Chapter I: DON’T pretend to account for it; I am merely giving the plain (3)

Undoubtedly he was for sale; Desmond Brooke, though he was in no need of money, did not believe in running anything save on business lines. But now something that he did not stop to analyse made him hesitate. He felt a sudden inconsequent distaste against selling the puppy to her.

“You’ve picked the best, I see,” he said quietly.

“Of course,” she answered, with the faintest trace of hauteur. Insensibly she felt that this man was hostile to her.

“I am afraid that that one is not for sale,” he continued. “You can have any of the others if you like.”

Abruptly she restored the puppy to its mother.

“Having chosen the best, Mr. Brooke,” she said, looking him straight in the face, “I don’t care about taking anything second-rate.”

For a second or two they stared at one another. Ada Laverton had wandered away and was talking shop to the gardener; the Hermit and Lady Cynthia were alone.

“You surprise me,” said the Hermit, calmly.

“That is gratuitously rude,” answered the girl quietly. “It is also extremely impertinent. And lastly it shows that you are a very bad judge of character.”

The man bowed.

“I sincerely hope that your ‘lastly’ is true. Am I to understand, then, that you do not care to buy one of the other puppies?”

And suddenly the girl laughed half-angrily.

“What do you mean by daring to say such a thing to me? Why, you haven’t known me for more than two minutes.”

“That is not strictly true, Lady Cynthia. Anyone who is capable of reading and takes in the illustrated papers can claim your acquaintance weekly.”

“I see,” she answered. “You disapprove of my poor features being reproduced.”

“Personally not at all,” he replied. “I know enough of the world, and am sufficiently broadminded, I trust, to realise how completely unimportant the matter is. Lady Cynthia Stockdale at Ascot, at Goodwood, in her motor-car, out of her motor-car, by the fire, by the gas stove, in her boudoir, out of her boudoir, in the garden, not in the garden—and always in a different frock every time. It doesn’t matter to me, but there are some people who haven’t got enough money to pay for the doctor’s bill when their wives are dying. And it’s such a comfort to them to see you by the fire. To know that half the money you paid for your frock would save the life of the woman they love.”

“You’re talking like a ranting tub-thumper,” she cried, furiously. “How dare you say such things to me? And, anyway, does breeding dogs in the wilderness help them with their doctors’ bills?”

“_Touché_,” said the man, with a faint smile. “Perhaps I haven’t expressed myself very clearly. You can’t pay the bills, Lady Cynthia—I can’t. There are too many thousands to pay. But it’s the bitter contrast that hits them, and it’s all so petty.” For a while he paused, seeming to seek for his words. “Come with me, Lady Cynthia, and I’ll show you something.”

Almost violently he swung round on his heel and strode off towards the house. For a moment she hesitated, then she followed him slowly. Anger and indignation were seething in her mind; the monstrous impertinence of this complete stranger was almost bewildering. She found him standing in his smoking-room unlocking a drawer in a big writing-desk.

“Well,” she said uncompromisingly from the doorway.

“I have something to show you,” he remarked quietly. “But before I show it to you, I want to tell you a very short story. Three years ago I was in the back of beyond in Brazil. I’d got a bad dose of fever, and the gassing I got in France wasn’t helping matters. It was touch and go whether I pulled through or not. And one day one of the fellows got a two-month-old _Tatler_. In that _Tatler_ was a picture—a picture of the loveliest girl I have ever seen. I tore it out, and I propped it up at the foot of my bed. I think I worshipped it; I certainly fell in love with it. There is the picture.”

He handed it to her, and she looked at it in silence. It was of herself, and after a moment or two she raised her eyes to his.

“Go on,” she said gently.

“A few months ago I came back to England. I found a seething cauldron of discontent; men out of work—strikes—talk of revolution. And this was the country for which a million of our best had died. I also found—week after week—my picture girl displayed in every paper, as if no such thing as trouble existed. She, in her motor-car, cared for none of these things.”

“That is unjust,” said the girl, and her voice was low.

“I knew it was unjust,” answered the man, “but I couldn’t help it. And if I couldn’t help it—I who loved her—what of these others? It seemed symbolical to me.”

“Nero fiddling,” said the girl, with a faint smile. “You’re rather a strange person, Mr. Brooke. Am I to understand that you’re in love with me?”

“You are not. I’m in love with the you of that picture.”

“I see. You have set up an image. And supposing that image is a true one.”

“Need we discuss that?” said the man, with faint sarcasm.

The girl shrugged her shoulders.

“The supposition is at least as possible as that you are doing any vast amount of good for the seething cauldron of discontent, I think you called it, by breeding Aberdeens in the country. I’m afraid you’re a crank, Mr. Brooke, and not a very consistent one at that. And a crank is to my mind synonymous with a bore.”

The man replaced the picture in his desk.

“Then perhaps we had better join Mrs. Laverton,” he remarked. “I apologise for having wearied you.”

In silence they went out into the garden, to find Ada Laverton wandering aimlessly round looking for them.

“Where have you two been?” she demanded, as she saw them approaching.

“Mr. Brooke has been showing me a relic of his past,” said Lady Cynthia. “Most interesting and touching. Are you ready to go, Ada?”

Mrs. Laverton gave a quick glance at their two faces, and wondered what had happened. Not much, surely, in so short a time—and yet with Cynthia you never could tell. The Hermit’s face, usually so inscrutable, showed traces of suppressed feeling; Cynthia’s was rather too expressionless.

