Chapter V: Part 5

“I mean Dr. Berwick, of course. He told them, I suppose, about you.”

“Who do you mean by ‘them’?”

“The people at Scotland Yard.”

“But what could Dr. Berwick tell anybody about me?”

“That you used to come to the flat--that we were friends.”

And then, in an imploring voice that was scarcely audible, she murmured:

“You won’t give me away, dear? You will never let anyone know that----”

Interrupting her he exclaimed, “There’s nothing to give away! You and I have only been friends--nothing more.”

He felt a thrill of relief when she said, in a more natural tone:

“That’s exactly what I said. I mean that’s what I told the man who came from Scotland Yard. I think he did believe me at last, but----”

“Yes?” asked Gretorex anxiously. “But what, my dear?”

“I was silly enough to let out that you had been rather fond of me, in a sort of a way.”

“I’m sorry you did that. I’m afraid that was a mistake. I mean----”

“I know what you mean! The moment I’d said it I saw what a mistake I’d made! But he spoke as if he already knew such a lot, or at any rate, some part of it.”

He said patiently, “What part of it?”

“That even if I didn’t care for you, you had been very fond of me.”

“I don’t see that our private affairs are anyone’s business but our own,” he said savagely.

She answered despairingly, “Neither do I. But there it is! I know he’ll talk about me to you.”

Gretorex felt as if he were living through a hideous nightmare. What could, what did, all that Ivy had said, and was saying, mean?

“There’s something else I must tell you and warn you about, before I ring off. The man actually asked me, darling, if I’d ever been to see you--I mean alone. Of course I said no, that I had never been alone to see you. Why should I? But I did tell him about the time I came to tea with Rose Arundell, when Captain Chichester came too. The man from Scotland Yard is sure to ask you about that--at least I’m afraid so.”

“About my tea-party? Why should he?”

“No, no,” she cried shrilly.

Then, in a low tone, she uttered the words, “He’ll certainly ask you whether I ever came to see you alone, at Ferry Place. Don’t you understand?”

“I hear what you say. But everyone we know is aware that we’ve been great friends. There’s no mystery about it.”

“That’s what I said. And also that you were so fond of--you know who, and he so fond of you.”

To that Gretorex made no answer. In a sense it was true that poor Jervis Lexton had become quite fond of him, and that this was so had made him feel wretched and ashamed.

“Forgive me for having worried you, dear----”

There was something--he would not even to himself use the words--cringing, even abject, in the tone in which she uttered that poor little sentence.

He answered at once, “You could never worry me, my darling! I can’t help thinking there’s some queer, spiteful enemy of yours, some cruel woman, behind all this?”

She cried hysterically, “It’s a spiteful, cruel man! It’s Dr. Berwick--I know it is!”

“But why d’you think that, darling?”

Gretorex waited a moment, then asked in almost a whisper, “Was he fond of you? Did he make love to you?”

She was so long in answering his question that, for a moment, he thought they had been cut off. Then he heard the muffled reply, “Not exactly, though of course he liked me. But--but he hated you! I do know that.”

“I see,” and he thought that he did.

“Dr. Berwick wouldn’t sign some kind of a certificate which nurse says a doctor always has to sign when a person dies,” she went on. “You know what I mean?”

“Yes.”

“That’s why they had what is called a post-mortem, and found out my poor sweet had been----” her voice faltered.

It was, even now, like a blow between the eyes for Gretorex to hear Ivy call Jervis “my poor sweet.”

Again she waited a while then he heard her whispered, agitated, half-question:

“I do so wonder what that man will say to you? I feel so horribly nervous.”

He said impatiently, “I don’t suppose he’ll say much. But of course it’s the business of the police to get in touch with everyone who can throw even a little light on a mysterious death.”

“You’ll be very, very careful?”

For the moment he could not think what she meant.

Then, with a painful feeling of self-rebuke and fear, he hastened to reassure her, “Of course I will! Not that there’s anything to be careful about.”

“I must go home now,” and he heard her blow him a kiss.

She hadn’t done that for--it seemed an eternity to him.

He hung up the receiver, went across to his writing-table, and sat down. He must think hard, and prepare some sort of story. But even now he could not imagine why his name, his personality, were being brought into this mysterious affair of Jervis Lexton’s sudden death.

Jervis Lexton’s death caused by poison? And the police already making inquiries? The whole story sounded incredible to Roger Gretorex. He told himself that of course some extraordinary mistake had been made. But whose mistake?

His mind turned at last to Dr. Berwick. He had only seen the man once--and a damned offensive fellow he had seemed to be! So much did Gretorex remember. But Berwick was more than that--he was a blackguard who had made love to a patient’s wife.

Poor little Ivy! Poor precious little love! No wonder she had been frightened, made quite unlike her gay, brave self, by the ordeal she had just gone through. How he longed to go and seize her in his arms, to bear her away to some place where they could be just themselves--lovers!

The thought of a crowded restaurant was intolerable. He no longer felt hungry. Besides, the man, he supposed him to be a detective, mentioned by Ivy, would soon be here.

All at once he heard the sounds made by a broom in the passage outside.

He opened the door. “Will you come in here for a moment, Mrs. Huntley?”

The old woman shuffled into the room, and he looked at her fixedly.

“I feel very tired to-day--too tired to go out.”

