me sound in wind and limb.’

“Now he spoke very easily and naturally, but something—I don’t quite know what—made me look at him a little more closely. The study of human nature is a vital necessity if the study of human ailments is to be successful—and one gets plenty of opportunity for it if one is a consulting physician. And I suddenly wondered if it was ‘just a matter of form’ in his mind. The ordinary young, healthy man doesn’t usually take the trouble to be overhauled by a doctor merely because he is going to be married.

“However, at that stage of the proceedings my thoughts were my own, and I answered him in the same vein. And while he was taking off his coat and shirt we talked casually on various topics. Then I started my examination. And within half a minute I knew that something was very, very wrong.

“‘I would like you to take off your vest, please, Mr. Digby,’ I said, and for a moment he stared at me in silence. I was watching him quietly, and it was then I knew that my first surmise was correct. In his eyes there was a look of dreadful fear.

“He stripped his vest off, and I continued my examination. And after I’d finished I walked over to my desk.

“‘You can put on your clothes again,’ I said gravely, to swing round as I felt his hand like a vice on my shoulder.

“‘What is it?’ he muttered. ‘Tell me.’

“‘It was not altogether a matter of form with you, was it, Mr. Digby?’ I answered. ‘Put on your clothes; I want to ask you a few questions.’

“‘Hang it, man!’ he cried. ‘I can’t wait. What have you found?’

“‘I would like to have another opinion before telling you.’ I was fencing for time, but he was insistent.

“‘You can have another opinion—you can have fifty other opinions,’ he cried, still gripping me by the shoulder—‘but I want to know what you think _now_. Can I marry?’

“‘You cannot,’ I said gravely, and his hand fell to his side. Then he slowly walked across the room and stood with his back to me, staring out of the window. Once his shoulders shook a little, but except for that he stood quite motionless. And after a while he picked up his clothes and started to dress.

“I said nothing until he had finished; with a man of his type talking is a mistake. It was not until he again sat down in the chair opposite me that I broke the silence.

“‘You asked me a specific question, Mr. Digby,’ I said quietly, ‘and I answered as a man of your type would like to be answered. But I now want to modify my reply slightly. And I will put it this way. If I had a daughter, I would not allow a man whose heart was in the condition that yours is to marry her. It would not be fair to her; it would certainly not be fair to any possible children.’

“He nodded gravely, though he didn’t speak.

“‘You feared something of this sort when you came to me?’ I asked.

“‘My mother died of it,’ he answered quietly. ‘And once or twice lately, after exercise, I’ve had an agonising twinge of pain.’ And then, under his breath, he added: ‘Thank God, she doesn’t know!’

“‘But I would like another opinion,’ I continued. ‘There are men, as you know, who are entirely heart specialists, and I will give you the address of one.’

“‘Confirmation of the death sentence,’ he laughed grimly. ‘No saddling-up for me—eh, Doctor?’

“‘Not as you are at present, Mr. Digby.’ I was writing the address of the biggest heart man on a piece of paper, though I felt it was useless. It didn’t require an expert to diagnose this trouble.

“‘Is there any chance of getting better?’ he cried eagerly, and I stopped writing and looked at him. There was hope—a dawning hope in his eyes—and for a moment I hesitated.

“My own opinion was that there was no chance: that he might, with care and luck, live for two or three years—perhaps more—but that he might equally well drop dead at any moment. It was enough—that momentary hesitation; the eager look in his eyes faded, and he sat back wearily in his chair.

“‘Don’t bother,’ he said slowly; ‘I see how it is.’

“‘No, you don’t, Mr. Digby,’ I answered. ‘You see how I think it is. Which is an altogether different matter. There is always a chance.’

“‘That’s juggling with words,’ he said, with a twisted little smile. ‘The great point is that I’m not in a position to ask this girl to marry me.’

“He glanced at the slip of paper I handed to him, then he rose.

“‘I would like you to go and see him,’ I said quietly. ‘You see I feel the gravity of what I’ve had to tell you this morning very much, and in fairness to myself as well as to you, my dear fellow, I’d like you to go to Sir John.’

