He closed his eyes as if he saw those two portraits with their dreadful contrast impressed upon his eyelids. “I am her advocate,” he cried aloud in a stirring voice. “The tragic woman, I stand for her! If she was done to death, I mean to know and I mean to punish!”
Never had Frobisher believed that Hanaud could have been so transfigured, could have felt or spoken with so much passion. He stood before them an erect and menacing figure, all his grossness melted out of him, a man with a flaming sword.
“As for you two ladies, you are young. What does a little distress matter to you? A few shivers of discomfort? How long will they last? I beg you not to hinder me!”
Betty rose up from her chair without another word. But she did not rise without an effort, and when she stood up at last she swayed upon her feet and her face was as white as chalk.
“Come, Francine!” she said, pronouncing her words like a person with an impediment of speech. “We must show Monsieur Hanaud that we are not the cowards he takes us for.”
But Francine still held back.
“I don’t understand at all. I am only a poor girl and this frightens me. The police! They set traps—the police.”
Hanaud laughed.
“And how often do they catch the innocent in them? Tell me that, Mademoiselle Francine!”
He turned almost contemptuously towards Mrs. Harlowe’s bedroom. Betty and Francine followed upon his heels, the others trooped in behind, with Frobisher last of all. He indeed was as reluctant to witness Hanaud’s experiment as the girls were to take a part in it. It savoured of the theatrical. There was to be some sort of imagined reproduction of the scene which Ann Upcott had described, no doubt with the object of testing her sincerity. It would really be a test of nerves more than a test of honesty and to Jim was therefore neither reliable nor fair play. He paused in the doorway to say a word of encouragement to Ann, but she was gazing again with that curious air of perplexity at the clock upon the marquetry cabinet.
“There is nothing to fear, Ann,” he said, and she withdrew her eyes from the clock. They were dancing now as she turned them upon Frobisher.
“I wondered whether I should ever hear you call me by my name,” she said with a smile. “Thank you, Jim!” She hesitated and then the blood suddenly mounted into her face. “I’ll tell you, I was a little jealous,” she added in a low voice and with a little laugh at herself as though she was a trifle ashamed of the confession.
Jim was luckily spared the awkwardness of an answer by the appearance of Hanaud in the doorway.
“I hate to interrupt, Monsieur Frobisher,” he said with a smile; “but it is of a real importance that Mademoiselle should listen without anything to distract her.”
Jim followed Hanaud into the bedroom, and was startled. The Commissary and his secretary and Monsieur Bex were in a group apart near to one of the windows. Betty Harlowe was stretched upon Mrs. Harlowe’s bed; Francine Rollard stood against the wall, near to the door, clearly frightened out of her wits and glancing from side to side with the furtive restless eyes of the half-tamed. But it was not this curious spectacle which so surprised Jim Frobisher, but something strange, something which almost shocked, in the aspect of Betty herself. She was leaning up on an elbow with her eyes fixed upon the doorway and the queerest, most inscrutable fierce look in them that he had ever seen. She was quite lost to her environment. The experiment from which Francine shrank had no meaning for her. She was possessed—the old phrase leapt into Jim’s thoughts—though her face was as still as a mass, a mask of frozen passion. It was only for a second, however, that the strange seizure lasted. Betty’s face relaxed; she dropped back upon the bed with her eyes upon Hanaud like one waiting for instructions.
Hanaud, by pointing a finger, directed Jim to take his place amongst the group at the window. He placed himself upon one side of the bed, and beckoned to Francine. Very slowly she approached the end of the bed. Hanaud directed her in the same silent way to come opposite to him on the other side of the bed. For a little while Francine refused. She stood stubbornly shaking her head at the very foot of the bed. She was terrified of some trick, and when at last at a sign from Betty she took up the position assigned to her, she minced to it gingerly as though she feared the floor would open beneath her feet. Hanaud made her another sign and she looked at a scrap of paper on which Hanaud had written some words. The paper and her orders had obviously been given to her whilst Jim was talking to Ann Upcott. Francine knew what she was to do, but her suspicious peasant nature utterly rebelled against it. Hanaud beckoned to her with his eyes riveted upon her compelling her, and against her will she bent forwards over the bed and across Betty Harlowe’s body.
A nod from Hanaud now, and she spoke in a low, clear whisper:
“That—will—do—now.”
And hardly had she spoken those few words which Ann Upcott said she had heard on the night of Mrs. Harlowe’s death, but Hanaud himself must repeat them and also