Taking a two-shilling piece out of his pocket, he handed it to her: “Will you get me some pressed beef or ham? I suppose there’s bread and butter in the house? I’m ashamed to bother you, for I know you’re in a hurry to get home.”

Said Mrs. Huntley, with a rather pathetic laugh, “I’d do a good bit more than that for you, doctor! Why, I’d go to any trouble for you.”

“Mrs. Huntley?”

He moved a little nearer to the old woman.

“You’ve just said that you’d go to any trouble for me----”

“Ay, and so I would! I’ll never forget how good you were to that poor daughter of mine. Why, it’s thanks to you that she died easy. I’m not likely to forget that, however long I may live.”

“The time has come when you can do something--something very important--for me,” he said, wondering if he were being wise or foolish.

“Can I, sir? You’ve only got to say what it is. I don’t mind no trouble.”

“I regard you,” he said slowly, “as a very superior person, as well as a very trustworthy one, Mrs. Huntley.”

She grew red with pleasure at his kind, flattering words, and, troubled as he was, Gretorex’s heart went out to her.

“All I want you to do,” he went on, “is to hold your tongue on my behalf. The time may come when you will be asked what sort of visitors I have received since I came to live here. You may be questioned as to whether any ladies ever came to see me----”

He waited a moment, feeling acutely uncomfortable at having to ask the old woman to lie for him.

“You will be doing me a great service, Mrs. Huntley, if you will answer that no friends ever come to see me unless they have an appointment. Also that, to the best of your belief, the only time you have ever seen any lady here was when I gave a tea-party some time ago. Do I make myself quite clear?”

“Yes, sir, quite clear.”

“And have I your promise?”

“Yes, sir, you have my promise.”

He took her withered, work-worn hand in his.

“I’m very grateful to you. This may mean more to me than you will ever know.”

“I’ll go and get the things for your lunch, sir.”

She shut the door behind her, and a moment later, as he saw her pass the window, a hot tide of humiliation seemed to overwhelm him. He had seen, by the expression on her face, that everything there was to know, she knew.

As for Mrs. Huntley, she felt quite sure that Dr. Gretorex, who, though she knew him to be far from well off, had spared neither time nor money in his care of her dying daughter, was about to figure as a co-respondent in a divorce case.

Well, in so far as she could help him, she’d do anything. Lie for him? Of course she would! Where’s the good of caring for a person if you’re not willing to do anything for him or her? Such was Mrs. Huntley’s simple philosophy of life. She was a good hater as well as a good lover. In her fashion she loved Gretorex, but she hated Ivy Lexton.

Those who are called “the poor” are seldom deceived in a man’s or a woman’s real nature and character. They are too close up against the hard realities of life to make many mistakes. It requires no touchstone to teach them the difference between dross and gold.

About three o’clock the telephone bell rang again.

Gretorex hoped for a moment to hear Ivy’s voice again, but it was a man who asked, “Can I speak to Dr. Roger Gretorex?”

“My name is Roger Gretorex.”

“I have a matter of business to discuss with you, Dr. Gretorex; and I’m telephoning to know if I may come along now, as you are in?”

“Pray do so. But may I ask your name? And would you mind telling me your business?” he called back.

“My name is Orpington. As to my business, it would take too long to explain. But I will be with you in a very few minutes.”

Mechanically Gretorex began to tidy his consulting-room. For the first time in his life he felt horribly afraid, he knew not of what, but that made his dread of the coming inquisition all the sharper, the fuller of suspense.

His mother had managed to keep one conservatory going, and though he had given away a good many of the flowers he had brought up with him this morning, there was still a lovely nosegay on his writing-table. And the sight of these fragrant blossoms recalled poignantly to her son’s mind the woman who had gathered them for him. Was he going to bring sorrow, and what to her would be worse than sorrow--shame--on her honoured name?

Chapter Ten

As Inspector Orpington, of the Criminal Investigation Department, Scotland Yard, entered dusty, poverty-stricken Ferry Place, he made up his mind that he would be, so far as was possible in the circumstances, frank with the man he was on his way to see with regard to Jervis Lexton’s death.

Like many an Englishman of his type, he had his own clear, if unexpressed, philosophy of life. He preferred the straight to the tortuous way, and that, it may incidentally be observed, is true of all the really successful men in his peculiar line of work.

Such men naturally suffer from the defects of their qualities. Inspector Orpington had no belief in what he called to himself the French methods of criminal investigation. For one thing, he was convinced, and backed his conviction from experience, that in the vast majority of cases there is seldom anything mysterious, or out of the way, even in the best-planned and most intelligent type of crime.

With regard to the case concerning which he had just been ordered to make certain preliminary inquiries, the story he had been able to piece together was even now, from his point of view, a straightforward story of illicit love leading to a cold-blooded and cruel murder. He had already interviewed the dead man’s two regular medical attendants, his trained nurse, and last, but by no means least, his tearful, hysterical, and singularly attractive young widow.

Ivy Lexton remained, in Inspector Orpington’s mind, the one point of doubt and mystery, if indeed “mystery” you could call it, in the affair.