“For a few seconds he stood there facing me, then he grinned as he had done at the beginning of the interview.

“‘All right, Doctor,’ he cried. ‘I’ll go, and Sir John shall drive the nail right in.’

“‘I’m sorry,’ I said—‘infernally sorry. You’ve taken it, if I may say so, like a very brave man.’

“He turned away abruptly. ‘What the deuce is the good of whining?’ he cried. ‘If it’s the same as in my mother’s case, the end will be very abrupt.’

“The next moment he was gone—a man under sentence of death. And the pitiful tragedy of it hit one like a blow. He was so essentially the type of man who should have married some charming girl and have children. He was just a first-class specimen of the sporting Englishman, but——” The Doctor paused and looked at the Soldier. “The type that makes a first-class squadron-leader,” and the Soldier nodded.

“It was in the afternoon,” continued the Doctor after a while, “that Sir John Longworth rang me up. Digby had been to him, and the result was as I expected. Two years, or possibly two days, and as for marriage, out of the question entirely. He had merely confirmed my own diagnosis of the case, and there for a time the matter rested. In the stress of work Jack Digby passed from my mind, until Fate decreed that we should meet again in what were to prove most dramatic circumstances.

“It was two months later—about the beginning of July—that I decided to take a short holiday. I couldn’t really spare the time, but I knew that I ought to take one. So I ran down for a long week-end to stop with some people I knew fairly well in Dorsetshire. They had just taken a big house a few miles from Weymouth, and I will call them the Maitlands. There were Mr. and Mrs. Maitland, and a son, Tom, up at the ’Varsity, and a daughter, Sybil. When I arrived I found they had a bit of a house-party, perhaps a dozen in all, and after tea the girl, whom I’d met once or twice before, took me round the place.

“She was a charming girl, very, very pretty, of about twenty-two or three, and we chattered on aimlessly as we strolled through the gardens.

“‘You’re quite a big party,’ I laughed, ‘and I thought I was coming for a quiet week-end.’

“‘We’ve got two or three more arriving to-night,’ she said. ‘At least I think so. One of them is a most elusive person.’ She was staring straight in front of her as she spoke, and for the moment she seemed to have forgotten my existence.

“‘Male or female—the elusive one?’ I asked lightly.

“‘A man,’ she answered abruptly, and changed the conversation.

“But being an old and wary bird, I read into her harmless remark a somewhat deeper significance than was perhaps justified, and it struck me very forcibly that if I were the man I would not be elusive in the circumstances. She surely was most amazingly pretty.”

“With great deductive ability,” murmured the Actor, as the Doctor paused to refill his pipe, “we place the elusive man as Jack Digby.”

“You go to blazes!” laughed the teller of the story. “I haven’t got to that yet. Of course you’re quite right—he was; though when I found it out a little later it came as a complete surprise to me. I’d almost forgotten his existence.

“It was her father who first mentioned his name. I was having a sherry and bitters with him in his study before going up to dress for dinner, and the conversation turned on the girl. I think I said how extraordinarily pretty I thought she was, and remarked that I supposed somebody would soon be walking off with her.

“Joe Maitland’s face clouded a little.

“‘As a matter of fact,’ he said, ‘both her mother and I have been expecting it for some time. A most charming man, and Sybil is in love with him, I’m sure. We all thought that he was in love with her,’ and then he exploded—‘damn it, it isn’t a question of thinking, I _know_ he’s in love with her! And for some extraordinary reason he won’t tell her so. He’s kept away from her for the last two months, after having lived in her pocket. And he’s not the type that monkeys round and makes a girl fond of him for no reason. He’s coming here to-night, and——’

“My host, still frowning slightly, lit a cigarette. So evidently this was the elusive man, I thought, putting down my glass. It was no business of mine, and then suddenly I stood very still as I heard him speak again.

