“Abbotshall Murder! Cabinet Minister Assassinated! Horrible Atrocity! Is it Bolshevism?” they shrieked in letters two inches high.
And the man—this man Masterson—had found what he wanted. He sat grotesquely on the carpet, holding in both hands the butt of a heavy automatic pistol. The barrel pointed straight at Margaret’s head. A queer, sick feeling came over her. She felt her knees grow weak beneath her.
“Sit down. Sit down, will you!” The man’s tones were harsh, cracked—the voice of one ill to the point of collapse.
II
Spencer Hastings stood disconsolate on the threshold of the editorial chamber. He had supped with a friend who was an artist. The artist had talked. Spencer Hastings had been later than he had intended in returning to the office. When he did—she had gone.
“Damn it! Oh, damn it!” he said fervently.
One must sympathise with him. He was ashamed, bitterly ashamed, of himself. For the ten thousandth time he thought it all over. Hell! He was badly in love with the woman, why didn’t he grab hold of her and tell her so? Why was it that he couldn’t? Because he was afraid. Afraid of her aloof beauty, her completeness, her thrice-to-be-damned efficiency—how he loathed that word beloved of Babbitts! If only she weren’t quite so—so infernally and perpetually equal to the situation!
Yes, he was afraid, that’s what it was! He, Spencer Sutherland Hastings, sometimes the fastest three-quarter in England, sometime something of an ace in the Flying Corps, renowned in old days for his easy conquest of Woman, he was afraid! Afraid forsooth of a little slip of a thing he could almost hang on his watch-chain! Disgusting, he found himself!
He flitted dejectedly about the room. Should he go home? No, he’d better do some work; there’d be an easy time coming soon.
He crossed the room and sat down at his table. Two slips of paper, both covered with Margaret’s clear, decisive handwriting, stared up at him.
He read and reread. Here was more Efficiency! Undoubtedly she had put its real meaning to Anthony’s message. In his mind alarm replaced that mixture of irritation and reverence. “I thought this should be attended to at once, so have gone to the address given by Colonel Gethryn,” she had written. Aloud, Hastings heaped curses upon the loquacity of the artist with whom he had supped.
He read the message and the note a third time, then jumped to his feet. That little white darling to go, alone and at such a time, to the house of a man who might be—well, a murderer! Of course, Anthony might only be after a possible witness, but—
He seized his hat and made for the stairs and Fleet Street.
III
Margaret lay huddled in the uncomfortable chair. For perhaps the hundredth time she choked back the scream which persisted in rising to her lips. Every suppression was more difficult than its predecessor.
Still, though she seemed to have been looking down it for an eternity, the black ring which was the muzzle of the automatic stared straight into her eyes.
The man had not moved. He was crouched upon the floor, no part of him steady save the hands which held the pistol. And he went on talking. Margaret felt that the rest of her life was a dream; that always, in reality, he had been talking and she listening.
And the talk—always the same story. “You’re clever, aren’t you? Very clever, eh? ‘Who killed Hoode?’ you said to yourselves—you and your friends. I don’t know you, but you’re Scotland Yard, that’s what you are. Well, if you want to know I did! See? But, my golden child, I’m not going to tell anyone! Oh, no! Oh, no!”
There was much more of words but none of sense. He went on talking, and always the burden of his whispering, his half-shouting, his mumbling, was the same. “I killed Hoode! But I’m not going to tell anyone, oh, no! Thought he could play about with me, did he? Get rid of the man who was helping him, eh? Fool!”
Once she had tried to rise, intending a wild dash for the front door she knew had not shut behind her. But the pistol had been thrust forward with such menace that ever since she had been as still as stone. Her right leg, twisted beneath her, was agony. Her head seemed bursting.
At last there came a pause in the babbling talk. The man began to struggle to his feet. Margaret shrank back still farther into her chair. Even as he heaved himself upright the gun never wavered from her.
Another scream rose in her throat, only to be fought back. He was up now, and coming towards her with wavering steps. Even in her terror she could see that his fever had increased. She prayed for his collapse as she had never prayed before.
He was close, close! Margaret shut her eyes, screwing up the lids.
She heard a rush of feet outside the door. Someone burst into the room. Slowly, unbelieving, she opened the blue eyes. Hastings stood in the doorway.
A black mist flickered before her. Through it, as if she were looking through smoked glass, she saw him walk swiftly, his right hand outstretched as if in greeting, up to the unsteady, malevolent figure in the dressing-gown.
The mist before her eyes grew thicker, darker. When it had cleared again, Hastings had the pistol in his hand. As she watched, the numbness of fear still upon her, the man Masterson crumpled to the floor.
With a great effort she rose from the chair. On her feet, she stumbled. She felt herself falling, gave a piteous little cry, and was caught up in Hastings’s arms.
Now that safety had come she broke down. Her body shook with sobs. Then came tears and more tears. She burrowed
