Then he glanced up at the portrait.
“I wonder,” he said.
Dinner was a dreary performance. Even Collins was preoccupied. The first news bulletin had told them that Jackson had been declared by the doctors unfit to plead. It remained to be seen whether there was sufficient evidence to convict him as the murderer.
“How is your aunt?” said Allery, to make conversation.
“Oh, she is not very bad. She takes to her bed at intervals.”
“Nothing serious, I hope?” said Mrs. Allery.
“Only nerves.”
“What a blessing she did not hear about the ghost,” said Sanders.
“I think the less said about that the better,” said Allery.
“I quite agree,” said Collins with meaning. “Once these things get about they get exaggerated, and you will have the psychical research people offering to investigate, which would never do,” and as he said this he glanced at Allery.
“No,” said he without a flicker of the eyelid, “we don’t want this to get about at this time.”
“Cunning old ruffian,” said Collins to himself.
There was an awkward silence. John had come into the room.
After dinner Collins seized an opportunity when his hostess was alone for a moment. “May I have a word with you?” he said.
Mabel felt almost inclined to make an excuse, but braced herself.
“Certainly,” she said. “Is it anything private?”
“Not at all,” he said, with a smile. “Only that I shall be leaving you tomorrow. I must return to Town, and I wanted to thank you for a very delightful visit.”
“How provoking,” she said. “Mr. Sanders is also going. It is a breakup of the party, and I was enjoying it so much.”
In spite of the words Collins noted an insincerity which was foreign to her nature.
“I must get back to my work,” he said.
“Not about—my father? You have finished with that, haven’t you?”
“The matter has been taken out of my hands,” he answered.
“When all this has passed over, you must come and see us again. You have been very good and helpful.”
“Miss Watson, you will forgive me saying a thing I have perhaps no right to say, but I rather fancy Mr. Sanders does not care for my presence here.”
“Surely you are mistaken. Why should he not like you? I thought you got on very well together.”
“It won’t do, Miss Watson, you know differently. And I expect you can guess the reason. So I had better go.”
This was said with such a charm of manner that it disarmed her from the haughty tone she would have assumed.
“Well, I am very sorry. But perhaps you two will get to know each other better.”
“Perhaps we shall,” he muttered under his breath.
Allery entered. “Oh, Mr. Allery,” said Mabel, “here’s Mr. Collins going off tomorrow. This will mean the breakup of our party.”
“Well, I am afraid we shall have to go too, very soon. My business will not wait, you know.”
“Oh, you must not go,” she said, with a look of terror coming into her eyes.
Allery laughed. “I dare say we can manage another day or two,” he said.
When Sanders heard that Collins was going the next day, he was both relieved and angry.
“Just my luck,” he thought, “if I had kept quiet, I need not have gone myself.”
Collins paced his room restlessly. Things were taking shape in his mind. Something was going on which his keen intellect could not explain, but which gave rise to wild conjecture.
He was fully dressed, but had a pair of slippers on. He would know the truth that night somehow.
The wind had got up, and was howling round the old house, making the timbers creak and the windows shake, till it died down to a moaning sound.
Several times he went carefully on to the landing and listened.
It was an ideal night for ghosts to walk.
He would piece the puzzle together. There was Jackson, the lunatic. He knew he was not the murderer, though the police would certainly make out a case against him. Very well. Then there was the strange disappearance of Lewis, on which Sinclair was basing a case until his official position compelled silence.
Then there was his own piece of evidence which was closing in. There was something else.
When he and Sinclair had discussed the matter in his flat, the latter had taken out the statement of Mrs. Simmons from his pocket book. He had done more. There had slipped on the floor a letter. Collins’ keen eyes had seen the signature “James Watson” and the date. Under pretence of reading the statement he had picked up the letter and rapidly read it. So Sinclair had kept this from him, for some reason. What was he afraid of? Did he know more about the murder than he cared to own? There was nothing but his word that he had been in the office on the fateful afternoon. What a lark if the sober Sinclair—but he broke off suddenly. His quick ear had caught something that sounded in the house in spite of the wind, a stealthy step. He moved noiselessly to the landing.
There was a stirring in the house, as the wind increased in volume, but the other sound was quite distinct.
Very quietly Collins closed the door, and went to the window. Outside, the old ivy came round, but Collins preferred the safety of a rope. Even this would have been no easy work for a man who was not in condition. He hung for one moment turning round in the air as the wind caught him.
Once on the ground he made his way cautiously round the house till he arrived at the dining-room window. Here he paused. A wild gust of wind, with a wisp of rain in it, caught him, as he stood listening. Not a sound was heard from within, and no light was showing.
Was it a fool’s errand after all? The whole house was dead still. Collins felt his way round the corner. By the old, oak door he