“‘Jack Digby is as white as they’re made,’ he was saying, but I didn’t hear any more. Luckily my back was towards him, so he couldn’t see my face. Jack Digby! Poor devil! With Sybil Maitland, the girl, in his mind, the blow I’d given him must have been even crueller than I’d thought. And what a strange coincidence that I should be going to meet him again in such circumstances. Maitland was still rambling on, but I was paying no attention to him. I could, of course, say nothing unless Digby gave me permission; but it struck me that if I told him how the land lay—if I told him that not only was his silence being completely misconstrued, but that it was making the girl unhappy, he might allow me to tell her father the truth. After all, the truth was far better; there was nothing to be ashamed of in having a rotten heart.

“And it was just as I had made up my mind to see Digby that night that the door opened and Tom, the boy, came in. I hadn’t seen him since he was quite a child, and the first thing that struck me about him was that he was almost as good-looking as his sister. He’d got the same eyes, the same colouring, but—there was the devil of a but. Whereas his sister gave one the impression of being utterly frank and fearless, the boy struck me immediately as being the very reverse. That he was the apple of his mother’s eye, I knew—but that signifies nothing. Thank God! mothers are made that way. And as I stood watching him talking to his father I recalled certain vague rumours that I’d heard recently and had paid scant attention to at the time. Rumours of wild extravagance up at Oxford—debts well into the four figures. . . . They came back to my mind, those idle bits of gossip, and they assumed a definite significance as I studied the boy’s face. It was weak—utterly weak; he gave one the impression of having no mental or moral stamina whatever. He poured himself out a glass of sherry, and his hand wasn’t quite steady, which is a bad sign in a boy of under twenty-one. And he was a little frightened of his father, which is bad in a boy of any age when the father is a man like Joe Maitland. And that wasn’t all, either. There was something more—something much bigger on his mind: I was sure of it. There was fear in his heart; you could see it lurking round his eyes—round his mouth. I glanced at Joe, but he seemed quite oblivious of it, and then I left them and went up to dress for dinner. I remember wondering as I turned into my room whether the boy had got into another scrape—then I dismissed him from my mind. Jack Digby was a more interesting and more pressing problem.

“I met him in the hall as I came down, and he gave a sudden start of astonishment.

“‘Why, Doctor,’ he said quietly as we shook hands, ‘this is a surprise. I’d no idea you were to be here.’

“‘Nor I that you were coming,’ I answered, ‘until Mr. Maitland happened to mention it a little while ago.’

“‘You haven’t said anything to him, have you?’ he cried anxiously.

“‘My dear fellow,’ I said, ‘you ought to know that doctors don’t.’ He muttered an apology, and I went on: ‘You know, Digby, I can’t help thinking you’re making a mistake in not telling the truth.’

“He shook his head vigorously. ‘I’m sure I’m not,’ he answered. ‘The mistake I’ve made has been in coming here at all. I haven’t seen her since the day—when you told me. And I oughtn’t to have come now. It’s the last—I swear that. I couldn’t help it; I had to see her once again. I’m going to Africa in August—big game shooting.’

“I stared at him gravely, and after a while he went on:

“‘No one knows better than you,’ he said gravely, ‘my chance of returning. And when I don’t come back—she’ll forget me.’ I saw his hands clench at his side. ‘But if I tell her now—why, she’ll want me to stop in England—to go to specialists—to eke out life to the full two or three years. It’ll be hell—hell! Hell for both of us. Every day she’ll be wondering if she is going to hear I’m dead; it’ll ruin her life. Whereas Africa, if she doesn’t know about my heart, will be sudden. You see, Doctor, she is the only one to be considered—the only one.’

“I drew a deep breath; truly Joe Maitland had been right. This man was white clean through. And then he gave a little choking gasp, and, turning round, I saw the girl coming towards us across the hall.

“‘I didn’t know you’d come, old man,’ I heard her say, and then I moved away and left them. It was one of those occasions when you say it’s the smoke that has got into your eyes—and you lie.”

For a while the Doctor was silent; then he gave a short laugh.

