Nesta already had a hand on the door. But after looking at him for a second or two, she turned back, and sat down in her old position. And Pratt, still seated at his desk, plunged his hands in his trousers pockets, tilted back his chair, and for five minutes stared with knitted brows at his blotting pad. A queer silence fell on the room. The windows were double-sashed; no sound came up from the busy street below. But on the mantelpiece a cheap Geneva clock ticked and ticked, and Nesta felt at last that if it went on much longer, without the accompaniment of a human voice, she should suddenly snatch it up, and hurl it—anywhere.
Pratt was in the position of the card-player, who, confronted by a certain turn in the course of a game which he himself feels sure he is bound to win, wonders whether he had better not expedite matters by laying his cards on the table, and asking his opponent if he can possibly beat their values and combination. He had carefully reckoned up his own position more than once during the progress of recent events, and the more carefully he calculated it the more he felt convinced that he had nothing to fear. He had had to alter his ground in consequence of the death of Harper Mallathorpe, and he had known that he would have to fight Nesta. But he had not anticipated that hostilities would come so soon, or begin with such evident determination on her part. How would it be, then, at this first stage to make such a demonstration in force that she would recognize his strength?
He looked up at last and saw Nesta regarding him sternly. But Pratt smiled—the quiet smile which made her uneasy.
“Miss Mallathorpe!” he said. “I was thinking of two things just then—a game at cards—and the science of warfare. In both it’s a good thing sometimes to let your adversary see what a strong hand you’ve got. Now, then, a question, if you please—are you and I adversaries?”
“Yes!” answered Nesta unflinchingly. “You’re acting like an enemy—you are an enemy!”
“I’ve hoped that you and I would be friends—good friends,” said Pratt, with something like a sigh. “And if I may say so, I’ve no feeling of enmity towards you. When I speak of us being adversaries, I mean it in—well, let’s say a sort of legal sense. But now I’ll show you my hand—that is, as far as I please. Will you listen quietly to me?”
“I’ve no choice,” replied Nesta bluntly. “And I came here to know what you’ve got to say for yourself. Say it!”
Pratt moved his chair a little nearer to his visitor.
“Now,” he said, speaking very quietly and deliberately, “I’ll go through what I have to say to you carefully, point by point. I shall ask you to go back a little way. It is now some time since I discovered a secret about your mother, Mrs. Mallathorpe. Ah, you start!—it may be with indignation, but I assure you I’m telling you, and am going to tell you, the absolute truth. I say—a secret! No one knows it but myself—not one living soul! Except, of course, your mother. I shall not reveal it to you—under any consideration, or in any circumstances—but I can tell you this—if that secret were revealed, your mother would be ruined for life—and you yourself would suffer in more ways than one.”
Nesta looked at him incredulously—and yet she began to feel he was telling some truth. And Pratt shook his head at the incredulous expression.
“It’s quite so!” he said. “You’ll begin to believe it—from other things. Now, it was in connection with this that I paid a visit to Normandale Grange one evening some months ago. Perhaps you never heard of that? I was alone with your mother for some time in the study.”
“I have heard of it,” she answered.
“Very good,” said Pratt. “But you haven’t heard that your mother came to see me at my rooms here in Barford—my lodgings—the very next night! On the same business, of course. But she did—I know how she came, too. Secretly—heavily veiled—naturally, she didn’t want anybody to know. Are you beginning to see something in it, Miss Mallathorpe?”
“Go on with your—story,” answered Nesta.
“I go on, then, to the day before your brother’s death,” continued Pratt. “Namely, a certain Friday. Now, if you please, I’ll invite you to listen carefully to certain facts—which are indisputable, which I can prove, easily. On that Friday, the day before your brother’s death, Mrs. Mallathorpe was in the shrubbery at Normandale Grange which is near the north end of the old footbridge. She was approached by Hoskins, an old woodman, who has been on the estate a great many years—you know him well enough. Hoskins told Mrs. Mallathorpe that the footbridge between the north and south shrubberies, spanning the cut which was made there a long time since so that a nearer road could be made to the stables, was in an extremely dangerous condition—so dangerous, in fact, that in his opinion, it would collapse under even a moderate weight. I impress this fact upon you strongly.”
“Well?” said Nesta.
“Hoskins,” Pratt went on, “urged upon Mrs. Mallathorpe the necessity of having the bridge closed at once, or barricaded. He pointed out to her from where they stood certain places in the bridge, and in the railing on one side of it, which already sagged in such a fashion, that he, as a man of experience, knew that planks and railings were literally rotten with damp. Now what did Mrs. Mallathorpe do? She said nothing