“Are you coming to the ball to-morrow night, Hermit?” she asked.

“I didn’t know there was one on, Mrs. Laverton,” he answered.

“The cricket ball, my good man,” she exclaimed. “It’s been advertised for the last month.”

“But surely Mr. Brooke doesn’t countenance anything so frivolous as dancing?” remarked Lady Cynthia. “After the lecture he has just given me on my personal deportment the idea is out of the question.”

“Nevertheless I propose to come, Lady Cynthia,” said Brooke quietly. “You must forgive me if I have allowed my feelings to run away with me to-day. And perhaps to-morrow you will allow me to find out if the new image is correct—or a pose also.”

“What do you mean?” asked the girl, puzzled.

“‘Lady Cynthia Stockdale—possibly the best dancer in London,’” he quoted mockingly; “I forget which of the many papers I saw it in.”

“Do you propose to pass judgment on my dancing?” she asked.

“If you will be good enough to give me a dance.”

For a moment words failed her. The cool, the sublime impertinence of this man literally choked her. Then she nodded briefly.

“I’ll give you a dance if you’re there in time. And then you can test for yourself, if you’re capable of testing.”

He bowed without a word, and stood watching them as they walked down the lane.

“I think, Ada, that he’s the most detestable man I’ve ever met,” remarked Lady Cynthia furiously, as they turned into the main road.

And Ada Laverton said nothing, but wondered the more.

III

She saw him as soon as she got into the ballroom. It was the last day but one of the local cricket week, and the room was crowded. A large number of the men she knew—men she had danced with in London who had come down to play—and within half a minute she was surrounded. It was a chance of getting a dance with her which was not to be missed; in London she generally danced with one or at the most two men for the whole evening—men who were absolutely perfect performers. For dancing was a part of Lady Cynthia’s life—and a big part.

The humour of the situation had struck her that day. For this dog-breeding crank to presume to judge her powers of dancing seemed too sublimely funny for annoyance. But he deserved to be taught a very considerable lesson. And she proposed to teach him. After that she proposed to dismiss him completely from her mind.

She gave him a cool nod as he came up, and frowned slightly as she noticed the faint glint of laughter in his eyes. Really Mr. Desmond Brooke was a little above himself. So much the worse for him.

“I don’t know whether you’ll find one or not,” she remarked carelessly, handing him her programme.

He glanced at it without a word, and quietly erased someone’s name.

“I’ve made special arrangements with the band for Number 9, Lady Cynthia,” he remarked coolly. “A lot of people will be in at supper then, so we ought to have the floor more to ourselves.”

The next instant he had bowed and disappeared, leaving her staring speechlessly at her programme.

“A breezy customer,” murmured a man beside her. “Who is he?”

“A gentleman who is going to have the biggest lesson of his life,” she answered ominously, and the man laughed. He knew Lady Cynthia—and he knew Lady Cynthia’s temper when it was roused. But for once he was wrong in his diagnosis; the outward and visible were there all right—the inward and mental state of affairs in keeping with them was not. For the first time in her life Lady Cynthia felt at a loss. Her partners found her _distraite_ and silent; as a matter of fact she was barely conscious of their existence. And the more she lashed at herself mentally, the more confused did she get.

It was preposterous, impossible. Why should she cut Tubby Dawlish to dance with a crank who kept dogs? A crank, moreover, who openly avowed that his object was to see if she could dance. Every now and then she saw him lounging by the door watching her. She knew he was watching her, though she gave no sign of being aware of his existence. And all the while Number 9 grew inexorably nearer.

Dance indeed! She would show him how she could dance. And as a result she fell into the deadly fault of trying. No perfect dancer ever _tries_ to dance; they just dance. And Lady Cynthia knew that better than most people. Which made her fury rise still more against the man standing just outside the door smoking a cigarette. A thousand times—no; she would not cut Tubby.

And then she realised that people were moving in to supper; that the 8 was being taken down from the band platform—that 9 was being put up. And she realised that Desmond Brooke the Hermit was crossing the room towards her; was standing by her side while Tubby—like an outraged terrier—was glaring at him across her.

“This is mine, old thing,” spluttered Tubby. “Number 9.”

“I think not,” said the Hermit quietly. “I fixed Number 9 especially with Lady Cynthia yesterday.”

She hesitated—and was lost.

“I’m sorry, Tubby,” she said a little weakly. “I forgot.”

Not a trace of triumph showed on the Hermit’s face, as he gravely watched the indignant back of his rival retreating towards the door: not a trace of expression showed on his face as he turned to the girl.

“You’ve been trying to-night, Lady Cynthia,” he said gravely. “Please don’t—this time. It’s a wonderful tune this—half waltz, half tango. It was lucky finding Lopez conducting: he has played for me before. And I want you just to forget everything except the smell of the passion flowers coming in through the open windows, and the thrumming of the guitars played by the natives under the palm-trees.” His eyes were looking into hers, and suddenly she drew a deep breath. Things had got beyond her.

It was marked as a fox-trot on the programme, and several of the more enthusiastic performers were waiting to get off on the stroke of time. But as the first haunting notes of the dance wailed out—they paused and hesitated. This was no fox-trot; this was—but what matter what it was? For after the first bar no one moved in the room: they stood motionless watching one couple—Lady Cynthia Stockdale and an unknown man.