“They sat next to one another at dinner, opposite me, and I’m afraid my partner must have thought I was a little wanting in intellect. They were such a perfectly ideal couple; and I noticed old Joe Maitland watching them every now and then. But gradually, as the meal progressed, a puzzled look began to creep into the girl’s eyes, and once she bit her lip suddenly and turned abruptly to the man on her other side. It was then that Digby looked across the table at me, and in that moment I realised that he was right. For him to remain in England would be impossible for both of them; the end, quick and sudden in an African jungle—if he ever got as far—was the only way out.

“‘My God! Doctor,’ he said as he came round and sat down next to me after the ladies had gone, ‘I knew I was a fool to come, but I didn’t think it was going to be as bad as this.’

“‘When are you going to start?’ I asked.

“‘As soon as I can get things fixed up at home, here, and make some sort of arrangements for carriers and people the other end. One must act, I suppose, even though it’s the last appearance.’ He gave a mirthless laugh. ‘I’ve always wanted to go South from Khartoum—I wonder how far I’ll get.’ Then he began to drum on the table with his fingers. ‘And what I wonder still more,’ he went on slowly, ‘is how in Heaven’s name I’ll get through this evening. You see, though I didn’t actually propose in so many words before I came to see you, I’d—I’d let things drift to such a position that a proposal was hardly necessary. That’s the devil of it. . . . She knows I worship the ground she walks on—and I know she cares too.’

“‘How long are you going to stop here?’ I asked.

“‘I accepted for the week-end,’ he said abruptly. ‘I shall go first thing to-morrow. I can’t stand it.’

“At that we left it, and I didn’t speak to him again until the thing occurred which even now—though seven years have slipped by—is as clearly imprinted on my brain as if it had happened last night.

“I couldn’t sleep very well that night, and at about two I switched on my light, with the idea of reading. I was just reaching out for a book when I heard the sound of voices from a room almost opposite. I listened for a moment, then I got up and went to the door. For the voices were excited and angry; something unusual was evidently happening. For a moment or two I hesitated; then I slipped on a dressing-gown and looked out. Across the passage the door of a room was open, and through it the light was streaming out. And then I heard Joe Maitland speak, and his words literally rooted me to the ground with amazement.

“‘So, Mr. Digby, you’re just a common damned thief. The gentleman crook—what? The amateur cracksman. That’s what they call them on the stage, I believe. Sounds better. But I prefer the more homely name of thief.’

“It was then that I appeared in the door, and Maitland swung round.

“‘Oh, it’s you, is it, Tranton?’ He had a revolver in his hand, and he lowered it when he saw who it was. ‘A pretty tableau, isn’t it? It appears that a second edition of—what was the gentleman’s name—Raffles, wasn’t it?—has been honouring me with his presence. Unfortunately, Tom and I both happened to hear him.’

“But I was paying no attention to what he was saying; my eyes were fixed on Digby and—Tom. Digby, with a quiet smile on his face and his hands in his pockets, was standing beside an open safe. He was still in evening clothes, and once he glanced my way. Then he looked back again at his host, and I looked at Tom. He was in his dressing-gown, and he was shivering as if he had the ague. He was standing close to his father, and a little behind him—and Joe Maitland was too engrossed with Digby to notice the condition he was in.

“‘Can you advance any reason, Mr. Digby,’ he demanded, ‘why I shouldn’t call up the local police?’

“‘None whatever, Mr. Maitland,’ he answered gravely. ‘Your son caught me fair and square.’

“And it seemed to me that Tom made an effort to speak, though no words came from his lips.

“‘You damned scoundrel!’ cried Maitland. ‘You come to my house—you make love to my daughter—and then you abuse my hospitality by trying to steal my wife’s jewellery!’

“It was at that moment that the girl came in. I saw Digby catch his breath and lean against the wall for support; then he straightened up and faced his host again. Just once had he glanced at her, with her glorious hair falling over her shoulders and a startled look of wonder in her great eyes. Then resolutely he looked away.

“‘What’s happened, Daddy?’ she whispered. ‘I heard your voice and——’

“‘This has happened, my dear,’ said Maitland grimly. ‘We have been privileged to discover Mr. Digby’s method of earning a livelihood.’ He pointed to the open safe. ‘He apparently ingratiates himself with people for the express purpose of stealing their valuables. In other words, a common thief.’

