examined the sheets and pillow-case as a good French housewife should. Would she throw back the curtain? If so —what would happen next? Then it would become necessary to take the new nurse into confidence, otherwise—— Fanny did not put the remainder of this sentence into words. It remained a terror: it meant that if Vimpany found out where she had been and what she had seen and heard, there would be two, instead of one, cast into a deep slumber.
The nurse turned from the bed, however, attracted by the half-open door of the cupboard. Here were the medicine bottles. She took them out one by one, looked at them with professional curiosity, pulled out the corks, smelt the contents, replaced the bottles. Then she went to the window, which stood open; she stepped out upon the stone steps which led into the garden, looking about her, to breathe the soft air of noon among the flowers.
She came back, and it again seemed as if she would examine the bed, but her attention was attracted by a small book-case. She began to pull down the books one after the other and to turn them over, as a half-educated person does, in the hope of finding something amusing. She found a book with pictures. Then she sat down in the armchair beside the sofa and began to turn over the leaves slowly. How long was this going to last?
It lasted about half an hour. The nurse laid down the volume with a yawn, stretched herself, yawned again, crossed her hands, and closed her eyes. She was going to sleep. If she would only fall so fast asleep that the woman behind the curtain could creep away!
But sometimes at the sleepiest moment sleep is driven away by an accident. The accident in this case was that the nurse before finally dropping off remembered that she was nursing a sick man, and sat up to look at him before she allowed herself to drop off.
Stung with sudden inspiration she sprang to her feet and bent over the man. 'Does he breathe?' she asked. She bent lower. 'His pulse! does it beat?' she caught his wrist.
'Doctor!' she shrieked, running into the garden. 'Doctor! Come—come quick! He is dead!'
Fanny Mere stepped from her hiding-place and ran out of the back door, and by the garden gate into the road.
She had escaped. She had seen the crime committed. She knew now at least what was intended and why she was sent away. The motive for the crime she could not guess.
CHAPTER LI
WHAT NEXT?
WHAT should she do with the terrible secret?
She ought to inform the police. But there were two objections. First, the nurse may have been mistaken in supposing her patient to be dead. She herself had no choice but to escape as she did. Next, the dreadful thought occurred to her that she herself until the previous day had been the man's nurse—his only nurse, day and night. What was to prevent the doctor from fixing the guilt of poisoning upon herself? Nay; it would be his most obvious line of action. The man was left alone all the morning; the day before he had shown every sign of returning strength; she would have to confess that she was in hiding. How long had she been there? Why was she in hiding? Was it not after she had poisoned the man and when she heard the doctor's footstep? Naturally ignorant of poisons and their symptoms, it seemed to her as if these facts so put together would be conclusive against her. Therefore, she determined to keep quiet in Paris that day and to cross over by the night boat from Dieppe in the evening. She would at first disclose everything to Mrs. Vimpany and to Mountjoy. As to what she would tell her mistress she would be guided by the advice of the others.
She got to London in safety and drove straight to Mr. Mountjoy's hotel, proposing first to communicate the whole business to him. But she found in his sitting-room Mrs. Vimpany herself.
'We must not awake him,' she said, 'whatever news you bring. His perfect recovery depends entirely on rest and quiet. There'—she pointed to the chimneypiece—'is a letter in my lady's handwriting. I am afraid I know only too well what it tells him.'
'What does it tell?'
'This very morning,' Mrs. Vimpany went on, 'I called at her lodging. She has gone away.'
'Gone away? My lady gone away? Where is she gone?'
'Where do you think she is most likely to have gone?'
'Not?—oh!—not to her husband? Not to him!—oh! this is more terrible—far more terrible—than you can imagine.'
'You will tell me why it is now so much more terrible. Meantime, I find that the cabman was told to drive to Victoria. That is all I know. I have no doubt, however, but that she has gone back to her husband. She has been in a disturbed, despondent condition ever since she arrived in London. Mr. Mountjoy has been as kind as usual: but he has not been able to chase away her sadness. Whether she was fretting after her husband, or whether—but this I hardly think—she was comparing the man she had lost with the man she had taken—but I do not know. All I do know is that she has been uneasy ever since she came from France, and what I believe is that she has been reproaching herself with leaving her husband without good cause.'
'Good cause!' echoed Fanny. 'Oh! good gracious! If she only knew, there's cause enough to leave a hundred husbands.'
'Nothing seemed to rouse her,' Mrs. Vimpany continued, without regarding the interruption. 'I went with her to the farm to see her former maid, Rhoda. The girl's health is re-established; she is engaged to marry the farmer's brother. Lady Harry was kind, and said the most pleasant things; she even pulled off one of her prettiest rings and gave it to the girl. But I could see that it was an effort for her to appear interested—her thoughts were with her husband all the time. I was sure it would end in this way, and I am not in the least surprised. But what will Mr. Mountjoy say when he opens the letter?'
'Back to her husband!' Fanny repeated. 'Oh! what shall we do?'
'Tell me what you mean. What has happened?'
'I must tell you. I thought I would tell Mr. Mountjoy first: but I must tell you, although—' She stopped.
'Although it concerns my husband. Never mind that consideration—go on.' Fanny told the story from the beginning.
When she had finished, Mrs. Vimpany looked towards the bedroom door. 'Thank God!' she said, 'that you told
