“Good God!” he cried at once, “she’s dead!” He put his nose to her lips. “Prussic acid!” He gazed up at his companions with a countenance of horrified surprise.
“Yes; suicide,” said French shortly. “Get her moved to my cabin before anyone comes.”
The doctor, ignorant of the circumstances, looked at the other with a sudden suspicion, but on French’s hurried explanation he nodded, and the three men bore the still form off and laid it reverently on the sofa in the Inspector’s stateroom.
“When you’ve examined her, tell the Captain,” French said. “Meantime Carter and I must go and arrest the poor creature’s husband. You might show me his cabin when you’re through.”
A few seconds sufficed the doctor for his examination, and then in silence he led the way to a cabin on the boat deck. French knocked, and instantly opening the door, passed inside, followed by the others.
It was a large, roomy stateroom, fitted up as a private sitting-room, an open door revealing a bedroom beyond. The room had a comfortable, used appearance. Books and papers lay about, a box of chessmen and a pack of cards were on a locker, while in a lounge chair lay a woman’s crochet work. On a table stood an empty coffee cup and the smell of a good cigar was heavy in the air.
In an armchair under the electric light, clad in a dressing-gown and slippers, sat an old gentleman, the cigar in one hand and a book in the other. He seemed a tall man, and his long hair was pure white. He wore a long white beard and moustache, and had bushy white eyebrows. He sat staring at the intruders with surprise and apparent annoyance.
But as his eyes settled on French’s face their expression changed. Amazement, incredulity, and a growing horror appeared in rapid succession. French advanced, but the other sat motionless, his eyes still fixed on his visitor’s with a dreadful intensity, like that of an animal fascinated by a snake. And then French began to stare in his turn. There was something familiar about those eyes. They were a peculiar shade of dark blue that he recalled very clearly. And there was a mole, a tiny brown mole beneath the corner of the left one, which he had certainly seen not long previously. So, for an appreciable time both remained motionless, staring at one another.
Suddenly French recalled where he had seen that shade of iris and that mole. With a murmur of amazement he stepped forward. “Mr. Duke!” he cried.
The other with a snarl of anger was fumbling desperately in his pocket. Like a flash, French and Carter threw themselves on him and caught his arm as it was halfway to his mouth. In the fingers was a tiny white pilule. In another second he was handcuffed, and French’s skilful fingers had passed over his clothes and abstracted from his pocket a tiny phial containing a few more of the little white messengers of death. At the same moment Captain Davis appeared at the door.
“Shut the door, if you please, Captain,” French begged. “The Yard was right after all. This is the man.”
A few sentences put the Captain in possession of the facts, and then French gently and with real kindness in his tones broke the news of Miss Winter’s death to his unhappy prisoner. But the man expressed only relief.
“Thank God!” he cried with evidently overwhelming emotion. “She was quicker than I. Thank God she was in time! I don’t care what happens to myself now that she’s out of it. If it wasn’t for my daughter”—his voice broke—“I’d be thankful it was over. I’ve lived in hell for the last few months. Wherever I turn I see Gething’s eyes looking at me. It’s been hell, just hell! I shouldn’t wish my worst enemy to go through what I have. I admit the whole business. All I ask is that you get on and make an end quickly.”
The whole scene had been enacted so quickly that French, after his first moment of overwhelming surprise, had not had time to think, but presently, after the immediate exigencies of the situation had been met, the mystery of this amazing dénouement struck him even more forcibly. He felt almost as if he had glimpsed the supernatural, as if he had been present and had seen one raised from the dead. Mr. Duke was dead, at least so until a few minutes earlier he had unquestioningly believed. The evidence of that death was overwhelming. And yet—it was false! What trick had the man played? How had he managed so completely to deceive all concerned as to the events of that mysterious crossing from Harwich to the Hook? French felt it would not be easy to control his impatience until he learned how the thing had been done, and the more he thought of the whole problem, the more eager he grew to be back at the Yard so that he might once again attack it, this time with the practical certainty of clearing up all the features of the case which still remained obscure.
The next afternoon they dropped anchor in the Tagus off Lisbon, and there French transferred with his prisoner to a homeward-bound liner. On the third morning after they were in Liverpool, and the same night reached London.
XX
Conclusion
Given the key of the identity of the murderer, it was not long before Inspector