“‘I don’t believe it!’ she flashed out, imperiously. ‘Jack—a thief! How can you say such a thing?’

“‘Then may I ask what he was doing when your brother discovered him by the open safe? Besides, he admits it himself.’

“‘Jack!’ The cry seemed to come from the very depths of her soul. ‘Say it’s a lie!’

“For one second he hesitated; then he spoke quite steadily, though he didn’t look at her.

“‘I am afraid, Miss Maitland—that I can’t say it’s untrue.’

“And then there fell one of those silences that can be felt. She was staring at Jack Digby, was the girl—staring at him with a great amazement dawning on her face.

“‘Jack,’ she whispered, ‘look at me!’

“He raised his eyes and looked at her, and a little pulse was beating just above his jaw. Then, after what seemed an interminable time, she gave a little laugh that was half a sob and turned away.

“‘I see,’ she said below her breath. ‘I see.’

“But what it was she saw, I didn’t at the moment realise. It was to be made clear a little later.”

The Doctor paused and threw a log on the fire.

“Yes, I found out later what she thought,” he went on after a while, “and for the first and probably the last time in my life I was guilty of a breach of professional confidence. It was about half an hour later that I went round to Jack Digby’s room. Maitland, after thinking it over—and it is possible that I had something to do with his decision—had dismissed the idea of sending for the police. Digby was to clear out by the first train next morning, and was never to make an attempt to communicate with the girl again. And Jack Digby had bowed in silence and gone to his own room. He wouldn’t look at me as he passed; I think he knew that he hadn’t deceived me.

“He was sitting by the open window when I went in, still in his evening clothes, and he looked round with a start as I entered. His face was drawn and grey.

“‘My dear chap,’ I said, before he could speak, ‘is it worth while?’

“‘I don’t understand what you mean, Doctor,’ he said slowly.

“‘Oh, yes, you do!’ I answered. ‘You deceived Mr. Maitland all right—you didn’t deceive me. It was Tom who opened the safe—not you.’

“For a moment I thought he was going to deny it; then he gave a little mirthless laugh.

“‘Perfectly correct,’ he said. ‘As you say, it was Tom who opened the safe. I caught him absolutely in the act. And then Mr. Maitland came.’

“‘But—good God!’ I cried, ‘what an unutterable young waster he must be to let you shoulder the blame!’

“Digby faced me steadily. ‘I made him. You see, I saw it was the chance I had been looking for.’

“‘You mean you told him about your heart?’

“‘No,’ he answered quietly. ‘But I told him I was entangled with another woman, and that the best way of saving his sister’s feelings was to let her think——’

“And then the boy broke down utterly. With his hands on my shoulders he stood there facing me, and he made me swear I wouldn’t tell the girl.

“‘She must never know, Doctor. I’ve done it for her. She must never know.’

“And even as he spoke, the words died away on his lips, and he stood motionless, staring past me at the door. Without looking round I knew what had happened—I could smell the faint scent she used.

“‘What have you done for me, Jack, and why must I never know?’

“She came steadily up to him, and his hands fell to his side.

“‘Why, you’ve been crying, dear,’ she said. ‘What’s the matter?’

“True to his purpose, he started some fantastic story about sorrow at having been found out, but she cut him short.

“‘Don’t lie, Jack—not now,’ she whispered. ‘I know it wasn’t you who opened the safe. I know it was Tom. But what I want to know is why you said you did it.’

“It was then I made up my mind.

“‘I’m going to tell her, Digby, whether you like it or not,’ and she looked at me quickly. He didn’t say anything; things had got beyond him. And very briefly I told her the truth about his heart.

“She listened to me in absolute silence, and when I’d finished she just turned round to him and held out both her arms.

“‘Thank God! I know, my darling,’ she whispered. ‘I thought it was because you’d got fond of another woman. I thought—oh! Heaven knows what I thought! But now—oh! you stupid, wonderful boy!’

