“So I went on that picnic, with my life all in pieces, frantic, insane with grief and fear. Colonel Beetham was there—I had met him once before—a fine man, a gentleman, all that Eric was not. He was leaving in the morning—it came to me in a flash. He must take me with him. I suggested the game of hide-and-seek—I had already asked the Colonel to meet me in a certain spot. He came—I made him promise never to tell—and I explained to him the horrible position I was in. If I tried to leave openly I was afraid—I was sure—Eric would carry out his threat. Colonel Beetham was wonderful. He arranged everything. I hid in the hills all night. He came with Li Gung in the wagon at dawn—he had added it to his caravan, intending to abandon it when we got through the pass. I rode out hidden in that, and beyond the Khyber there began for me the most wonderful adventure a woman ever had. Eight months through that wild country on a camel—the stars at night, the dust storms, the desert stretching empty but mysterious as far as the eye could see. Outside Tehran I left the caravan and got to Baku alone. From there I went to Italy. Eight months had passed, as I say, and the hue and cry had died down.
“But now I realized what I had done. Colonel Beetham was a hero, he was honored everywhere. What if it became known how I had left India? No journey could ever have been more innocent, but this is a cynical world. Doing a kind act, a gallant act, Colonel Beetham had put himself in the position, in the world’s eyes, of running away with another man’s wife. If it became known, the Colonel’s splendid career would be wrecked. It must never become known. I made up my mind I would see to that.”
“And you have,” remarked Beetham softly. “Gentleman, you have just heard what I did referred to as a gallant act. But it was as nothing compared with Eve Durand’s gallantry ever since.”
“First of all,” the woman went on, “I wrote a letter to Eric. I told him he must never try to find me—for his own sake. I said that if I was found, if the story came out of how I had left India, I would not hesitate a moment. I would clear Colonel Beetham’s name at once by a clear account of why I had gone. I would say I left because I discovered my husband was a murderer. Eric didn’t answer, but he must have received the letter. He never tried to find me after that. He did not want anyone else to find me—as he has recently proved to you.”
She paused. “That is about all. I—I have had rather a hard struggle of it. I sold my jewelry and lived on the proceeds for a time. Then I went to Nice, and under the name of Marie Lantelme, I got a place in the opera company. There, for the first time, I realized that another man was on my trail—a man who would never give up. Sir Frederic Bruce of Scotland Yard, in charge of the Hilary Galt case. He knew that Eric had visited Galt’s office the day of the murder, and when he read of my disappearance in India, he must have sensed a connection. One night when I came from the theater in Nice, an Inspector from Scotland Yard stopped me on the Promenade des Anglais. ‘You are Eve Durand,’ he said. I denied it, got away from him, managed to reach Marseilles. From there I went to New York. I changed my appearance as much as I could—the color of my hair—and under the name of Jennie Jerome, secured a position as a model. Again Scotland Yard was on my track. I had to disappear in the night. Eventually I arrived in San Francisco, desperate, penniless. On a ferry I met Helen Tupper-Brock, who had lived near us in Devonshire. She has been so kind—she got me my position here. I was happy again, until Sir Frederic Bruce came, still following that old trail.”
Durand got slowly to his feet. “I hope you’re satisfied,” he said thickly.
“Oh, Eric—”
“You’ve done for me. You ought to be satisfied now.” His eyes flamed red. “You’ve saved the spotless reputation of your damned Sir Galahad—”
“You’re going to confess?” cried Flannery.
Durand shrugged his shoulders hopelessly. “Why not? What else is left?” He turned his blazing eyes on Charlie Chan. “Everything this devil said was true. I admire him for it. I thought I was clever. But he’s beat me—” His voice rose hysterically. “I killed Sir Frederic. Why shouldn’t I? It was the only way. He stood there grinning at me. My God—what a man! He wouldn’t give up. He wouldn’t call quits. Sixteen years, and he was still at my heels. Sixteen years, and he wouldn’t forget. Yes, I killed him—”
“And the velvet slippers?” Chan inquired softly.
“On his feet. The same old velvet slippers I’d left in that office, long ago. I