He had found it very difficult to make up his mind as to whether Mrs. Lexton was entirely innocent regarding the events which had led to Lexton’s death. He had detected certain flaws in the story she had appeared, in spite of her agitation, so willing to tell. But he had been naturally impressed by the firm conviction expressed by the two doctors who had attended Jervis Lexton. They had both declared that their patient’s wife had been not only innocent, but quite unsuspicious, of the sinister tragedy which had undoubtedly been enacted during the fortnight which had preceded her husband’s death.

Dr. Berwick had said brusquely: “Why, the woman was never there! She was out morning, noon, and night. I myself only saw her three times, each time only for a few minutes, and only once with her husband.”

Orpington had also been struck by the liking both the nurse and the cook showed for Lexton’s widow; and that though they both admitted she was selfish and pleasure-loving.

But what weighed the scale most of all in favour of Ivy’s complete innocence was the fact that the life of Jervis Lexton had not been insured, and that with her husband apparently disappeared the poor, pretty little woman’s only source of income.

Long experience had convinced Inspector Orpington that there are only two outstanding motives for secret murder--money, and the passion called love. As he considered the story in all its bearings, it seemed plain to him that, whereas it had been very much to Ivy Lexton’s interest to keep her husband alive, this young man, Roger Gretorex, had undoubtedly had a strong motive for compassing his death. Mrs. Lexton, in the course of the long examination and cross-examination to which she had been submitted this morning, had admitted, albeit with a certain reluctance, that Roger Gretorex not only passionately loved her, but had also at various times pestered her with unwelcome attentions.

Everyone interested in the detection of crime is aware that persons arrested on a charge of murder are always solemnly warned that anything said by them may be used in evidence against them. But probably few people know that the giving of any such warning is left to the discretion of the C.I.D. men who are engaged in those preliminary inquiries which, in the majority of cases, do end by bringing a murderer to justice. Certain rules are laid down for their guidance; but even so a great deal is left to the ordering of their own consciences, to what each individual considers it fair or unfair to ask of one who may be actually suspected of having committed the crime under investigation.

Orpington’s object was to get at the truth. It was his considered opinion that the guilty are painfully alive to their danger, and will go to any length to protect themselves. In their case the plainest warning is wasted. As to an innocent witness, he believed the best way to put him or her at ease is to be reasonably frank.

He felt sure that, in Roger Gretorex, he would find one both forewarned and forearmed. What he desired to know, as a result of his coming interview with the young doctor, was how far Mrs. Lexton had told the truth as to her relations with the man who, owing to his passion for herself, had almost certainly poisoned her husband.

Slowly he walked, with the sergeant he had brought with him, down the now deserted, airless little street. What a contrast to the broad avenue in which stood the fine block of flats known as Duke of Kent Mansion! It was difficult to believe that the woman with whom he had spent over an hour this morning, in the shadowed drawing-room where everything spelt not only comfort, but affluence and luxury, could have been on terms of close intimacy with a man who lived in Ferry Place.

Before he had time to ring the bell, the narrow front door of the tiny two-storied house opened, and the person he had come to see and, he felt sure, to convict of the most hideous and cruel form of murder known to civilised man, stood before him.

What a fine young chap! And what a haughty, sombre, defiant countenance!

Yet the voice in which Gretorex uttered the commonplace words, “Will you come in?” was a deep, pleasant, cultivated voice.

The doctor led his two visitors into his consulting-room, a room which, though poorly furnished, was yet, as the inspector quickly noted, that of a man accustomed to the amenities of life. For one thing he noticed the lovely bunch of fragrant hot-house flowers standing in a glass on the writing-table. He felt what he very seldom did feel--surprised.

As the three men sat down, Gretorex full in what light came in through his one window, the inspector observed:

“My name, doctor, as I told you over the telephone, is Orpington, and I am attached to the Criminal Investigation Department of Scotland Yard. I have come to ask you certain questions concerning the death of a gentleman who was at one time, I understand, a patient of yours.”

“If you will tell me his name, I will look up his case,” said Gretorex quickly.

“His name was Jervis Lexton, and his death took place last Tuesday in Flat 9 of Duke of Kent Mansion, Kensington.”

“Jervis Lexton was never a patient of mine,” the young man answered firmly; and then he hesitated, and finally added, “He was a friend--I suppose I might even say a great friend.”

“Are you already aware of the circumstances concerning Mr. Jervis Lexton’s death, Dr. Gretorex?”

And then Roger Gretorex told the first of the lies he felt it incumbent on him to tell during this, to him, terrible interview.

“I’ve been in the country for nearly a week, and I only learnt on my return here, this morning, of Mr. Lexton’s death. I am as yet unaware of the circumstances to which I presume I owe your visit.”

He waited a moment, then told the inspector what was indeed the truth:

“I was exceedingly surprised to learn of his death, for I had seen him just before leaving town. Though I thought him far less well than the last time I had been with him, there was nothing to indicate the seriousness of his condition.”

“Yet you told the nurse that you were dismayed by the change in his appearance?”

“I daresay I did. She thought him distinctly better, I do remember that, and I disagreed with her.”

“You did not ask to see Mr. Lexton, Dr. Gretorex. The nurse tells me your call was on Mrs. Lexton. As that lady was out, Nurse Bradfield, I understand, suggested you should see her patient, as she thought it would cheer him up.”

“That is so, and I was not with him for more than ten minutes.”

“You were, I think, alone with him during that time?”

“Yes, I was.”

“You went down to the country immediately after seeing him?”