“I went to the window and looked out! It must have been five minutes later that I found the girl at my side.

“‘Is it absolutely hopeless?’ she asked.

“‘Humanly speaking,’ I answered, ‘yes.’

“‘How long?’ and she put her hand on my arm.

“‘Two days; two months; at the utmost, two years,’ I said gravely.

“‘And why shouldn’t I look after him for those two years?’ she demanded fiercely.

“‘I’m thinking of a possible child,’ I said quietly, and she began to tremble a little.

“‘That’s ridiculous,’ she cried—‘quite ridiculous.’”

The Doctor was carefully cleaning out the bowl of his pipe. “In the morning Jack Digby had gone, leaving behind him a note for her. She showed it to me later.

“‘The Doctor is right, my darling,’ it ran. ‘It’s just Fate, and there’s not much use kicking. I’m glad though that you know the truth—it helps. Good-bye, dear heart. God bless you.’”

The Doctor paused.

“Is that all?” said the Ordinary Man.

“Very nearly,” answered the Doctor. “I had been right when I said two months, only the cause of death was not what I expected. How he got across the water so soon I don’t know. But he did—in a cavalry regiment. And he stopped one—somewhere up Ypres way.”

“And the girl?” asked the Soldier.

“Has not got over it yet,” said the Doctor.

“And did she ever hear from him again?” demanded the Barrister.

“Once, from France. Written just before—the end. She didn’t show me _that_ one. Pass the whisky, Actor-man. Talking makes one’s throat infernally dry.”

_IV_ _The Ordinary Man’s Story, being The Pipes of Death_

“ANY of you know Burma?” asked the Ordinary Man, putting out his hand for the tobacco-jar.

“I’ve been there,” grunted the Soldier. “Shooting. Years ago. West of the Irawadi from Rangoon.”

“It’s years since I was there, too,” said the Ordinary Man. “More than a score. And if I wasn’t so beastly fat and lazy I’d like to go back for a visit. Only a visit, mind you. I’ve got to the time of life when I find that London is quite good enough for my needs. But the story which I propose to inflict on you fellows to-night concerns Burma, and delving into the past to get the details right has brought the fascination of the place back to me.

“I was about thirty-five at the time—and my benevolent Aunt Jane had not then expired and endowed me with all her worldly goods. I was working for a City firm who had considerable interests out there—chiefly teak, with a strong side-line in rubies.

“At that time, as you may know, the ruby mines in the Mandalay area were second to none, and it was principally to give my employers a report on the many clashing interests in those mines that I went back to England after a few months in the country. And it was in their office that I met a youngster, who had just joined the firm, and who, it turned out, was going out to Burma on the same boat as myself. Jack Manderby was his name, and I suppose he must have been ten or eleven years younger than I. He was coming to my district, and somewhat naturally I was a bit curious to see what sort of a fellow he was.

“I took to him from the very first moment, and after we’d lunched together a couple of times my first impression was strengthened. He was a real good fellow—extraordinarily good-looking and straight as a die, without being in the least degree a prig.

“We ran into a good south-westerly gale the instant we were clear of the Isle of Wight, which necessitated a period of seclusion on my part. In fact, my next appearance in public was at Gibraltar.

“And the first person I saw as I came on deck was Jack Manderby. He was leaning over the side bargaining with some infernal robber below, and at his side was a girl. In the intervals of haggling he turned to her, and they both laughed; and as I stood for a few minutes watching them, it struck me that Master Jack had made good use of the four days since we left England. Then I strolled over and joined them.

“‘Hullo, old man!’ he cried, with a twinkle in his eyes. ‘Is the rumour correct that you’ve been engaged in research work below, and had given orders not to be disturbed?’

“‘Your vulgar jests leave me unmoved,’ I answered with dignity. ‘At any rate, I appear to have arrived in time to save you being robbed. That man is a thief and the son of a thief, and all his children are thieves.’

“Jack laughed; then he swung round to the girl.

“‘By the way, you haven’t met Mr. Walton, have you? This is Miss Felsted, old boy, who is going out to Rangoon.’

