Speak—yes, speak—for here we are at the house.'
The pause that followed well-nigh drove him frantic. Then came the answer in a low, clear voice:
'You are not mistaken. I am waiting to be shown into the house.'
XXXI
THE CHARITY OF SILENCE
Dr. Mowbray, coming first thing in the morning, declared that the patient had passed a better night than he had hoped for; but he told Colonel Bristo privately that he must count on nothing as yet, and be prepared for anything.
To his surprise and delight, the physician found his patient in the hands of a gentle, intelligent nurse. This was the more fortunate since he had failed to find in Melmerbridge a capable woman who was able to come. Whoever the dark, shabbily-dressed woman was, she must not be allowed to leave the bedside for the present. 'She is a godsend,' said Dr. Mowbray on coming downstairs. Colonel Bristo, for his part, knew nothing of the woman; he supposed she was from Gateby. Mrs. Parish, no doubt, knew all about her; and after the doctor's account of her services, the Colonel made no inquiries.
Edmonstone and Pinckney were to drive back to Melmerbridge with the doctor to attend the inquest on the body of the suicide. Before they started the Colonel called the two young men aside, and a brief, earnest colloquy took place.
During the drive Dr. Mowbray mentioned a strange report that had reached him before leaving Melmerbridge; it was noised in the village, at that early hour, that the dead man had moved one of his hands during the night.
'It will show you,' the doctor said, 'the lengths to which the rustic imagination can stretch. The fact is, they are terribly excited and primed with superstition, for there hasn't been a suicide in the parish in the memory of this generation. What is more,' added the old gentleman, suddenly, 'I'm not sure that there's been one now!'
There was some excuse, perhaps, for the string of excited questions reeled off on the spur of the moment by young Pinckney: 'Why? How could it be anything else but suicide? Had they not got the pistol—Miles's own pistol? Had not Dr. Mowbray himself said that the bullet extracted fitted the one empty cartridge found in the revolver? Besides, Miles had not denied shooting himself when asked by Edmonstone what he had done.'
'But did he admit that he had shot himself?' asked Dr. Mowbray, turning to Edmonstone.
'No, he did not.'
'Was his manner, up to the last, that of a man who had deliberately shot himself?'
'No, it was not. It might have been an accident.'
'Neither the one nor the other,' said the doctor. 'Now I'll tell you two something that I shall make public presently: a man cannot point a pistol at himself from a greater distance than two feet at the outside; but this shot was fired at three times that range!'
'How can you tell, sir?' asked Pinckney, with added awe and subtracted vehemence.
'The clothes are not singed; the hole might have been made by a drill, it was so clean.'
The young man sat in silent wonder. Then Dick put a last question:
'You think it has been—murder?'
'Personally, I am convinced of it. We shall say all we know, and get an adjournment. At the adjourned inquest Colonel Bristo will attend, and tell us his relations with the dead man, who, it appears, had no other friend in the country; but to-day that is not absolutely necessary, and I shall explain his absence myself. Meanwhile, detectives will be sent down, and will find out nothing at all, and the affair will end in a verdict against some person or persons unknown, at best.'
Dr. Mowbray's first prediction was forthwith fulfilled: the inquest was adjourned. The doctor at once drove back to Gateby with the two young men. As they drove slowly down the last hill they descried two strangers, in overcoats and hard hats, conversing with Colonel Bristo in the road. Philip Robson was standing by, talking to no one, and looking uncomfortable.
When the shorter of the two strangers turned his face to the gig, Dick ejaculated his surprise—for it was the rough, red, good-humoured face of the Honourable Stephen Biggs.
'What has brought you here?' Dick asked in a low voice when he had greeted the legislator.
By way of reply, Biggs introduced him to the tall, grave, black-bearded, sharp-featured gentleman—Sergeant Compton, late of the Victorian Mounted Police.
There was an embarrassed silence; then Philip Robson stepped forward.
'It was my doing,' he said, awkwardly enough; and he motioned Dick to follow him out of hearing of the others. 'I listened,' he then confessed, 'to a conversation between you and Miles. I heard you read a letter aloud. From what passed between you, I gathered that Miles was a blackleg of some kind, whom you were screening from the police. Miles found that I had overheard you, and swore to me that you were the victim of a delusion. When I reflected, I disbelieved him utterly. I copied the address of the letter you had written, and the next day I wrote myself to Mr. Biggs, describing Miles as well as I could, and saying where he was. I did not dream that Miles was a bushranger, even then—I thought he was merely a common swindler. However, that's the whole truth. Edmonstone, I'm sorry!'
Dick's first expression of contempt had vanished. Frank admissions turn away wrath more surely than soft answers. Besides, Robson had behaved well yesterday: without him, what might not have happened before Dr. Mowbray arrived?
'I believe,' said Dick, 'that you were justified in what you did, only—I'm sorry you did it.'
Mr. Biggs was in close conversation with Colonel Bristo. Sergeant Compton stood aloof, silent and brooding; in the hour of triumph Death had baulked him of his quarry; his dark face presented a study in fierce melancholy.
'If only,' the Colonel was saying piteously, 'the tragedy could stop at the name of Miles! The scandal that will attach to us when the whole sensation comes to light is difficult to face. For my part, I would face it cheerfully if it were not—if it were not for my daughter Alice. And, after all, it may not annoy her. She may not live to hear it.'