“Yes. I went to my home in the country the same afternoon, and, as I told you just now, I only came back this morning.”

“Mr. Jervis Lexton died during the evening of the day you saw him--that is, on Tuesday, the 16th of November. His regular medical attendant, Dr. Berwick, was not satisfied as to the cause of death. A post-mortem was held on the Thursday, and revealed the fact that Lexton’s death was due to a large dose of arsenic administered some hours before death. According to Nurse Bradfield, you, Dr. Gretorex, were the last person, apart from herself and, I believe, the cook, who saw him alive. That is why I am here.”

Gretorex stared at the speaker in silence; and, gradually, all the colour ebbed from his face.

In spite of himself the inspector felt sorry for the young man. He told himself that Roger Gretorex evidently saw the game was up. Still, the doctor looked the sort of chap who would put up a fight for it.

Inspector Orpington made an almost imperceptible sign to the sergeant he had brought with him, and the man at once quietly left the room.

Orpington got up and looked out of the window until he saw his sergeant in the street outside. Then he turned and said to Gretorex:

“I sent my sergeant out of the room, doctor, because I am obliged now to ask you a question which I thought you would prefer to have put to you privately. You were, I understand, a friend of Mrs. Lexton’s as well as a friend of her husband?”

“I was on terms of friendship with them both,” and his face turned deeply red.

“But you saw much more of Mrs. Lexton than you did of her husband?”

This was a bow drawn at a venture, and it brought down the quarry.

“I sometimes escorted Mrs. Lexton to a picture gallery, and now and again we went to a theatre together. But----” he waited a moment, and the colour ebbed from his face. Though what he was going to say was true, he hated saying it--“Mr. and Mrs. Lexton always seemed on the best of terms together.”

“So I understand. But I am not seeking information as to the relations of Mr. and Mrs. Lexton. What I wish to suggest, without offence, is that you, Dr. Gretorex, would have liked to have been on closer terms of friendship with Mrs. Lexton than she thought it right to allow? I will be frank with you--Mrs. Lexton has admitted as much.”

A burning flush again rose to Gretorex’s dark face. Poor Ivy! Poor, foolish little darling! He did not feel the slightest feeling of anger with her. He only felt a choking sensation of dismay. Whatever had possessed her to say such a thing?

He answered, speaking quietly, passionlessly, “Mrs. Lexton is a very attractive woman, and a beautiful woman. It is difficult to be with her without feeling inclined to--well----” and as he hesitated, the older man smiled.

“To make love to her? I absolutely agree, Dr. Gretorex. Though she was naturally very much upset when I saw her this morning, I thought Mrs. Lexton one of the most engaging, as well as one of the best-looking, young ladies I had ever come across.”

Poor Gretorex! He would have liked to have struck Inspector Orpington across the face, and yet his own words had called up the look that had so grossly offended him on the other’s countenance, and had also provoked his remark.

“Do you admit, Dr. Gretorex, that you were very much attracted to this lady?”

“You put me in a difficult position; but I admit that perhaps I did say one or two foolish things to her.”

He was wondering, with a feeling of agonising anxiety, whether Ivy had kept his letters.

“Did Mrs. Lexton ever by chance come here, to 6 Ferry Place?”

“She came to tea on one occasion, but not alone, of course. A friend of hers, a widow called Mrs. Arundell, and a man friend of Mrs. Arundell’s, came with her.”

And then Roger Gretorex leant forward:

“I do hope that you will believe me when I tell you that any--well, feeling of attraction, was entirely on my side. When I did, I admit very foolishly, once try to tell her----”

He stopped, and the other interjected, not unkindly, “How much she attracted you?”

Gretorex nodded, and then he gasped out the lying words--“She made me feel at once she was not that kind of woman.”

“I suppose,” said the inspector with a twinkle in his eyes, “that Mrs. Lexton used that very expression.”

Gretorex tried to smile back.

“Well, yes, I believe she did. It happened a long time ago, in fact when I first made the Lextons’ acquaintance.”

Now this observation gave the direct lie to Ivy Lexton’s statement, which Orpington honestly believed had been extracted from her against her will.

“I suppose that you can suggest no reason why this man, Jervis Lexton, should have wished to take his own life?”

“No, none at all. He had just obtained an excellent job.”

“You can throw no light either, I presume, as to how the arsenic which undoubtedly caused his death can have been administered to him?”

“Not only can I throw no light on it, but I find it almost impossible to believe what my reason tells me is true--your assertion that his death was directly due to the administration of arsenic.”

The speaker’s voice was strong, assured. At last he was on firm ground.

“I take it there is a surgery attached to this house, and that you make up your own medicines?”

The inspector asked that vital question in a very quiet tone, but Gretorex realised its purport as he answered, “I do--for the most part.”

“I should like to see the surgery.”

“By all means.”

Roger Gretorex got up. Then he placed his back against the door.

Instantly Inspector Orpington, though he was a brave man, and had been in more than one very tight corner, felt a cold tremor run through him. Was this fine-looking young chap going to whip out a revolver and kill, not only himself, but also the man whose unpleasant duty it had been to show him that the game he had been so mad as to play was up?

But he need not have been afraid.

