any way bore on the house, and what they knew of its history.
We were to bed in a fortifying blaze of electric light. My one fear was that the blasting gust of depression would return – the surest way, of course, to bring it. I lay awake till dawn, breathing quickly and sweating lightly, beneath what De Quincey inadequately describes as “the oppression of inexpiable guilt.” Now as soon as the lovely day was broken, I fell into the most terrible of all dreams – that joyous one in which all past evil has not only been wiped out of our lives, but has never been committed; and in the very bliss of our assured innocence, before our loves shriek and change countenance, we wake to the day we have earned.
It was a coolish morning, but we preferred to breakfast in the south verandah. The forenoon we spent in the garden, pretending to play games that come out of boxes, such as croquet and clock golf. But most of the time we drew together and talked. The young man who knew all about South American railways took Miss M’Leod for a walk in the afternoon, and at five M’Leod thoughtfully whirled us all up to dine in town.
“Now, don’t say you will tell the Psychological Society, and that you will come again,” said Miss M’Leod, as we parted. “Because I know you will not.”
“You should not say that,” said her mother. “You should say, “Good-bye, Mr Perseus. Come again.’ ”
“Not him!” the girl cried. “He has seen the Medusa’s head!”
Looking at myself in the restaurant’s mirrors, it seemed to me that I had not much benefited by my weekend. Next morning I wrote out all my Holmescroft notes at fullest length, in the hope that by so doing I could put it all behind me. But the experience worked on my mind, as they say certain imperfectly understood rays work on the body.
I am less calculated to make a Sherlock Holmes than any man I know, for I lack both method and patience, yet the idea of following up the trouble to its source fascinated me. I had no theory to go on, except a vague idea that I had come between two poles of a discharge, and had taken a shock meant for some one else. This was followed by a feeling of intense irritation. I waited cautiously on myself, expecting to be overtaken by horror of the supernatural, but my self persisted in being humanly indignant, exactly as though it had been the victim of a practical joke. It was in great pains and upheavals – that I felt in every fibre – but its dominant idea, to put it coarsely, was to get back a bit of its own. By this I knew that I might go forward if I could find the way.
After a few days it occurred to me to go to the office of Mr J. M. M. Baxter – the solicitor who had sold Holmescroft to M’Leod. I explained I had some notion of buying the place. Would he act for me in the matter?
Mr Baxter, a large, greyish, throaty-voiced man, showed no enthusiasm. “I sold it to Mr M’Leod,” he said. “It ’ud scarcely do for me to start on the running-down tack now. But I can recommend –”
“I know he’s asking an awful price,” I interrupted, “and atop of it he wants an extra thousand for what he calls your clean bill of health.”
Mr Baxter sat up in his chair. I had all his attention.
“Your guarantee with the house. Don’t you remember it?”
“Yes, yes. That no death had taken place in the house since it was built. I remember perfectly.”
He did not gulp as untrained men do when they lie, but his jaws moved stickily, and his eyes, turning towards the deed boxes on the wall, dulled. I counted seconds, one, two, three – one, two, three – up to ten. A man, I knew, can live through ages of mental depression in that time.
“I remember perfectly.” His mouth opened a little as though it had tasted old bitterness.
“Of course
“Certainly not. No one does. But it was Mr M’Leod’s fancy – his wife’s rather, I believe; and since we could meet it – it was my duty to my clients – at whatever cost to my own feelings – to make him pay.”
“That’s really why I came to you. I understood from him you knew the place well.”
“Oh yes. Always did. It originally belonged to some connections of mine.”
“The Misses Moultrie, I suppose. How interesting! They must have loved the place before the country round about was built up.”
“They were very fond of it indeed.”
“I don’t wonder. So restful and sunny. I don’t see how they could have brought themselves to part with it.”
Now it is one of the most constant peculiarities of the English that in polite conversation – and I had striven to be polite – no one ever does or sells anything for mere money’s sake.
“Miss Agnes – the youngest – fell ill” (he spaced his words a little), “and, as they were very much attached to each other, that broke up the home.”
“Naturally. I fancied it must have been something of that kind. One doesn’t associate the Staffordshire Moultries’ (my Demon of Irresponsibility at that instant created ’em), “with – with being hard up.”
“I don’t know whether we’re related to them,” he answered importantly. “We may be, for our branch of the family comes from the Midlands.”
I give this talk at length, because I am so proud of my first attempt at detective work. When I left him, twenty minutes later, with instructions to move against the owner of Holmescroft with a view to purchase, I was more bewildered than any Doctor Watson at the opening of a story.
Why should a middle-aged solicitor turn plover’s egg colour and drop his jaw when reminded of so innocent and festal a matter as that no death had ever occurred in a house that he had sold? If I knew my English vocabulary at all, the tone in which he said the youngest sister “fell ill” meant that she had gone out of her mind. That might explain his change of countenance, and it was just possible that her demented influence still hung about Holmescroft; but the rest was beyond me.
I was relieved when I reached M’Leod’s City office, and could tell him what I had done – not what I thought.
M’Leod was quite willing to enter into the game of the pretended purchase, but did not see how it would help if I knew Baxter.
“He’s the only living soul I can get at who was connected with Holmescroft,” I said.
“Ah! Living soul is good,” said M’Leod. “At any rate our little girl will be pleased that you are still interested in us. Won’t you come down some day this week?”
“How is it there now?” I asked.
He screwed up his face. “Simply frightful!” he said. “Thea is at Droitwich.”
“I should like it immensely, but I must cultivate Baxter for the present. You’ll be sure and keep him busy your end, won’t you?”
He looked at me with quiet contempt. “Do not be afraid. I shall be a good Jew. I shall be my own solicitor.”
Before a fortnight was over, Baxter admitted ruefully that M’Leod was better than most firms in the business. We buyers were coy, argumentative, shocked at the price of Holmescroft, inquisitive, and cold by turns, but Mr M’Leod the seller easily met and surpassed us; and Mr Baxter entered every letter, telegram, and consultation at the proper rates in a cinematograph-film of a bill. At the end of a month he said it looked as though M’Leod, thanks to him, were really going to listen to reason. I was many pounds out of pocket, but I had learned something of Mr Baxter on the human side. I deserved it. Never in my life have I worked to conciliate, amuse, and flatter a human being as I worked over my solicitor.
It appeared that he golfed. Therefore, I was an enthusiastic beginner, anxious to learn. Twice I invaded his office with a bag (M’Leod lent it) full of the spelicans needed in this detestable game, and a vocabulary to match. The third time the ice broke, and Mr Baxter took me to his links, quite ten miles off, where in a maze of tramway lines, railroads, and nursery-maids, we skelped our divoted way round nine holes like barges plunging through head seas. He played vilely and had never expected to meet any one worse; but as he realized my form, I think he began to like me, for he took me in hand by the two hours together. After a fortnight he could give me no more than a stroke a hole, and when, with this allowance, I once managed to beat him by one, he was honestly glad, and assured me that I should be a golfer if I stuck to it. I was sticking to it for my own ends, but now and again my conscience pricked me; for the man was a nice man. Between games he supplied me with odd pieces of evidence, such as that he had known the Moultries all his life, being their cousin, and that Miss Mary, the eldest, was an unforgiving woman who would never let bygones be. I naturally wondered what she might have against him; and somehow connected him unfavourably with mad Agnes.
“People ought to forgive and forget,” he volunteered one day between rounds. “Specially where, in the nature
