“We’ve missed the first News bulletin,” said Allery, “but we must get the second. I always feel lost in the country when there’s no wireless. Miss Watson has a splendid receiving set.”
While conversation was general Collins leant over to Allery.
“Better not say too much about the news,” he said. “There will be something about the murder, certain to be, and it may distress her.”
“Perhaps you are right, but as a matter of fact, she has been much more cheerful since she heard that they had got the man.”
The receiving set was in the old oak-pannelled hall in a neat cabinet. The company foregathered here at ten o’clock for the news. Eric was the operator. After the hundred and fortieth chess move between two Scotsmen, and the usual dismal forecast of the weather, an account was given of the preliminary examination of Jackson, who was being kept under observation by Home Office doctors. Two facts emerged, that the Home Office was satisfied in a guarded way that he was the man, with plenty of the cautious word “alleged,” and that he was hopelessly mad. Collins smiled as he listened. He had seated himself on a cushion in the shadow where he could watch Mabel’s expressive face. He saw a look of relief, and something more, a puzzled look on her face.
After the news an announcement was broadcasted, as had been done for the past few days, asking for information as to the whereabouts of Ronald, now Sir Ronald Watson, last heard of at Monte Video, etc.
As the loud speaker announced this, Collins saw a swift glance pass between Mabel and Allery.
When the Savoy bands were in full blast, Sanders and Allery departed to finish an interrupted game of billiards. The four ladies continued a game of bridge. Collins had joined with neither party, but watched each in turn. When Mabel was “dummy” she came across to him. “I wish you were not out of things like this,” she said, “I feel I am not doing my duty as hostess.”
“Not a bit of it,” he replied. “I am enjoying myself.”
“I suppose you are feeling more at rest now that this horrible affair has been cleared up?”
“Of course it ends the matter as far as I am concerned—for the present,” he said. “And you?”
“Oh, I told you,” she said. “I would much rather it turned out to be a man who was not responsible. There will be nothing done to him, I suppose?”
“He will be confined to Broadmoor for life, now. He has been there before, you know. They won’t let him out again.”
“How sad,” she said; “but it’s better than a man being hanged, isn’t it?”
“If he’s guilty,” said Collins.
“Of course they will have to prove their case, won’t they?” she said.
He gave a scornful laugh. “Oh, they will do that all right,” he said.
“Do you mean whether he is guilty or not? But that is too dreadful.”
“If a man once gets into the clutches of the Law it doesn’t matter much whether he’s guilty or not. He’s about as much chance as a fly in a spider’s net.”
“What an awful thing. But you were a barrister once yourself?”
“That’s why I say that,” he answered with meaning.
“But we must not keep on talking about this, it will make you morbid.”
“Come on, Mabel, we are waiting for you,” came from the table.
Collins strolled out into the garden where a bright moon was shining. What should he do? Let things slide altogether, and the Law take its course? That was best, but a curious streak of vanity and desire for mystery goaded him on to fresh research. There were other problems beside the main plot which called for solution.
There was the curious disappearance of Lewis. And what about Eric Sanders? Besides he grudged an easy triumph for the oily Boyce. He would like to upset his applecart.
The scent of the flowers and a cool breeze were delightful after London. He wandered round the house like a nocturnal cat, and came to the dining-room window. He stopped dead. Yes; he would have another look, while the others were busy.
Returning to the house he went to the dining-room and turned on the electric light. Sir James was staring down at him from over the mantelpiece. He lit a cigarette and sat on the edge of the table, gazing keenly at the portrait. He sat there motionless, in thought. He had an unusually keen sense and he felt, rather than saw, that someone had come into the room. He made no sign. A quiet voice at his elbow said, “It’s a very good likeness, and cleverly painted, isn’t it?” He turned without haste. Allery was standing beside him with an inscrutable smile on his face.
“I came to look for you as we have finished, and I thought you might like a nightcap before turning in.”
“Thanks, I will come along,” said Collins. “I never saw Sir James to speak to. He had a remarkable face. A strange mixture of hardness and sympathy. The mouth is hard as a rock, but the eyes are sympathetic.”
“You are a student of these things, of course,” said the lawyer. “But you are quite right. He was a contradiction, but his intellect always ruled his emotions.”
“Was his son anything like him?”
“In character, yes; in face he was too young to say. He was undeveloped.”
Collins turned out the light and they went to join the others.
XI
An Apparition
The next three days passed outwardly in the usual enjoyments of a country house-party. They golfed and motored and played tennis. Behind the scenes many things were happening.
It was obvious to anyone that Eric Sanders and Mabel had come to an understanding, though a definite engagement so soon after the death of Sir James was repugnant to her.
On the other hand, so long as she had had to fight a battle with her father on behalf of Eric, she had been passionately devoted to