“Why, it’s the fellow who breeds dogs,” muttered someone to his partner, but there was no reply. She was too engrossed in watching.

And as for Lady Cynthia, from the moment she felt Desmond Brooke’s arm round her, the world had become merely movement—such movement as she had never thought of before. To say that he was a perfect dancer would be idle: he was dancing itself. And the band, playing as men possessed, played for them and them only. Everything was forgotten: nothing in the world mattered save that they should go on and on and on—dancing. She was utterly unconscious of the crowd of onlookers: she didn’t know that people had left the supper-room and were thronging in at the door: she knew nothing save that she had never danced before. Dimly she realised at last that the music had stopped: dimly she heard a great roar of applause—but only dimly. It seemed to come from far away—the shouts of “Encore” seemed hazy and dream-like. They had left the ballroom, though she was hardly conscious of where he was taking her, and when he turned to her and said, “Get a wrap or something: I want to talk to you out in God’s fresh air,” she obeyed him without a word. He was waiting for her when she returned, standing motionless where she had left him. And still in silence he led the way to his car which had been left apart from all the others, almost as if he had expected to want it before the end. For a moment she hesitated, for Lady Cynthia, though utterly unconventional, was no fool.

“Will you come with me?” he said gravely.

“Where to?” she asked.

“Up to the cliffs beyond my house. It will take ten minutes—and I want to talk to you with the sound of the sea below us.”

“You had the car in readiness?” she said quietly.

“For both of us—or for me alone,” he answered. “If you won’t come, then I go home. Will you come with me?” he repeated.

“Yes; I will come.”

He helped her into the car and wrapped a rug round her; then he climbed in beside her. And as they swung out of the little square, the strains of the next dance followed them from the open windows of the Town Hall.

He drove as he danced—perfectly; and in the dim light the girl watched his clear-cut profile as he stared ahead into the glare of the headlights. Away to the right his farm flashed by, the last house before they reached the top of the cliffs. And gradually, above the thrumming of the engine, she heard the lazy boom of the big Atlantic swell on the rocks ahead. At last he stopped where the road ran parallel to the top of the cliff, and switched off the lights.

“Well,” she said, a little mockingly, “is the new image correct or a pose?”

“You dance divinely,” he answered gravely. “More divinely than any woman I have ever danced with, and I have danced with those who are reputed to be the show dancers of the world. But I didn’t ask you to come here to talk about dancing; I asked you to come here in order that I might first apologise, and then say Good-bye.”

The girl gave a little start, but said nothing.

“I talked a good deal of rot to you yesterday,” he went on, after a moment. “You were justified in calling me a ranting tub-thumper. But I was angry with myself, and when one is angry with oneself one does foolish things. I know as well as you do just how little society photographs mean: that was only a peg to hang my inexcusable tirade on. You see, when one has fallen in love with an ideal—as I fell in love with that picture of you, all in white in the garden at your father’s place—and you treasure that ideal for three years, it jolts one to find that the ideal is different to what you thought. I fell in love with a girl in white, and sometimes in the wilds I’ve seen visions and dreamed dreams. And then I found her a lovely being in Paquin’s most expensive frocks; a social celebrity: a household name. And then I met her, and knew my girl in white had gone. What matter that it was the inexorable rule of Nature that she must go: what matter that she had changed into an incredibly lovely woman? She had gone: my dream girl had vanished. In her place stood Lady Cynthia Stockdale—the well-known society beauty. Reality had come—and I was angry with you for having killed my dream—angry with myself for having to wake up.

“Such is my apology,” he continued gravely. “Perhaps you will understand: I think you will understand. And just because I was angry with you, I made you dance with me to-night. I said to myself: ‘I will show Lady Cynthia Stockdale that the man who loved the girl in white can meet her successor on her own ground.’ That’s the idea I started with, but things went wrong half-way through the dance. The anger died; in its place there came something else. Even my love for the girl in white seemed to become a bit hazy; I found that the successor had supplanted her more completely than I realised. And since the successor has the world at her feet—why, the breeder of dogs will efface himself, for his own peace of mind. So, good-bye, Lady Cynthia—and the very best of luck. If it won’t bore you I may say that I’m not really a breeder of dogs by profession. This is just an interlude; a bit of rest spent with the most wonderful pals in the world. I’m getting back to harness soon: voluntary harness, I’m glad to say, as the shekels don’t matter. But anything one can do towards greasing the wheels, and helping those priceless fellows who gave everything without a murmur during the war, and who are up against it now—is worth doing.”

And still she said nothing, while he backed the car on to the grass beside the road, and turned it the way they had come. A jumble of strange thoughts were in her mind; a jumble out of which there stuck one dominant thing—the brown tanned face of the man beside her. And when he stopped the car by his own farm and left her without a word of apology, she sat quite motionless staring at the white streak of road in front. At last she heard his footsteps coming back along the drive, and suddenly a warm wriggling bundle was placed in her lap—a bundle which slobbered joyfully and then fell on the floor with an indignant yelp.

“The puppy,” he said quietly. “Please take him.” And very softly under his breath he added: “The best to the best.”

But she heard him, and even as she stooped to lift the puppy on to her knees, her heart began to beat madly. She knew: at last, she knew.

“I’ll take you back to the dance,” he was saying, “and afterwards I’ll deposit that young rascal at Mrs. Laverton’s house.”

