He bowed his head in assent.
“If I could believe you,” she faltered. “I need a friend! Oh, if you could know how I have been torn by doubts—beset by fears—oppressions.” Her voice quivered. “There is something wrong somewhere—I can’t tell you everything—if you would help me—wait. May I test you with a question?”
“A thousand if you like.”
“And you will answer—truthfully?” In her eagerness she was like a child.
He smiled. “If I answer at all, be sure it will be truthful.”
“Tell me then, is Dr. Fall your friend?”
“He is my dearest enemy,” he returned, promptly.
He had only the dimmest notion as to the identity of Dr. Fall, but it seemed that a lie was demanded—Poltavo could lie very easily.
“Or Mr. Gorth?” she asked, and he shook his head.
She drew a deep breath of relief. “And my uncle?” The question was a whisper. She appeared to hang upon his reply.
The Count hesitated. “I do not know,” he admitted finally. “If he were not influenced by Dr. Fall, I believe he would be my friend.” It was a bow at a venture. He was following the bent of her inclination.
For the first time that evening Doris looked at him with interest.
“May I ask how your uncle came to know Gorth?”
He asked the question with the assurance of one who knew all that was to be known save on this point.
She hesitated awhile.
“I don’t quite know. The doctor we have always known. He lives in the country, and we only see him occasionally. He is—” She hesitated and then went on rapidly: “I think he has rather dreadful work. He is in charge of a lunatic.”
Poltavo was interested.
“Please go on,” he said.
The girl smiled. “I am afraid you are an awful gossip,” she rallied, but became more serious. “I don’t like him very much, but uncle says that is my prejudice. He is one of those quiet, sure men who say very little and make one feel rather foolish. Don’t you know that feeling? It is as though one were dancing the tango in front of the Sphinx.”
Poltavo showed his white teeth in a smile.
“I have yet to have that experience,” he said.
She nodded.
“One of these days you will meet Dr. Fall and you will know how helpless one can feel in his presence.”
A remarkable prophecy which was recalled by Poltavo at a moment when he was powerless to profit by the warning.
“Mr. Gorth?”
Again she hesitated and shrugged her shoulders.
“Well,” she said frankly, “he is just a common man. He looks almost like a criminal to my mind. But apparently he has been a loyal servant to uncle for many years.”
“Tell me,” asked Poltavo, “on what terms is Dr. Fall with your uncle? On terms of equality?”
She nodded.
“Naturally,” she said with a look of surprise, “he is a gentleman, and is, I believe, fairly well off.”
“And Gorth?” asked Poltavo.
He was interested for many reasons as one who had to take the place of that silent figure which lay in the fog-shrouded house.
“I hardly know how to describe uncle’s relations with Gorth,” she answered, a little puzzled. “There was a time when they were on terms of perfect equality, but sometimes uncle would be very angry with him indeed. He was rather a horrid man really. Do you know a paper called Gossip’s Corner?” she asked suddenly.
Poltavo had heard of the journal and had found a certain malicious joy in reading its scandalous paragraphs.
“Well,” she said in answer to his nod, “that was Mr. Gorth’s idea of literature. Uncle would never have the paper in his house, but whenever you saw Mr. Gorth—he invariably waited for uncle in the kitchen—you would be sure to find him chuckling over some of the horrid things which that paper published. Uncle used to get more angry about this than anything else, Mr. Gorth took a delight in all the unpleasant things which this wretched little paper printed. I have heard it said that he had something to do with its publication; but when I spoke to uncle about it, he was rather cross with me for thinking such a thing.”
Poltavo was conscious that the eyes of Farrington were searching his face narrowly, and out of the corner of his eye he noted the obvious disapproval. He turned round carelessly.
“An admirable sight—a London theatre crowd.”
“Very,” said the millionaire, drily.
“Celebrities on every hand—Montague Fallock, for instance, is here.”
Farrington nodded.
“And that wise-looking young man in the very end seat of the fourth row—he is in the shadow, but you may see him.”
“T. B. Smith,” said Farrington, shortly. “I have seen him—I have seen everybody but—”
“But—?”
“The occupant of the royal box. She keeps in the shadow all the time. She is not a detective, too, I suppose?” he asked, sarcastically. He looked round. Frank Doughton, his niece and Lady Dinsmore were engrossed in conversation.
“Poltavo,” he said, dropping his voice, “I want to know who that woman is in the opposite box—I have a reason.”
The orchestra was playing a soft intermezzo, and of a sudden the lights went down in the house, hushed to silence as the curtain went slowly up upon the second act.
There was a shifting of chairs to distribute the view, a tense moment of silence as the chorus came down a rocky defile and then—a white pencil of flame shot out from the royal box and a sharp crash of a pistol report.
“My God!” gasped Mr. Farrington, and staggered back.
There was a loud babble of voices, a stentorian voice from the back of the stalls shouted, “House lights—quick!” The curtain fell as the house was bathed in the sudden glare of lights.
T. B. saw the flash and leapt for the side aisle: two steps and he was at the door which led to the royal box. It was empty. He passed quickly through the retiring room—empty also, but the private entrance giving on to the street was open and the fog was drifting through in great wreaths.
He stepped out into the street and
