“Miss Beverley is with her?” I asked.
Dr. Rolleston nodded affirmatively.
“Yes, a very capable nurse. I am glad to know that Madame de Stamer is in such good hands. I am calling again early in the morning, and I have told Mrs. Fisher to see that nothing is said within hearing of the room which could enable Madame de Stamer to obtain confirmation of the idea, which she evidently entertains, that Colonel Menendez is dead.”
“Does she actually assert that he is dead?” asked Harley.
“My dear sir,” replied Dr. Rolleston, “she asserts nothing. She sits there like Niobe changed to stone, staring straight before her. She seems to be unaware of the presence of everyone except Miss Beverley. The only words she has spoken since recovering consciousness have been, ‘Don’t leave me!’”
“Hm,” muttered Harley. “You have not attended Madame de Stamer before, doctor?”
“No,” was the reply, “this is the first time I have entered Cray’s Folly since it was occupied by Sir James Appleton.”
He was about to take his departure when the door opened and Inspector Aylesbury walked in.
“Ah,” said he, “I have two more witnesses to interview: Madame de Stamer and Miss Beverley. From these witnesses I hope to get particulars of the dead man’s life which may throw some light upon the identity of his murderer.”
“It is impossible to see either of them at present,” replied Dr. Rolleston briskly.
“What’s that, doctor?” asked the Inspector. “Are they hysterical, or something?”
“As a result of the shock, Madame de Stamer is dangerously ill,” replied the physician, “and Miss Beverley is remaining with her.”
“Oh, I see. But Miss Beverley could come out for a few minutes?”
“She could,” admitted the physician, sharply, “but I don’t wish her to do so.”
“Oh, but the law must be served, doctor.”
“Quite so, but not at the expense of my patient’s reason.”
He was a resolute man, this country practitioner, and I saw Harley smiling in grim approval.
“I have expressed my opinion,” he said, finally, walking out of the room; “I shall leave the responsibility to you, Inspector Aylesbury. Good morning, gentlemen.”
Inspector Aylesbury scratched his chin.
“That’s awkward,” he muttered. “The evidence of this woman is highly important.”
He turned toward us, doubtingly, whereupon Harley stood up, yawning.
“If I can be of any further assistance to you, Inspector,” said my friend, “command me. Otherwise, I feel sure you will appreciate the fact that both Mr. Knox and myself are extremely tired, and have passed through a very trying ordeal.”
“Yes,” replied Inspector Aylesbury, “that’s all very well, but I find myself at a deadlock.”
“You surprise me,” declared Harley.
“I can see nothing to be surprised about,” cried the Inspector. “When I was called in it was already too late.”
“Most unfortunate,” murmured Harley, disagreeably. “Come along, Knox, you look tired to death.”
“One moment, gentlemen,” the Inspector insisted, as I stood up. “One moment. There is a little point which you may be able to clear up.”
Harley paused, his hand on the door knob, and turned.
“The point is this,” continued the Inspector, frowning portentously and lowering his chin so that it almost disappeared into the folds of his neck, “I have now interviewed all the inmates of Cray’s Folly except the ladies. It appears to me that four people had not gone to bed. There are you two gentlemen, who have explained why I found you in evening dress, Colonel Menendez, who can never explain, and there is one other.”
He paused, looking from Harley to myself.
It had come, the question which I had dreaded, the question which I had been asking myself ever since I had seen Val Beverley kneeling in the corridor, dressed as she had been when we had parted for the night.
“I refer to Miss Val Beverley,” the police-court voice proceeded. “This lady had evidently not retired, and neither, it would appear, had the Colonel.”
“Neither had I,” murmured Harley, “and neither had Mr. Knox.”
“Your reason I understand,” said the Inspector, “or at least your explanation is a possible one. But if the party broke up, as you say it did, somewhere about half-past ten o’clock, and if Madame de Stamer had gone to bed, why should Miss Beverley have remained up?” He paused significantly. “As well as Colonel Menendez?” he added.
“Look here, Inspector Aylesbury,” I interrupted, I speaking in a very quiet tone, I remember, “your insinuations annoy me.”
“Oh,” said he, turning his prominent eyes in my direction, “I see. They annoy you? If they annoy you, sir, perhaps you can explain this point which is puzzling me?”
“I cannot explain it, but doubtless Miss Beverley can do so when you ask her.”
“I should like to have asked her now, and I can’t make out why she refuses to see me.”
“She has not refused to see you,” replied Harley, smoothly. “She is probably unaware of the fact that you wish to see her.”
“I don’t know so much,” muttered the Inspector. “In my opinion I am being deliberately baffled on all sides. You can throw no light on this matter, then?”
“None,” I answered, shortly, and Paul Harley shook his head.
“But you must remember, Inspector,” he explained, “that the entire household was in a state of unrest.”
“In other words, everybody was waiting for this very thing to happen?”
“Consciously, or subconsciously, everybody was.”
“What do you mean by consciously or subconsciously?”
“I mean that those of us who were aware of the previous attempts on the life of the Colonel apprehended this danger. And I believe that something of this apprehension had extended even to the servants.”
“Oh, to the servants? Now, I have seen all the servants, except the chef, who lives at a house on the outskirts of Mid-Hatton, as you may know. Can you give me any information about this man?”
“I have seen him,” replied Harley, “and have congratulated him upon his culinary art. His name, I believe, is Deronne. He is a Spaniard, and a little fat man. Quite an amiable creature,” he added.
“Hm.” The Inspector cleared his throat noisily.
“If that is all,” said Harley, “I should welcome an opportunity of a few hours’ sleep.”
“Oh,” said the Inspector. “Well, I suppose that is quite natural, but I shall probably have a lot more questions to ask you later.”
“Quite,” muttered Harley, “quite. Come on, Knox. Good-night, Inspector Aylesbury.”
“Good-night.”
Harley walked out of the dining room and across the deserted hall. He slowly mounted the stairs and I followed him into his room. It was now quite light, and as my friend dropped down upon the bed I thought that he looked very tired and haggard.
“Knox,” he said, “shut the door.”
I closed the door and turned to him.
“You heard that question about Miss Beverley?” I began.
“I heard it, and I am wondering what her answer will be when the Inspector puts it to her personally.”
“Surely it is obvious?” I cried. “A cloud of apprehension had settled on the house last night, Harley, which was like the darkness of Egypt. The poor girl was afraid to go to bed. She was probably sitting up reading.”
“Hm,” said Harley, drumming his feet upon the carpet. “Of course you realize that there is one person in Cray’s Folly who holds the clue to the heart of the mystery?”
“Madame de Stamer?”
He nodded grimly.
“When the rifle cracked out, Knox, she knew! Remember, no one had told her the truth. Yet can you doubt that she knows?”
“I don’t doubt it.”