And then for the first time she spoke.

“Please go to Ada’s house first. Afterwards we’ll see about the dance.”

He bowed and swung the car left-handed through the lodge gates.

“Will you wait for me?” she said, as he pulled up at the front door.

“As long as you like,” he answered courteously.

“Because I may be some time,” she continued a little unevenly. “And don’t wait for me here: wait for me where the drive runs through that little copse, half-way down to the lodge.”

The next instant she had disappeared into the house, with the puppy in her arms. Why by the little copse? wondered the man as he slowly drove the car down the drive. The butler had seen them already, so what did it matter? He pulled up the car in the shadow of a big oak tree, and lit a cigarette. Then, with his arms resting on the steering wheel, he sat staring in front of him. He had done a mad thing, and she’d taken it wonderfully well. He always had done mad things all his life; he was made that way. But this was the maddest he had ever done. With a grim smile he pictured her infuriated partners, waiting in serried rows by the door, cursing him by all their gods. And then the smile faded, and he sighed, while his knuckles gleamed white on the wheel. If only she wasn’t so gloriously pretty; if only she wasn’t so utterly alive and wonderful. Well—it was the penalty of playing with fire; and it had been worth it. Yes; it had been worth it—even if the wound never quite healed.

“_A fool there was, and he made his prayer. . . ._”

He pitched his cigarette away, and suddenly he stiffened and sat motionless, while something seemed to rise in his throat and choke him, and the blood hammered hotly at his temples. A girl in white was standing not five feet from him on the fringe of the little wood: a girl holding a puppy in her arms. And then he heard her speaking.

“It’s not the same frock—but it’s the nearest I can do.”

She came up to the car, and once again over the head of the puppy their eyes met.

“I’ve been looking,” she said steadily, “for the real thing. I don’t _think_ I’ve found it—I _know_ I have.”

“My dear!” he stammered hoarsely. “Oh! my dear dream girl.”

“Take me back to the cliff, Desmond,” she whispered. “Take me back to our cliff.”

And an outraged puppy, bouncing off the running-board on to a stray fir-cone, viewed the proceedings of the next five minutes with silent displeasure.

_XI_ _A Glass of Whisky_

“IT’S as easy as shelling peas to be a detective in fiction,” grunted the Barrister. “He’s merely the author of the yarn disguised as a character, and he knows the solution before he starts.”

“But the reader doesn’t, if the story is told well,” objected the Doctor. “And that’s all that matters.”

“Oh! I grant you that,” said the Barrister, lighting a cigar. “I’m not inveighing against the detective story—I love ’em. All I’m saying is that in life a detective’s job is a very different matter to—well, take the illustrious example—to that of Sherlock Holmes. He’s got to make the crime fit to the clues, not the clues fit into the crime. It’s not so terribly difficult to reconstruct the murder of the Prime Minister from a piece of charred paper discovered in the railway refreshment-room at Bath—in fiction; it’s altogether a different matter in reality.”

The Soldier thoughtfully filled his pipe.

“And yet there have been many cases when the reconstruction has been made on some clue almost equally ‘flimsy,’” he murmured.

“A few,” conceded the Barrister. “But nine out of ten are built up with laborious care. The structure does not rest on any one fact—but on a whole lot of apparently unimportant and trivial ones. Of course it’s more spectacular to bring a man to the gallows because half a brick was found lying on the front door-step, but in practice it doesn’t happen.”

“It does—sometimes,” remarked a quiet, sandy-haired man who was helping himself to a whisky-and-soda. “It does sometimes, you man of law. Your remarks coupled with my present occupation remind me of just such a case.”

“Your present occupation appears to be drinking whisky,” said the Doctor, curiously.

“Precisely,” returned the other. “Almost as prosaic a thing as our legal luminary’s half-brick.” He settled himself comfortably in a chair, and the others leaned forward expectantly. “And yet on that very ordinary pastime hinged an extremely interesting case: one in which I was lucky enough to play a principal part.”

“The night is yet young, old man,” said the Barrister. “It’s up to you to prove your words, and duly confound me.”

The sandy-haired man took a sip of his drink: then he put the glass on the table beside him and began.

“Well, if it won’t bore you, I’m agreeable. I’ll tell you the whole thing exactly as it took place, only altering the names of the people involved. It happened before the war—in that hot summer of 1911, to be exact. I’d been working pretty hard in London, and about the end of July I got an invitation to go down and stop with some people in Devonshire. I will call them the Marleys, and they lived just outside a small village on the north coast. The family consisted of old Marley, who was a man rising sixty, and his two daughters, Joan and Hilda. There was also Jack Fairfax, through whom, as a matter of fact, I had first got to know them.

“Jack was about my own age—thirty odd, and we’d been up at Cambridge together. He was no relation to old Marley, but he was an orphan, and Marley was his guardian, or had been when Jack was a youngster. And from the very first Jack and the old man had not got on.

“Marley was not everybody’s meat, by a long way—rather a queer-tempered, secretive blighter; and Jack Fairfax had the devil of a temper at times. When he was a boy he had no alternative except to do as his guardian told him, but even in those early days, as I gathered subsequently, there had been frequent storms. And when he came down from Cambridge there were two or three most unholy rows which culminated in Jack leaving the house for good.

“It was apparently this severance from the two girls, whom he had more or less regarded as sisters, which caused the next bust-up. And this one, according to Jack, was in the nature of a volcanic eruption. The two girls had come up to London to go through the season with some aunt, and Jack had seen a good deal of them with the net result that he and Joan had fallen in love with each other. Then the fat was in the fire. Jack straightway had gone down to Devonshire to ask old Marley’s consent: old Marley had replied in terms which, judging from Jack’s account of the interview, had contained a positive profusion of un-Parliamentary epithets. Jack had lost his temper properly—and, well, you know, the usual thing. At any rate, the long and the short of it was that old Marley had recalled both his daughters from London, and had sworn that if he ever saw Jack near the house again he’d pepper him with a shot-gun. To which Jack had replied that only his grey hairs and his gout saved Mr. Marley from the biggest hiding he’d ever had in his life—even if not the biggest he deserved. With which genial exchange of playful badinage I gathered the interview ended. And that was how matters stood when I went down in July, 1911.

“For some peculiar reason the old man liked me, even though I was a friend of Jack’s. And in many ways I quite liked him, though there was always something about him which defeated me. Of course, he had a foul temper—but it wasn’t altogether that. He seemed to me at times to be in fear of something or somebody; and yet, though I say that now, I don’t know that I went as far as thinking so at the time. It was an almost indefinable impression—vague and yet very real.

“The two girls were perfectly charming, though they were both a little afraid of their father. How long it would have taken Joan to overcome this timidity, and go to Jack without her father’s consent, I don’t know. And incidentally, as our legislators say, the question did not arise. Fate held the ace of trumps, and proceeded to deal it during my visit.”

The sandy-haired man leant back in his chair and crossed his legs deliberately.

“I think it was about the fourth day after I arrived (he went on, after a while) that the tragedy happened. We were sitting in the drawing-room after dinner—a couple of men whose names I forget, and a girl friend of Hilda’s. Hilda herself was there, and Joan, who seemed very preoccupied, had come in about a quarter of an hour previously. I had noticed that Hilda had looked at her sister inquiringly as she entered, and that Joan had shrugged her shoulders. But nothing had been said, and naturally I asked no questions with the others there, though from the air of suppressed excitement on Joan’s face I knew there was something in the wind.

“Old Marley himself was not with us: he was in his study at the other end of the house. The fact was not at all unusual: he frequently retired to his own den after dinner, sometimes joining the rest of the party for a few minutes before going to bed, more often not appearing again till the following morning. And so we all sat there talking idly, with the windows wide open and the light shining out on to the lawn. It must have been somewhere about ten to a quarter past when suddenly Hilda gave a little scream.

“‘What do you want?’ she cried. ‘Who are you?’

“I swung round in my chair, to find a man standing on the lawn outside, in the centre of the light. He was facing us, and as we stared at him he came nearer till he was almost in the room. And the first thing that struck me was that he looked a little agitated.

“‘You will excuse me appearing like this,’ he said, ‘but——’ He broke off and looked at me. ‘Might I have a word with you alone, sir?’

“I glanced at the others: obviously he was a stranger. No trace of recognition appeared on anyone’s face, and I began to feel a little suspicious.

“‘What is it?’ I cried. ‘What can you possibly want to speak to me about that you can’t say now?’

“He shrugged his shoulders slightly. ‘As you will,’ he answered. ‘My idea was to avoid frightening the ladies. In the room at the other end of the house a man has been murdered.’

“For a moment everyone was too thunderstruck to reply; then Hilda gave a choking cry.

“‘What sort of a man?’ she said, breathlessly.

“‘An elderly man of, I should think, about sixty,’ returned the other, gravely, and Hilda buried her face in her hands.

“‘I will come with, you at once, sir,’ I said, hurriedly, and the two other men rose. Instinctively, I think, we all knew it must be old Marley: there was no one else it could be. But the sudden shock of it had dazed us all. I glanced at Joan. She was staring at the man like a girl bereft of her senses, and I put my hand reassuringly on her shoulder. And then she looked up at me, and the expression in her eyes pulled me together. It was like a cold douche, and it acted instantaneously. Because it wasn’t horror or dazed stupefaction that I read on her face: it was terror—agonised terror. And suddenly I remembered her air of suppressed excitement earlier in the evening.”

Once again the sandy-haired man paused while the others waited in silence for him to continue.

“It was old Marley right enough (he went on quietly). We walked round the front of the house until we came to the window of his study, and there instinctively we paused. The window was open, and he was sitting at his desk quite motionless. His head had fallen forward, and on his face was a look of dreadful fear.

“For a while none of us moved. Then, with an effort, I threw my leg over the window-sill and entered.

“‘He’s quite dead,’ I said, and I felt my voice was shaking. ‘We’d better send for the police.’

“The others nodded, and in silence I picked up the telephone.

“‘Mr. Marley’s been killed,’ I heard myself saying. ‘Will you send someone up at once?’

“And then for the first time I noticed the poker lying beside the chair, and saw the back of the old man’s head. It wasn’t a pretty sight, and one of the other men staying in the house—a youngster—turned very white, and went to the window.

“‘Pretty obvious how it was done,’ said the stranger, quietly. ‘Well, gentlemen, nothing ought to be touched in this room until the police arrive. I suggest that we should draw the curtains and go somewhere else to wait for them.’

“I don’t think any of us were sorry to fall in with his suggestion. I also don’t think I’ve ever drunk such a large whisky-and-soda as I did a few minutes later. Discovering the body had been bad enough: breaking the news to the two girls was going to be worse.

“It was Joan who met me in the hall—and we stared at one another in silence. Then I nodded my head stupidly.

“‘It’s father,’ she whispered. ‘Oh, my God!’

“I put out my hand to steady her, and she was looking at me with a fixed stare.

“‘Don’t you understand?’ she muttered, hoarsely, and swallowing all the time. ‘Don’t you understand? Jack has been here to-night.’

“‘Jack!’ I looked at her foolishly. ‘Jack!’

“And then her full meaning struck me.

“‘How did that man find out?’ she whispered. ‘And who is he?’

“‘I don’t know. I’ll go and ask him.’ I was still trying to adjust this new development—and her next words seemed to come from a great distance.

“‘Do something. For God’s sake—do something.’

“Then she turned and left me, and I watched her go up the stairs, walking stiffly and clinging to the banisters.

“So Jack had been there! And old Marley was dead! Murdered! Hit on the head with a poker. And Jack had been there. It’s only in romantic fiction that the reader is expected to assume the impossibility of the hero committing a crime, owing to the extreme beauty of his nature. And this wasn’t romantic fiction. It was hard, brutal reality. The two facts stood there, side by side, in all their dazzling simplicity. Jack’s nature was not supremely beautiful. He was an ordinary man, with the devil of a temper when it was roused.

“Mechanically I started to walk back to the room where I had left the other three men. They were sitting in silence when I entered, and after a while the stranger got up.

“‘A dreadful thing to happen,’ he said, gravely.

“‘May I ask, sir,’ I began, ‘how you came to discover it?’

“‘Very simply,’ he answered. ‘I was strolling along the road, going back to the village inn where I have been stopping for two or three nights, when I saw the window of the room through the trees. The light was shining out, and I could see someone sitting at the desk. More out of idle curiosity than anything else, I paused for a moment or two, and then something began to arouse my suspicions. The man at the desk seemed so motionless. I thought perhaps he had fainted, or was ill, and after a little hesitation I went in at the gate and looked through the window. To my horror I saw he was dead—and I at once came round to the other room from which the light was shining, and where I found you.’

“‘There is a point which may have some bearing on the crime,’ he continued, after a pause. ‘On my way up from the inn a man passed me. He was coming from this direction, and seemed to me to be in a very excited condition. It was his obvious agitation that made me notice him at the time, though in the dim light I couldn’t see his face very clearly. But he was swinging his stick in the air, and muttering to himself. At the moment I didn’t think much about it. But now——’ He shrugged his shoulders slightly. ‘Of course, I may be completely wrong, but I think it is a thing worth mentioning to the police.’

“‘Would you know the man again?’ I asked, trying to speak quite normally.

“‘Well, he was tall—six feet at least—and broad. And he was clean-shaven.’ He spoke thoughtfully, weighing his words. ‘I might know him again—but I wouldn’t swear to it. One has to be doubly careful if a man’s life is at stake.’

“I turned away abruptly. Jack was tall and broad and clean-shaven. Strive as I would, the deadly suspicion was beginning to grip me that Jack, in a fit of ungovernable passion, had killed the old man. And at such moments, whatever may be the legal aspect of the matter, one’s main idea is how best to help a pal. If Jack had indeed done it, what was the best thing to do?

“I rang the bell, and told the scared-looking maid to bring the whisky and some glasses. Then, with a muttered apology, I left the room. I felt I wanted to talk to Joan about it. I found her dry-eyed and quite composed, though she was evidently holding herself under control with a great effort. And briefly I told her what the stranger had said.

“She heard me out in silence: then she spoke with a quiet assurance that surprised me.

“‘If Jack did it,’ she said, ‘he doesn’t know he’s done it. He doesn’t know he’s killed—father.’ She faltered a bit over the last word, and I didn’t interrupt. ‘What I mean is this,’ she went on after a moment. ‘I know Jack—better than anyone else. I know those rages of his—when he sees red. But they’re over in a minute. He’s capable of anything for a second or two, but if he’d done it, Hugh, if he’d hit father—and killed him—his remorse would have been dreadful. He wouldn’t have run away: I’m certain of that. That’s why I say that if Jack did it he doesn’t know—he killed him.’

“I said nothing: there was no good telling her that it wasn’t one blow, nor yet two or three, that had been used. There was no good telling her that it was no accidental thing done unwittingly in the heat of the moment—that it was an absolute impossibility for the man who had done it to be in ignorance of the fact. And yet, though I realised all that, her simple conviction put new hope into me. Illogical, I admit, but I went downstairs feeling more confident.

“I found that the local police had arrived—a sergeant and an ordinary constable—and had already begun their investigations. The principal evidence, of course, came from the stranger, and he repeated to them what he had already told me. His name apparently was Lenham—Victor Lenham—and the police knew he had been stopping at the local inn.

“‘You saw the body through the window, sir,’ said the sergeant, ‘and then went round to the drawing-room?’

“‘That is so, sergeant.’

“‘You didn’t go into the room?’

“‘Not until later—with these gentlemen. You see,’ he added, ‘I’ve seen death too often not to recognise it. And as, in a way, you will understand, it was no concern of mine, I thought it advisable to have some member of the house itself with me before entering the room.’

“‘Quite, sir, quite.’ The sergeant nodded portentously. ‘Is there anything else you can tell us?’

“‘Well,’ said Lenham, ‘there is a point, which I have already mentioned to this gentleman.’ He glanced at me, and then, turning back to the sergeant, he told him about the man he had passed on the road. And it was when he came to the description that suddenly the constable gave a whistle of excitement. The sergeant frowned on him angrily, but the worthy P.C., whose only experience of crime up-to-date had been assisting inebriated villagers home, had quite lost his head.

“‘Mr. Fairfax, sergeant,’ he exploded. ‘’E was down here to-night. Caught the last train, ’e did. Jenkins at the station told me—sure thing.’

“‘Good heavens, sergeant!’ I said angrily, ‘what the devil is the man talking about? He surely doesn’t suppose that Mr. Fairfax had anything to do with it?’

“But the mischief was done. The sergeant formally told off his indiscreet subordinate, but it was obvious that it was merely an official rebuke. In a village like that everybody knows everybody else’s private affairs, and the strained relations between the dead man and Jack Fairfax were common property. I could see at a glance that the sergeant regarded the matter as solved already.

“‘Would you recognise this man again, sir?’ he demanded, and Lenham gave him the same guarded reply as he had already given to me. He might—but he wouldn’t swear to it. It was impossible to be too careful in such a case, he repeated, and it was practically dark when he had passed the man.

“It was all duly noted down, and then we adjourned to the room of the tragedy. The constable—a ruddy-faced young man—turned pale when he saw the body; then he pulled himself together and assisted the sergeant in his formal examination. I didn’t blame him—we were all feeling the strain, somewhat naturally. Lenham seemed the least concerned, but it wasn’t a personal matter with him as it was with us, especially with me. All the time I was fidgeting round the room, subconsciously watching the stolid sergeant making notes, but with only one thought dominating my brain—how best to help Jack. Not that I had definitely made up my mind that he’d done it, but even at that stage of the proceedings I realised that appearances were against him. And Joan’s words were ringing in my head—‘For God’s sake—do something.’

“After a while I crossed the room to a small table on which a tantalus of whisky and two glasses were standing. I looked at the tray with unseeing eyes—an Indian silver one, which old Marley had been very proud of. And then mechanically I picked up the glasses. I don’t know why I did so; the action was, as I say, mechanical. They had been used—both of them: they had been used for whisky—one could tell that by the smell. And when I put the glasses down again on the tray, the sergeant was approaching with his note-book.”

The sandy-haired man paused, with a reminiscent smile.

“Ever noticed how extraordinarily dense you can be at times, even with a plain fact staring you straight in the face? There was one staring at me for ten minutes that night before my grey matter began to stir.”

“Just hold on a minute,” interrupted the Barrister. “Is this plain fact staring us in the face now?”

“No, it isn’t,” conceded the narrator. “At the moment you are in the position of the other people in that room. Mind you, I’ve left out nothing in order to mystify you; the story, as I have given it to you, is a plain unvarnished account of what took place. But I’m out to disprove your half-brick theory, lawyer-man, and to do so with such little story-telling ability as I happen to possess.

“Now, I won’t weary you with what happened during the next week, beyond saying that an inquest and a burglary took place. And the latter, at any rate, was very successful. The former moved along obvious lines, and resulted in Jack Fairfax being arrested for the wilful murder of his guardian, Roger Marley. The evidence was purely circumstantial, but it was about as damning as it could be. Jack admitted to having had an interview with Marley that night; he admitted that they had had an appalling quarrel. What was even worse was that he admitted to having struck the old man in a furious fit of rage, but beyond that he denied everything. He absolutely swore that the blow he struck Marley could not have killed him; further, that he had never handled the poker. And then, a finger-print expert proved that he had. That was the worst shock of the lot, and his explanation given afterwards that, now he came to think of it, he had picked up the poker to ram the tobacco down in his pipe convinced no one. He indignantly denied that his action in going up to London by the last train was in any sense running away; he had intended all along to go up by that train. And his reason for leaving the house after the interview without attempting to see his _fiancée_ was that he was in such a rage with her father that he couldn’t trust himself to speak to her for fear of what he might say.

“So much for Jack Fairfax’s case—pretty black, as you will agree. In fact, I don’t think I should be exaggerating if I said that there were only two people in England convinced of his innocence. And he was one of them. Even Joan’s faith was shaken, a little.

“It was on the tenth day after the inquest that I rang up the inspector who had come over from Exeter to look into the case, with a request that he would come up to the house. I told him that I had certain information which might interest him and suggested that he might care to hear it. I also rang up Lenham at the inn, and asked him if he would mind coming along at the same time. I told him I’d discovered the burglar. By the way, I didn’t tell you that it was his room that had been burgled.

“In about half an hour they arrived, and the local sergeant as well.

“‘What’s this about my burglar?’ laughed Lenham. ‘A funny fellow—because as far as I can see he didn’t take anything.’

“‘All in good time,’ I answered, smiling. ‘I’ve found out a lot of strange things in town.’

“Lenham looked at me quickly. ‘Oh! have you been to London?’ he inquired.

“‘Yes,’ I answered, ‘for two days. Most entertaining.’

“And then the inspector chipped in, impatiently:

“‘Well, sir, what is it you want to say to me?’ He looked at his watch suggestively.

“‘First of all, inspector,’ I said, quietly, ‘I want to ask you a question. Have you ever heard the legal maxim, _Falsus in uno, falsus in omne_?’