“Look here! Before I take you into my surgery, where you will find a jar of arsenic as likely as not on an open shelf--for I am a careless chap, and no one has access to the place but myself and my old charwoman--I want to say something to you. I don’t suppose you will believe me, but I wish to tell you, here and now, that I have no more idea of how poor Lexton got at the arsenic which caused his death--if it did cause it--than you have, and that the one thing of which I am quite sure is that it did not come out of my surgery.”

Chapter Eleven

Instead of doing what he ought to have done--that is, to have sought at once the best legal aid in his power--Roger Gretorex made up his mind to go back to Sussex, if only for a few hours.

Ivy’s words of agonised fear now found an echo in his own heart. His mother must hear the very few and simple facts concerning Jervis Lexton’s death from himself.

On his way to the station he saw two newspaper placards, and he felt as if it was at him that they shouted the ominous words:

KENSINGTON
POISONING
MYSTERY.

WELL-KNOWN
CLUBMAN
POISONED.

He bought an evening paper in the station, and then, when he unfolded it, he felt a sharp stab of anger and disgust. In the centre of the front page was a charming portrait of Ivy--Ivy looking her sweetest and most seductive self. Above and below the photograph was printed a series of paragraphs dealing with the joyous life the young couple had led in the care-free existence which centres round the idler members of the fashionable night-clubs. It was also stated that, on the very night of Mr. Lexton’s unexpected death, Mrs. Lexton was supping at the Savoy with “a smart theatre-party.”

In the grateful darkness of a late November afternoon, Roger Gretorex walked the two miles which separated the little station from Anchorford, the village which he still felt part of the very warp and woof of his life, though he owned practically no land there. All that his father had been able to keep was the manor house, and the little portion of the park which had surrounded the dwelling-house of the owners of Anchorford from the days of Domesday Book.

Now and again Gretorex, as he hurried through the narrow lanes, would tell himself that the inexplicable mystery attaching to Jervis Lexton’s death by poison was bound to be cleared up, and probably in some quite simple way--a way that he himself was now too excited and too anxious to think out for himself.

Then there would come a sudden sensation of doubt, of despondency. Like Ivy, but with far more cause, Roger Gretorex began to feel as if a net were closing round him.

At last he turned into the long avenue which led to Anchorford House, and his heart leapt when he saw the long Elizabethan front, now bright with twinkling lights.

He rang the front door bell, and then he schooled himself to wait patiently for old Bolton, who, once his father’s head groom, now acted as general factotum and odd-job man.

But when, all at once, the door opened, it was his mother, tall, upright, grey-haired, who stood there, her face full of eager welcome.

“I knew it was you, my dearest! I don’t believe in presentiments, but I have been thinking of you all to-day, even more than usual.”

His face gave no answering smile. He looked very grave, and yet how young he seemed to her, standing there; how strong, how finely drawn and carved, was his now serious face!

“I wish you’d wired, Roger. Enid was coming in to late supper; but I’ll put her off----”

“You needn’t do that, mother. It’s true I’ve come down to tell you of something rather unpleasant that’s just happened to me. But the telling of it won’t take long. Please don’t put off Enid. In fact I shall be glad to see her, and I may have to go back to town by the last train.”

He followed her across the wide hall which formed the centre of the old house, and so into a lobby which led to the charming sitting-room which had always been associated in his mind with his mother. They both sat down there. But he waited a moment before he began his story and then in the telling of it he chose his words with painful care.

“A very odd thing has happened, mother, and I felt I should like to tell you about it at once.”

“What is it that has happened, Roger?”

As he said nothing, she went on quietly, in a matter-of-fact tone: “Whatever it is, I know quite well that you have not been to blame in any way.”

“Well, no, I don’t think I have been to blame. And yet, well, mother, I’ve not been----” and then he stopped dead.

For the first time in his life he felt afraid. The extraordinary story he had come to tell suddenly took on gigantic proportions. Until to-day, though he had felt discomfort, and something akin to shame, sometimes, when with Jervis Lexton, Roger Gretorex and Fear had never met.

“You remember,” he said at last, “my friend Ivy Lexton? She came down here for a week-end last winter.”

“I remember Mrs. Lexton very well,” answered Mrs. Gretorex in a tone of studious detachment.

As her son had uttered the name of the woman he called his friend, a feeling of fear coupled with a sensation of painful jealousy filled the mother’s heart. Remember the beautiful woman she had instantly known, without his telling her so, that Roger loved? There had scarcely been a day in the last few months when she had not remembered, with a sensation of discomfort, lovely Ivy Lexton.

“Jervis Lexton, Ivy’s husband, fell ill about three weeks ago----”

And then again Gretorex felt as if he could not go on.

“What has happened is put as clearly, here, as anything I can tell you!” he exclaimed at last, and he handed her the evening paper containing Ivy’s photograph.

She took the paper from his hand, and she was in such haste to see what it was that her son did not dare to tell her himself, that she did not wait to put on her spectacles.

Holding the sheet right under her reading lamp, she read the ominous paragraphs headed “A Kensington Poisoning Mystery” right through.

“Well,” she said at last, “and in what way, Roger, does this concern you? Were you acting as Mr. Lexton’s medical attendant?”

He answered at once, “I’m glad to say I was not. In fact I only saw the poor chap twice during the whole course of his illness. He was being looked after by a very good doctor, a man called Berwick.”

She said again, “Then in what way does this horrible story concern you, my dear?”

There followed a long pause, and all at once a certain suspicion rushed into Mrs. Gretorex’s mind.

“Is it possible,” she said at last, in a very low voice, “that your friend Mrs. Lexton is suspected of having poisoned her husband?”

Roger Gretorex leapt to his feet.

“Good God--no, mother! Whatever made you think of such a thing?”

“I don’t know. Forgive me, Roger.”

For the first time in her life she felt that her son was looking at her with something like--oh, no, not hatred, but anger, furious anger, in his blazing eyes.

He repeated the cruel question: “Whatever made such a monstrous idea come into your mind?”

She faltered, “It was foolish of me.”

“More than foolish--and very unlike you, mother,” he said harshly.

Then he moved his chair closer to hers, and stretching out his hand, he took hers.

“Ivy was the best of wives to Jervis Lexton,” he said in a low voice. “Lexton ran through a large fortune, and then, instead of trying to get a job, simply idled about, and lived on his friends. He was a complete wastrel.”

“Then isn’t what the paper says true?” she asked in bewilderment. “I mean about his having joined the firm of Miles Rushworth? I thought the Rushworths were shipping millionaires?”

“So they are. And it’s quite true that Lexton had just got a job in the Rushworths’ London office. He was well connected, and had a lot of good-natured friends who were always trying to get him something to do. However----” and then he quoted the familiar Latin tag concerning ill words of the dead.

She gazed across at him. His dark face, now convulsed with feeling, was partly illumined by the lamp which stood on a low table between them.

“Is it conceivable, my son----”

Then she, like him, stopped short, afraid to utter the words she was going to say.

“Yes, mother?”

His voice had suddenly become listless. He had dropped her hand, and was lying back in his chair. He was feeling spent, worn out.

“Have you any reason to suppose, my boy, that you are in danger of being accused of having poisoned Jervis Lexton?”

He straightened himself, got up, and then gazed down into her pale but still calm face, and she saw that he looked, if surprised, yet unutterably relieved.

“Yes, mother! That is what I came down to tell you. But what made you hit on the truth?”

Should she tell him the reason why that frightful thought had come into her mind? After a moment of indecision, she decided that she ought to do so.

“Can’t you guess why that fearful suspicion came into my mind, Roger?”

His eyes fell before her sad, steady, questioning gaze.

She went on slowly, “I said a word to you the evening of the day you brought Mrs. Lexton down here. I suppose you didn’t take my advice?”

“There are certain things about which a man must judge for himself, mother. And with regard to my friendship for Mrs. Lexton I judged for myself.”

He sat down again and covered his eyes with his right hand. The words he had just uttered had brought Ivy vividly before him.

“Now tell me everything, Roger.”

“There’s very little to tell,” said Gretorex, raising his head. “I feel sure, quite sure, mother, that there’s some perfectly natural explanation of what now seems so mysterious.”

“If, as I hope, you have come down to consult with me as to what is the best thing to do, then I trust that you will tell me the whole truth. After all, I am your mother, my darling.”

Her voice rose in entreaty.

“Whom should you trust, if you do not trust me?”

He felt very much moved, and, to her surprise, he came and knelt down by her.

She put her arms round him. “Now tell me everything,” she whispered.

And he did tell her almost everything. But he did not tell her, and he never told anyone, of his telephone talk with Ivy Lexton.

His mother was quick to see the flaw in his apparently frank account of all that had happened that morning.

“How did you first hear of Mr. Lexton’s death?” she asked. “You were there, I note from the date given in this paper, on the afternoon of the day he died. You must in fact have gone straight to the station, from your unfortunate call on the poor man.”

“I did, mother.”

“Then how, and when, did you hear of his death, Roger?”

He got up and went across to the chair where he had been sitting.

“I found a note from Ivy when I arrived at Ferry Place this morning. She knew I was away, and she sent me the note to await me on my return. It was written, evidently, some days ago.”

“I hope you have kept her note.”

He shook his head. “No, mother, I didn’t keep it. There was really nothing in it--simply the bare statement that Jervis Lexton was dead. She had had an awful shock, and she said she didn’t want to see anyone.”

“Then you’ve not seen Mrs. Lexton since her husband’s death?”

“No, I have not seen her.”

There trembled on the poor mother’s lips a further question--“Or had any further communication with her?” But she feared he might be tempted to tell her a lie, so she refrained from asking that, to her, important question.

Instead she said, “Though you have not put it into words, you feel sure that the man from Scotland Yard suspects you poisoned Jervis Lexton so that his wife would be free to marry you?”

“That is certainly what the inspector had in his mind, when he questioned me as to my acquaintance with her.”

“Forgive me for asking you the question, Roger. I suppose you would marry Mrs. Lexton, if you had the chance?”

He said at once, “I’d give my soul to marry her, mother. I love her--love her more, I think, than man ever loved woman.”

She gave him a searching look. “Does she love you?”

He hesitated, painfully. “I’ve seen very little of her lately. I know she felt we were not doing right in seeing as much as we were seeing of each other.”

And then he sighed, a long, long sigh.

“Try to love her, mother. She is free now, and she is all my life. Please, please try to love her for my sake.”

“I will, my darling boy.”

Mrs. Gretorex was ashamed of the hatred--she acknowledged to herself that it had been hatred--of Ivy Lexton which had filled her heart. She now told herself that this woman whom her boy adored must have some good in her.

There came the sound of the front door opening.

“Here, I think, is Enid Dent,” exclaimed Mrs. Gretorex.

Roger jumped up from his chair, and went forward to meet the girl who, as he knew deep in his heart, loved him.

Was it because he had known that his mother eagerly desired him to marry Enid, or was it simply because he knew her too well? Be that as it may, it had only taken three meetings with Ivy Lexton, the wife of another man, to blot Enid out from his heart.

To-day, the most terrible day of his life, the sight of her honest, thoughtful face brought comfort. For one thing, it was such an infinite relief to know that in Enid Dent his mother would have an entirely trustworthy, devoted support and stay, during days which he feared must be anxious and painful days, terrible days to remember, though he had no doubt at all as to the ultimate result of any inquiry into the facts surrounding Lexton’s death.

As for Enid Dent, she had loved Roger Gretorex with a silent, unswerving devotion since she had first known what love meant. Though he himself was scarcely aware of it, his whole manner had changed during the last few months, and while this caused her sharp anguish, which she had successfully hidden from those about her, it had never occurred to her, strangely enough, that that alteration had come about because of another woman.

Now, gazing from the mother to the son, she understood at once that they were both in deep trouble.

“I’m afraid I’ve come too soon,” she said.

“I’m glad you came early, my dear. We’re going to have supper in a few minutes, for Roger has to go back to town to-night.”

Old Bolton hobbled into the room.

“Rosie Holt says you promised to see her some time to-day, ma’am. She’s in the kitchen. Shall I show her into the drawing-room?”

Mrs. Gretorex made a great effort over herself.

“Yes, please do, Bolton,” she said quietly, “and I’ll come and see her.”

Roger turned to Enid:

“I wonder if you’d take a short turn before supper? I don’t get nearly enough exercise in London.”

“Of course I will.”

They went into the hall, and she hurried on her hat and coat. It was fully a year since she had last taken even a short walk with Roger Gretorex.

Once they were in the open air, in the kindly darkness, he drew her arm through his.

“Enid, I want to tell you something.”

He spoke almost in a whisper--as if he were afraid he might be overheard.

“Yes, Roger?” and she slightly pressed his arm.

“I’m in trouble,” he said sombrely; “in great trouble, my dear. What makes it worse is the knowledge of how unhappy it is going to make my mother.”

And then at once, for though she was young she was no fool--your country-bred girl often knows a great deal more of real life than your town-bred girl--Enid Dent said to herself that Roger’s trouble was connected with a woman.

“Tell me all about it,” she said quietly, and she stiffened herself to bear a blow.

“I will tell you all about it. But I’m afraid you will be very much shocked.”

To that she made no answer. No doubt some London girl was bringing a breach of promise action against Roger. That was the sort of trouble Enid Dent visualised.

“Things are never so bad when one talks them over,” she said, and tried to smile in the dark night. “Nothing could make me feel any different to you, Roger. Why, you’re my oldest friend!”

They were walking away from the house, down a broad path where they had often played when he was a boy of twelve and she a little girl of five.

“No talking can make any difference to my trouble,” and there came a harsh note in his voice.

They walked along in silence, and then he gently shook himself free of her arm.

“I’ve reason to believe that in the next few days----”

He stopped short. The ignominy, the horror of what might be going to happen to him, overwhelmed him.

“Yes, Roger? What is it that you think is going to happen? Tell me.”

He would have been surprised, indeed, if she had suddenly uttered aloud the words that she was saying in her heart, “Don’t you see the agony I am in? It’s cruel, cruel to keep me in suspense!”

“I think it possible, perhaps I ought to say likely, that I may be arrested on a charge of murder, within the next few days.” He uttered the dread words quietly enough. “And that though I assure you, Enid, that I am absolutely innocent----”

She cut across his words, “You needn’t have troubled to tell me that, Roger.”

“Though I’m absolutely innocent,” he repeated, “yet I’m beginning to realise that appearances are very much against me. I’ve felt all this afternoon as if I were living through a frightful nightmare, and I’m always expecting to wake up and find it was only a dream, after all.”

Enid knew that this man she loved had a violent temper. She supposed that he had had the kind of quarrel with another man in which one of the two strikes out.

“I’ve been wondering, during the last few minutes, whether you would be able to come up to London with my mother? It would be such a comfort to know you were with her, if this thing really happens.”

“Of course I will!” she exclaimed.

He went on: “You’ve always been like a daughter to her, haven’t you? And I know that, next to me, she loves you best in the world.”

“I think she does,” she whispered in a strangled voice, for she was now near to tears. “But a long way after you, Roger.”

“Well, yes,” he answered, in a matter-of-fact tone; “no doubt a long way after me. But still she loves you dearly, and she trusts you utterly, as I do.”

“I’ll stay with her all through the trouble--if the trouble comes. I promise you that, Roger.”

“It’s not that I have any doubt as to the outcome. The man whose death is being, I feel sure, put down to my account, almost certainly committed suicide. There’s no other solution possible.”

“Who was the man?” she asked diffidently.

“An acquaintance rather than a friend of mine, called Jervis Lexton. He fell ill--that I have to admit is a mysterious point about the whole business--about a fortnight ago. He died, rather suddenly, last week, on the 16th. A post-mortem revealed the cause of death to have been a virulent poison--arsenic. I saw him alone a few hours before he died, and I have a jar of arsenic in my surgery. There you have the story in a nutshell.”