“We shook hands, and no more was said at the time. But one thing was definitely certain. Whatever the girl was going to Rangoon for, the gain was Rangoon’s. She was an absolute fizzer—looked you straight in the face with the bluest of eyes that seemed to have a permanent smile lurking in them. And then, suddenly, I noticed her left hand. On the third finger was a diamond ring. It couldn’t be Jack she was engaged to, and I wondered idly who the lucky man was. Because he was lucky—infernally lucky.

“I think,” continued the Ordinary Man, pulling thoughtfully at his pipe, “that I first began to scent complications at Malta. We landed there for a few hours, and the idea was that Miss Felsted, Jack, and I should explore Valetta. Now, I don’t quite know how, but we got separated. I spent a pleasant two hours with a naval pal in the Union Club, while Jack and the girl apparently went up by the narrow-gauge railway to Citta Vecchia, in the centre of the island. And since no one in the full possession of their senses would go on that line for fun, I wondered. I wondered still more when they came back to the ship. Jack was far too open and above-board to be very skilful at hiding his feelings. And something had happened that day.

“Of course, it was no concern of mine. Jack’s affairs were entirely his own; so were the girl’s. But a ship is a dangerous place sometimes—it affords unequalled and unending opportunities for what in those days were known as flirtations, and to-day, I believe, are known as ‘pashes.’ And to get monkeying round with another fellow’s fiancée—well, it leads to complications generally. However, as I said, it was no concern of mine, until it suddenly became so the evening before we reached Port Said.

“I was talking to Jack on deck just before turning in. We were strolling up and down—the sea like a mill-pond, and almost dazzling with its phosphorescence.

“‘Is Miss Felsted going out to get married?’ I asked him casually.

“‘Yes,’ he answered abruptly. ‘She’s engaged to a man called Morrison.’

“‘Morrison,’ I repeated, stopping and staring at him. ‘Not Rupert Morrison, by any chance?’

“‘Yes. Rupert is his name. Do you know him?’

“I’d pulled myself together by this time, and we resumed our stroll.

“‘I know Rupert Morrison quite well,’ I answered. ‘As distance goes in that country, Jack, he’s a near neighbour of ours’; and I heard him catch his breath a little quickly.

“‘What sort of a fellow is he?’ asked Jack quietly, and then he went on, which saved me the trouble of a reply: ‘She hasn’t seen him for four years. They got engaged before he left England, and now she’s going out to marry him.’

“‘I see,’ I murmured non-committally, and shortly afterwards I made my excuse and left him.

“I didn’t turn in at once when I got to my cabin, I wanted to try and get things sorted out in my mind. The first point, which was as obvious as the electric light over the bunk, was that if Jack Manderby was not in love with Molly Felsted he was as near to it as made no odds. The second and far more important point was one on which I was in the dark—was the girl in love with him? If so, it simplified matters considerably; but if not, if she was only playing the fool, there was going to be trouble when we got to Burma. And the trouble would take the form of Rupert Morrison. For the more I thought of it the more amazed did I become that such a girl could ever have become engaged to such a man.

“Of course, four years is a long time, especially when they are passed in comparative solitude. I had no idea what sort of fellow Morrison had been when first he arrived in the country, but I had a very shrewd idea what manner of man he was now. Perhaps it had been the loneliness—loneliness takes some men worse than others—but, whatever the cause, Morrison, after four years in Burma, was no fit mate for such a girl as Molly Felsted. A brooding, sullen man, given to fierce fits of almost animal rage, a heavy drinker of the type who is never drunk, and——”

The Ordinary Man paused and shrugged his shoulders.

“Well, it’s unfair to mention the last point. After all, most of us did that without thinking; but the actual arrival of an English girl—a wife—who was to step, blindly ignorant, into her predecessor’s shoes, so to speak, made one pause to think. Anyway, that was neither here nor there. What frightened me was the prospect of the girl marrying the Morrison of her imagination and discovering, too late, the Morrison of reality. When that happened, with Jack Manderby not five miles away, the fat was going to be in the fire with a vengeance.