“I could see that he hadn’t the faintest idea what I was driving at. I could also see that Lenham’s eyes had suddenly become strained.

“‘It means,’ I went on, ‘that if a witness—let us say—is proved to have told one lie, there is strong presumptive evidence that he has told several. At any rate, the value of his statement is greatly diminished. Do you agree?’

“‘Certainly,’ he answered. ‘But I don’t see——’

“‘You will shortly, inspector,’ I remarked. ‘Now who would you consider the principal witness against Mr. Fairfax?’

“‘Mr. Fairfax himself,’ said the inspector, promptly.

“‘And leaving him out?’ I asked.

“‘Well—I suppose—this gentleman here.’ He nodded towards Lenham, who was sitting quite motionless, watching me.

“‘Precisely,’ I murmured. ‘Then why was it necessary for Mr. Lenham to state that his name was Lenham, and further to swear that he had never seen Mr. Marley before—when both those statements were lies?’

“‘What the devil do you mean?’ snarled Lenham, rising from his chair. ‘What do you mean by saying my name is not Lenham?’

“‘You wanted to know about the burglar who took nothing, didn’t you?’ I said, grimly. ‘Well—I was the burglar, and I took something very valuable—an address.’

“‘What on earth——’ began the inspector, and then he glanced at Lenham. ‘I think you’d better sit still, Mr. Lenham,’ he said, quietly, ‘until we have heard what this gentleman has to say.’

“Lenham sat back in his chair with a venomous look at me. Then he laughed harshly.

“‘By all means, inspector,’ he remarked. ‘Only it is a little disconcerting to be cross-examined suddenly by a man who admits he is a thief.’

“As a matter of fact the man didn’t know how much I knew—or how little; and between ourselves it was deuced little. But, watching him closely, I knew I was right, and my only hope was to bluff him into some admission.

“‘Shall we endeavour to reconstruct the events of the night when Mr. Marley was murdered, Mr. Lenardi?’ I began, quietly. ‘That is your name, is it not?—and you are a Corsican.’

“‘Well,’ he said, ‘what if I am? I had a very good reason for changing my name.’

“‘Doubtless,’ I agreed. ‘Let us hope your reason will prove satisfactory to the inspector. May I suggest, however, unless you can supply a better one, that your reason was to avoid the notoriety which would inevitably arise if a foreigner came to stay in a small village like this? And you were particularly anxious to avoid any possibility of Mr. Marley knowing that a Corsican was in the neighbourhood.’

“He laughed sarcastically. ‘I think that I have already stated that I have never even seen Mr. Marley,’ he sneered.

“‘Oh!’ I remarked. ‘Then might I ask you, inspector, to have a look at this photograph? It is old and faded, but the faces are still clear.’

“I handed the photograph to the inspector, and with a sudden curse the Corsican whipped out a knife and sprang at me. He realised even then that the game was up, and his one thought was to revenge himself on me. But I’d been expecting some such move, and I’d got a revolver handy. Incidentally, revolver shooting is one of the few things I can do, and I plugged him through the forearm before he could do any damage.

“He stood there glaring at me sullenly, and then the inspector took a hand.

“‘Stand by that window, sergeant. Now, Mr. whatever-your-name-is, no monkey tricks. Do you still deny that you knew Mr. Marley?”

“‘I refuse to answer,’ snarled the man.

“‘Because this photograph is of you and Marley and a woman. Taken abroad somewhere.’

“‘Naples, to be exact, inspector,’ I said. ‘I found it in his rooms in Berners Street, the address of which I got as the result of my burglary here.’

“The Corsican stood there like a beast at bay, and the inspector’s face was stern.

“‘What explanation have you got to give?’ he rapped out. ‘Why did you lie in evidence?’

“‘I refuse to answer,’ repeated the man.

“‘Since he is so uncommunicative,’ I remarked, ‘perhaps you will allow me to reconstruct the crime. Much of it, of necessity, is guess-work. For instance, Lenardi, what was your motive in murdering Mr. Marley?’ I rapped the question out at him, and though he’d have killed me willingly if he could have got at me he didn’t deny it.

“‘Well,’ I continued, ‘it doesn’t matter. Let us assume it was the girl in that photograph. You tracked Marley to earth here—in this village—that is all that concerns us. And having tracked him, you bided your time. Vengeance is the sweeter for delay. Each evening you walked up here, watching him through the window—gloating over what was to come. And then one night you found another man with him—Jack Fairfax—and they were quarrelling. At once you saw that this was your opportunity. However skilfully you hid your traces under ordinary circumstances, there was always a grave risk; but here, ready to hand, was a marvellous stroke of luck. Perhaps you crept nearer the window in the darkness, secure in the fact that the room was in a remote part of the house. You saw Jack Fairfax leave, blind with rage, and then, skulking out of the night, you entered the room yourself.’

“‘It’s a lie!’ shouted the Corsican, but his lips were white.

“‘And then old Marley saw you, and the rage on his face was replaced by a dreadful terror. He knew what you had come for. I don’t think you wasted much time, Lenardi. You picked up the poker with a gloved hand—oh! you were taking no chances—and you battered his head in. And then, Lenardi—and then you drank a whisky-and-soda. You drank a whisky-and-soda, and then you decided on a very bold move: you came and alarmed the rest of the house. It was clever of you, but——’”

The sandy-haired man smiled thoughtfully.