“That’s just what I have done,” said Sinclair gloomily. “It’s all right for you, but I have to do what I am told. I know this is all wrong.”
“Do you? So do I,” said Collins quietly.
The other looked up quickly. “You are very certain.”
“Exactly. And so are you.” They both stared hard at each other for a moment. “I wonder what you have got hold of?” said Sinclair.
“That’s just what I was wondering,” said Collins.
“There’s one thing. This will put the real man right off. He will think he’s safe and may return,” said Sinclair.
“Return? What do you mean?”
“Oh, nothing.”
A clerk entered, and laid an early edition of the Evening Rag on the table. Sinclair picked it up.
“Read that,” he said, indignantly.
Across the page was printed:
“Murder of the Home Secretary,”
“Suspect Arrested,”
“Makes Full Confession.”
There followed an account of how that brilliant Civil Servant, F. D. Boyce, Commissioner of Police, after devoting his nights and days to the problem, had at last effected the arrest of a violent lunatic who had made a full confession of the dastardly crime.
There followed a paragraph in praise of their worthy official, and in self-laudation of the Press generally, whose cooperation had been so effectual.
Collins put it down with a smile.
“So that’s that,” he said. “I wash my hands of the case.”
On his way back to his flat he stopped at a Post Office, and sent off a wire. “Delighted to accept your kind invitation. Will come tomorrow,” and addressed it to “Miss Watson, The Vale, Holbrook.”
X
The Portrait
A surprise awaited Collins on his arrival at Wilton-on-Sea. Eric Sanders was on the platform, and came forward with a pleasant smile. He was a changed being. The sulky petulance was gone, and he seemed like a man from whom a load of care has been removed. His manner was friendly without being effusive.
Collins surveyed him keenly.
He was too used to studying human nature not to notice the change, and too clever to show that he saw it.
They drove to the Vale among the autumn trees and over the hills from whence magnificent views stretched out beneath them. Eric opened the conversation.
“You people have done a smart bit of work capturing the murderer of Sir James so quickly,” he said. “The papers were full of it this morning.”
“Yes,” said Collins, dryly. “I read them on the way down.”
“He seems to be a desperate ruffian. I didn’t quite make out how it was he was actually caught.”
“He wasn’t,” said Collins, “he gave himself up.”
“Oh, I see. It was not clear in the account,” he looked at Collins doubtfully wondering how far it was right to ask him questions without breach of etiquette.
“This is a wonderful piece of country,” said Collins. “It’s one of the finest views I know just before we go down again into the valley. It’s like the view from the Delectable Mountains.”
“You’ve read the Pilgrim’s Progress?” said the other in surprise.
Collins gave a laugh. “Oh, I don’t spend all my time in bones and blood, though problems do interest me.”
At the risk of courting a snub Eric said, “I expect you are sorry this one is over so quickly?”
“Oh, there will be plenty more,” said he lightly.
On their arrival Mabel met them at the door and greeted Collins warmly—a trifle too warmly—there was just a touch of over effusiveness, which his quick eye noticed.
“We’re quite a party,” she said. “It is really too big so shortly after—” she hesitated: “while we are in mourning. Mr. Allery is here, with his wife and daughter.”
When they sat down to dinner that night there was indeed an atmosphere of quiet enjoyment far removed from the horror of the past days. Mr. Allery had had a word with Collins.
“I came as a duty. I was so much afraid that the poor little girl would mope. It’s no earthly good crying over spilt milk. She has all her life before her. Besides,” he added with a smile, “I think her old aunt is far from an ideal chaperon. My wife is used to all occasions.”
“You mean?”
“You’ll see, my boy,” said the old lawyer with a chuckle, “The course of true love is running smoother.”
Then the ladies had come in.
The dinner was a merry one; Allery had a fund of humour culled from his long experience, and he found an able supporter in Collins. Sanders was no fool, and now that he was absolutely happy he took his part. He had taken Miss Allery in, but Collins noted that he was sitting next to Mabel. Collins had taken in the Aunt, who was only a cousin of Sir James. He was sitting with his back to the windows from which the setting sun still shone into the room, for they had dined early. In front of him was a great fireplace, and over the mantel was a large portrait of Sir James in court dress.
“Fancy,” Sanders was saying, “I find Mr. Collins spends his spare time reading the Pilgrim’s Progress.”
“And very good taste, too,” said Allery. “It contains some of the most glorious pieces of English ever written.
“Not one of our modern writers can touch it.”
It was getting dark in the room.
“I think,” said the aunt, “we might have a light, my dear?”
“Certainly,” said Mabel. “John, turn on the electric light.”
At that moment a last ray, almost blood-red, came from the dying sun through the window, and shone full on the portrait over the fireplace. Collins was idly looking at it, when his face suddenly became rigid and fixed. An intent look came into his eyes, and he stared hard at the portrait. Then the brilliant light came on. At that moment he felt rather than saw that Mabel was watching him. He turned to her and she looked down in confusion, and a red pervaded her face. They both recovered and their eyes met. He read in them a certain uneasiness or dread.
Instantly he composed his features and said, “That’s