He spoke in an awkward, constrained tone.

“Are you really going back to-night?” she asked. “Can’t you stay till to-morrow morning? It would be such a comfort to Mrs. Gretorex.”

“I’m afraid I must go back. You see, I’ve a lot of patients, and it isn’t fair to put all that work on another doctor.”

“I see.”

“I wonder if you and my mother can come to town to-morrow? She’d be wretched, staying on here in suspense, waiting for news of what, after all, may never happen.”

They were turning now towards the house, and as they emerged from under the trees they both noticed that the front door was open. Through it a shaft of bright light fell on the stone-paved courtyard, and Gretorex suddenly became aware that, in the shadow, a motor with hooded lights was drawn up.

“Who can that be at this time of the evening?” he said, surprised.

They walked swiftly across the wide lawn, and so on to the stone pavement. Then, as they passed through the open door, they heard Mrs. Gretorex’s voice and the unfamiliar voice of a man in the great hall.

“I think I hear my son coming in. In any case, I assure you he won’t be long.”

Mrs. Gretorex uttered the words in a matter-of-fact yet anxious tone, as if she feared the person she spoke to might not believe her.

Roger followed Enid through the lobby which separated the front door from the hall, and then he saw his mother standing with a tall, slight man whom Roger knew to be the Inspector of Police at Lynchester, the county town hard by. They had met two months back in connection with a local poaching affray.

“May I speak with you for a few moments in private, Dr. Gretorex?”

A look of great relief had come over the inspector’s face; he was aware in what high regard Mrs. Gretorex was held throughout the neighbourhood. He had also noticed the young lady who had just come in, and knew her for the only daughter of a local magistrate. So he was anxious to get through the unpleasant business which had brought him to-night to Anchorford Hall, as quietly and quickly as possible.

“I’m quite at your service. We’ll go into the smoking-room, but----”

Gretorex turned right round and began rapidly walking towards the front door.

As a matter of fact, the door had been left open, and he wished to close it.

But the inspector believed his lawful prey intended to escape into the darkness, and a hundred suspicious, angry thoughts flashed through his mind.

What a thing it would be to have to search the downs and woods all this coming night! ’Twould be like looking for a needle in a stack of hay.

He strode past Mrs. Gretorex, and seized Roger with no gentle hand by the collar.

“I’m surprised, sir, at your trying to get away. I didn’t expect such a thing from you!”

Gretorex wrenched himself free.

“I don’t know what you mean!” he exclaimed angrily.

“Oh, yes, you do. You were making for that door.”

“I was making for the door to shut it.”

He was shaking with anger, and the two glared at each other for a moment in silence.

Then the inspector took a step forward, and laid his hand on the young man’s arm.

“I arrest you,” he said, in a voice that was not quite steady, “on the charge of having murdered Jervis Lexton on the 16th of this month.”

Roger Gretorex stood still. Then he asked:

“May I speak to my mother in private for a moment?”

“No,” said the inspector quickly. “I cannot allow you to do that, Dr. Gretorex. I’m sorry, but from now on you are my prisoner.”

“May I make a statement to you now? I suppose there is no objection to my telling you that I’m absolutely innocent?”

The older man hesitated.

“I should advise you,” he said, not unkindly, “to make no statement. You are, of course, aware that anything you say may be used against you in evidence. I need hardly tell you that every facility will be given you to procure legal advice.”

“And what is going to happen to me now?”

“You will go with me to Lynchester, and you will be kept there in a police cell till you are conveyed to London to-morrow. Once there, as you probably are aware, Dr. Gretorex, you will be taken to the police station of the district where the alleged murder was committed, and in due course you will be charged.”

Meanwhile the inspector was watching his prisoner closely. He was remembering that during the brief telephone conversation with Scotland Yard, which had led to his presence here, he had been reminded how near Anchorford was to the sea, and he had been warned that he might find his bird flown.

What a fool he would look if, after having actually arrested him, this man effected even a temporary escape!

“May I shake hands with my mother and--and with my friends?”

“I will take it on myself to allow you to do that, Dr. Gretorex,” was the cold reply. “Then, I’m afraid, we must be getting on.”

“Won’t you allow my son to have some supper before you take him away?” asked Mrs. Gretorex. For the first time her voice was not quite steady. “Won’t you both have supper here? It’s quite ready.”

“No, ma’am, I’m afraid I can’t do that. But I promise you your son shall have something to eat, as good as I can get him at this time of night, when we reach Lynchester.”

The inspector’s voice had become kindly, even respectful, to his prisoner’s mother. He felt very sorry for her.

But for Roger Gretorex he was not at all sorry. He had been given to understand, quite unofficially of course, that there was a married woman in the case, and that she provided a strong enough motive to hang a dozen times over the fine young fellow now standing by his side.

“What I would advise you to do, ma’am--advising you as a private person, I mean--would be to go up to London to-morrow morning, and get in touch with a good solicitor. Dr. Gretorex will be allowed to see his lawyer alone as much as he can reasonably require. At least that is the usual procedure.”

Roger Gretorex held out his hand. Something seemed to warn him that it would be wiser for him to remain standing exactly where he was standing now. He felt that the inspector was watching him intently.