And then she left me.
It's midnight now, and I'm still as far off a solution as ever. What on earth am I to do? The more one looks at the matter, the more utterly damnable does it become.
I know perfectly well what I should say were I in the position of the Home Secretary and somebody came to me with such a story.
I should say—"Most interesting; but what does it prove? On your own showing this man is queer in the head—if not mad. He dreams a dream—a very vivid dream. In that dream he sees a murdered man and a woman—both strangers to him. Six months later he states that he saw these two people being married. Am I really to understand that this man remembered two dream faces over such a period of time? No, sir—common sense gives me a totally different solution. He thought he saw a likeness, and the thought grew to a fixed belief. It amounted to an obsession in his brain, so that he literally had to act along the lines of that obsession. You say yourself that something stronger than himself forced him into the house that night. To me that sounds remarkably like insanity; certainly no normal man would have done it. He was insane when he went there, and I see no reason to doubt that in his insanity he killed Scrotton himself. So he will remain where he is."
That's what I should say, and ninety-nine men out of a hundred would say the same thing. So what am I to do?
If I take that paper to the authorities, the whole thing will be made public. Mrs. Landon will see to that. I am convinced that we shall not benefit Landon, and I shall be in the pleasing position of having accused Lady Alice of murdering her husband. I don't like her, I admit— but her friends are mine also.
So what am I to do?
If I thought—honestly and conscientiously—that there was a chance of getting him out of it, I wouldn't hesitate. But I don't. And yet, in my own mind, I'm certain he's innocent. The prophecy of Sussex Place must be more than a mere coincidence. Only I can imagine a clever lawyer on the point!
He's innocent; but it will take more than a dream to prove it. And without proof—what's the use? I got the paper from the bank, and I've held a lighted match near it several times already. Wouldn't it be kinder in the long run?
In fact, at the moment my only coherent thought is that I wish I were still in the Antarctic.
VII. — THE BARONETS OF MERTONBRIDGE HALL
I DO not profess to explain what I am going to set down. I hold no positive opinion on things psychic, one way or the other. Men of unassailable integrity have given the world their experience on such matters, which are open for all to read, and my contribution can add nothing to the wealth of material already collected. Nevertheless, for what it is worth, I am committing it to paper. I do it for my own satisfaction only: for reasons which will be obvious these words must never see the light of day in print. Because they either tell of a coincidence so amazing as to be well-nigh incredible, or else Sir Bryan Mertonbridge, sixteenth Baronet, of Mertonbridge Hall, Sussex, is a cold-blooded murderer. And since his house parties for Goodwood are famous throughout the county, it were madness for a humble bank manager to bring such an accusation against him, when proof is impossible.
It happened four years ago, but let it not be thought that time has clouded my memory. The incidents of that night in June are as clear in my mind as if they had occurred yesterday. Sometimes I wake now with the woman's last dying scream ringing in my ears, and jumping out of bed I pace up and down; my room asking myself again and again the same old question. Was it a coincidence, or was it not?
The sea wrack started to blow over the Downs about eight o'clock on the evening when it took place. It came like a dense white wall, blotting out the surrounding landscape, and covering the windscreen with a film of moisture more difficult to see through than heavy rain. My destination was Brighton, but never dreaming that such a mist would come down on me I had left the main coast road, and had taken a narrow inland one that wound along the foot of the Downs, connecting up a few scattered farms and hamlets that still escaped the daily ordeal of the charge of the motor heavy brigade. The road was good but narrow, with a ditch on each side, so that caution was necessary, owing to the mist making the grass slippery. The trouble, however, was the bad visibility, and after a time my rate of progress was reduced to less than ten miles an hour. Another difficulty was due to indifferent signposting, the few that there were only showing the next village and no large town.
I had been creeping along for about a quarter of an hour when I came to four cross roads, and getting out of the car I approached the signpost, one arm of which fortunately indicated Worthing. Once on the main road things might be better, so I decided to take it. But having slightly overshot the mark, I had to back the car, and it was then the mishap occurred. I reversed too far and the back wheels skidded into the ditch.
At first I thought nothing of it, but after repeated attempts to get her out, which only resulted in the wheels spinning round, I began to grow uneasy. And then came the final blow. There was a sharp click, and the wheels ceased to move though the engine was still running in gear. Either the cardan shaft or one arm of the back axle had broken. The car was helpless: it was now a question of being towed out.
I lit a cigarette and sized up the position. My map was a small-scale one, embracing the whole of England, and I knew the cross roads where I was would not be marked. The light was failing rapidly: worse still, the sea wrack was beginning to turn into genuine rain. My chances of finding a garage, even if I knew where to look for one, which could send out a breakdown gang at that hour, were remote. In fact, it was evident that the car at any rate would have to remain where it was till the morning. But I failed to see why I should keep it company. Sooner or later I must come to some habitation of sorts, where I. could be directed to an inn, or whose owner would perhaps put me up for the night. Anyway, I could not stop where I was, so leaving the car in the ditch I took the road for Worthing.
For twenty minutes I trudged along without meeting a soul or seeing the sign of a house. The rain was now pouring down, and having no mackintosh I was rapidly becoming wet to the skin. And then, just as I was beginning to despair of finding anything, the road jinked sharply to the right and I saw a pair of heavy iron gates in front of me. Beyond them was a small house—evidently the lodge of some big property.
It was in complete darkness, but at least it was something made of bricks and mortar, and pushing open one of the gates I approached it and knocked on the door. There was no answer, and after a while I realised it was empty. I went all round it in the hope of finding a window unlatched. Everything was tight shut: short of breaking a pane, there was no hope of getting in.
By that time the water was squelching in my shoes, and I was seriously cogitating as to whether it would not be worth while to smash a window, when it struck me that if this was a lodge, the big house must be fairly close at hand. So once again I started off up the drive: no one could refuse a dog shelter on such a night.
It was almost dark and, save for my footsteps on the gravel and the mournful dripping of the water from the trees, no sound broke the silence. I seemed to be in a world of my own, with nothing else living except the drenching rain. Was I never going to reach the house?
At length the trees bordering the drive stopped abruptly, and there loomed up ahead of me the outlines of a large mansion. But even as I quickened my pace my heart began to sink, for just as at the lodge I could see no light in any window. Surely, I reflected, this could not be empty too.
I found the front door. It was of oak, studded with iron bolts, and by the light of a match I saw a heavy old-fashioned bell-pull. For a few moments I hesitated: