“Very well, Ada; thank you. You can go out this way.”
The door was unchained and unbolted, and “Good night” said. And Sheila swept back in sombre pomp to her absorbed friends.
“She’s quite a good creature at heart,” she explained frankly, as if to disclaim any finesse, “and almost quixotically loyal. But what really did she mean, do you think? She is so obstinate. That maddening ‘someone’! How they do repeat themselves. It can’t be my husband; not Dr. Ferguson, I mean. You don’t suppose—oh surely, not ‘someone’ else!” Again the dark silence of the house seemed to drift in on the little company.
Mr. Craik cleared his throat. “I failed to catch quite all that the maid said,” he murmured apologetically; “but I certainly did gather it was to some kind of—of emanation she was referring. And the ‘ruin,’ you know. I’m not a mystic; and yet do you know, that somehow seemed to me almost offensively suggestive of—of dæmonic influence. You don’t suppose, Mrs. Lawford—and of course I wouldn’t for a moment venture on such a conjecture unsupported—but even if this restless spirit (let us call it) did succeed in making a footing, it might possibly be rather in the nature of a lodging than a permanent residence. Moreover we are, I think, bound to remember that probably in all spheres of existence like attracts like; even the Gadarene episode seems to suggest a possible multiplication!” he peered largely. “You don’t suppose, Mrs. Lawford … ?”
“I think Mr. Craik doesn’t quite relish having to break the news, Sheila dear,” explained Mrs. Lovat soothingly, “that perhaps Sabathier’s out. Which really is quite a heavenly suggestion, for in that case your husband would be in, wouldn’t he? Just our old stolid Arthur again, you know. And next Mr. Craik is suggesting, and it certainly does seem rather fascinating, that poor Ada’s got mixed up with the Frenchman’s friends, or perhaps, even, with one of the seventy-two Princes Royal. I know women can’t, or mustn’t reason, Mr. Danton, but you do, I hope, just catch the drift?”
Danton started. “I wasn’t really listening to the girl,” he explained nonchalantly, shrugging his black shoulders and pursing up his eyes. “Personally, Mrs. Lovat, I’d pack the baggage off tonight, box and all. But it’s not my business.”
“You mustn’t be depressed—must he, Mr. Craik? After all, my dear man, the business, as you call it, is not exactly entailed. But really, Sheila, I think it must be getting very late. Mr. Bethany won’t come now. And the dear old thing ought certainly to have his say before we go any further; oughtn’t he, Mr. Danton? So what’s the use of worriting poor Ada’s ghost any longer. And as for poor Arthur—I haven’t the faintest desire in the world to hear the little cart drive up, simply in case it should be to leave your unfortunate husband behind it, Sheila. What it must be to be alone all night in this house with a dead and buried Frenchman’s face—well, I shudder, dear!”
“And yet, Mrs. Lovat,” said Mr. Craik, with some little show of returning bravado, “as we make our bed, you know.”
“But in this case, you see,” she replied reflectively, “if all accounts are true, Mr. Craik, it’s manifestly the wicked Frenchman who has made the bed, and Sheila who refu—But look; Mr. Danton is fretting to get home.”
“If you’ll all go to the door,” said Danton, seizing a fleeting opportunity to raise his eyebrows more expressively even than if he had again shrugged his shoulders at Sheila, “I’ll put out the light.”
The night air flowed into the dark house as Danton hastily groped his way out of the dining-room.
“There’s only one thing,” said Sheila slowly. “When I last saw my husband, you know, he was, I think, the least bit better. He was always stubbornly convinced it would all come right in time. That’s why, I think, he’s been spending his—his evenings away from home. But supposing it did?”
“For my part,” said Mrs. Lovat, breathing the faint wind that was rising out of the west, “I’d sigh; I’d rub my eyes; I’d thank God for such an exciting dream; and I’d turn comfortably over and go to sleep again. I’m all for Arthur—absolutely—back against the wall.”
“For my part,” said Danton, looming in the dusk, “friend or no friend, I’d cut the—I’d cut him dead. But don’t fret, Mrs. Lawford, devil or no devil, he’s gone for good.”
“And for my part—” began Mr. Craik; but the door at that moment slammed.
Voices, however, broke out almost immediately in the porch. And after a hurried consultation, Lawford in his stagnant retreat heard the door softly reopen, and the striking of a match. And Mr. Craik, followed closely by Danton’s great body, stole circumspectly across his dim chink, and the first adventurer went stumbling down the kitchen staircase.
“I suppose,” muttered Lawford, turning his head in the darkness, “they have come back to put out the kitchen gas.”
Danton began a busy tuneless whistle between his teeth.
“Coming, Craik?” he called thickly, after a long pause.
Apparently no answer had been returned to his inquiry: he waited a little longer, with legs apart, and eyeballs enveloped in brooding darkness. “I’ll just go and tell the ladies you’re coming,” he suddenly bawled down the hollow. “Do you
