They all looked toward the Colonel, sitting silent and aloof in the background. “Is that true, Colonel Beetham?” Flannery asked.
The explorer bowed. “I will not deny it longer. It is true.”
“Perhaps you know—”
“Whatever I know, I am not at liberty to tell.”
“If I make you—” Flannery exploded.
“You can, of course, try. You will not succeed.”
The door opened, and Miss Morrow came quickly through the hall. With her came the elevator girl. Jennie Jerome? Marie Lantelme? Grace Lane? Whatever her name, she entered, and stood staring at Eric Durand.
“Eric!” she cried. “What have you done? Oh—how could you—”
Durand raised his head and looked at her with bloodshot eyes. “Go away from me,” he said dully. “Go away. You’ve brought me nothing but trouble—always. Go away. I hate you.”
The woman backed off, frightened by the venom in his tone. Chan approached her.
“Pardon,” he said gently. “Perhaps the news has already reached you? It was this man Durand who killed Sir Frederic. Your husband—is that not true, Madam?”
She dropped into a chair and covered her face. “Yes,” she sobbed. “My husband.”
“You are indeed Eve Durand?”
“Y—yes.”
Charlie looked grimly at Flannery. “Now the truth arrives,” he said. “That you once listened to a Chinaman is, after all, no lasting disgrace.”
XXI
What Happened to Eve Durand
Flannery turned fiercely on Eve Durand. “Then you’ve known all along?” he cried. “You knew the Major had been here before—you saw him that night he did for Sir Frederic—”
“No, no,” she protested. “I didn’t see him—I never dreamed of such a thing. And if he knew I was in the building that night, he took good care to keep out of my way. For if I had seen him—if I had known—it would have been the final straw. I’d have told. I’d have told the whole story at once.”
Flannery grew calmer. “Well, let’s go back. You’re Eve Durand—you admit it at last. Fifteen years ago you ran away from your husband in Peshawar. You went with the caravan of Colonel Beetham here—”
The woman looked up, startled, and for the first time saw the explorer. “That’s all true,” she said softly, “I went with Colonel Beetham.”
“Ran away with another man—deserted your husband? Why? In love with the Colonel—”
“No!” Her eyes flashed. “You mustn’t think that. Colonel Beetham did a very kind act—an indiscreet act—and he shall not suffer for it. Long ago, I made up my mind to that.”
“Please, Eve,” said the Colonel. “I shan’t suffer. Don’t tell your story on my account.”
“That’s like you,” she answered. “But I insist. I said if I was ever found, I’d tell everything. And after what Eric has done now—it doesn’t matter any longer. Oh, I shall be so relieved to tell the whole terrible thing at last.”
She turned to Flannery. “I shall have to go back. I was brought up in Devonshire by my uncle and aunt—my parents had died. I wasn’t very happy. My uncle had old-fashioned ideas. He meant well, he was kind, but somehow we just didn’t get along. Then I met Eric—he was a romantic figure—I adored him. I was only seventeen. On my eighteenth birthday we were married. He was assigned to a regiment stationed in Peshawar, and I went with him.
“Even before we reached India, I began to regret what I had done. I was sorry I hadn’t listened to my uncle—he never approved of the match. Under his dashing manner I found that Eric was mean and cheap. He was a gambler, he drank too much. His real character appalled me—he was coarse and brutal, and a cheat.
“Soon after our arrival at Peshawar, letters began to come from London—letters in dirty envelopes, the address written in an uncultivated hand. They seemed to enrage my husband; he wasn’t fit to associate with after their appearance. I was puzzled and alarmed. On a certain day—the day of the picnic, it was—one of those letters was put in my hand during Eric’s absence. By that time I was desperate. I knew only too well the outburst that would come when he saw it. I hesitated for a while. Finally I tore it open and read it.
“What I read wrecked my life forever. It was from a porter in an office building in London. It said he must have more money—at once. It didn’t hint—it spoke openly. Everything was all too plain. Eric—my husband—was being blackmailed by the porter. He was paying money to keep the man quiet. If he didn’t, the porter threatened to reveal the fact that he had seen Eric leaving a London office one night a year previously. Leaving an office on the floor of which lay Hilary Galt, the solicitor, with a bullet in his head.”
Eve Durand paused, and continued with an effort. “My husband, then, was being blackmailed for the murder of Hilary Galt. He came home presently, in rather a genial mood—for him. I said: ‘I am leaving you at once.’ He wanted to know why, and I gave him the opened letter.
“His face went gray, and he collapsed. Presently he was on his knees, groveling at my feet, pleading with me. Without my asking for it, he gave me the whole terrible story. Hilary Galt and my uncle, Sir George Mannering, were old friends. On the morning of that awful day, the solicitor had sent for Eric and told him that if he persisted in his intention of marrying me, he—Mr. Galt, I mean—would go to my uncle with the story of certain unsavory happenings in Eric’s past. Eric had listened, and left the office. That night he had gone back and killed Hilary Galt, and the porter had seen him coming away.
“He did it for love of me, he said. Because he must have me—because he was determined nothing should stand in his way. I must forgive him—”
“Pardon,” put in Chan. “Did he, in that unhappy moment, mention a pair of velvet slippers?”
“He did. After—after
