And once again Caterham threw back his head and laughed a laugh that it was not good to hear. Then he seized the whisky bottle and tipped the raw spirit down his throat.
"What a pity!" he cried. "It would have saved a lot of trouble, wouldn't it—if she hadn't been in the dickey. D'you think she'll ever go in your dickey again, Somerset?"
Somerset frowned. If Caterham got drunk nothing more could be done that morning.
"For Heaven's sake, man, listen!" he said. "Quit boozing whisky, and let's get down to it. Will you or will you not start divorce proceedings?"
"Of course I will, Somerset, just as soon as you ask me to."
Somerset stared at him. What was the meaning of this sudden change?
"Then I ask you now to do so."
"You must talk it over again with Ruth first," said Caterham. "I insist upon that. And you must write me a joint letter on the subject."
His voice was getting thick, and Somerset cursed under his breath. Caterham was getting drunk.
"Just wait here a moment, Somerset, while I write a note. I want you to give it to Ruth with my love. And I hope you'll both be very happy."
He rose unsteadily and went out of the room, leaving Somerset to pace up and down with quick, jerky steps. Did he mean it, or was it merely a drunken whim which would be forgotten in a few hours? It was that final gulp of neat whisky that had done the mischief, and when he returned about ten minutes later Somerset saw he was worse.
"Can't write letter," he announced, as he stood swaying by the door. "So you tell my dear wife, Somerset, that I should like to hear from her on the subject. And don't forget one thing. Very partic—particular thish. Ask her to take—second ride in dickey."
He burst into roars of laughter, and Somerset eyed him with disgust. There was no good prolonging the interview; he could only hope that the man would stick to what he had said. So he went back to his car and drove off. And, as he took a last glance at the farm, he saw Caterham standing by the door staring after him intently.
He drove straight to Mrs. Sidmouth's house. Ruth would want to know what had happened as soon as possible. And the first thing he saw as he walked through the hall was his note to her lying unopened. He was looking at it, puzzled, when Mrs. Sidmouth joined him.
"Has Ruth gone out?" he asked.
"Come in here, young man," she said severely. "You're going to get a scolding." She closed the door. "What do you mean by running away with another man's wife quite as precipitately as you did yesterday? It was really very naughty of you."
"Dear Mrs. Sidmouth," he said with a smile. "I know you're perfectly right. And you shall tick me off as much as you like later. Just now, though, I'm very anxious to see Ruth. Please tell her I'm here."
"I can't, because she isn't here herself. She did what I suggested when Mr. Caterham came here last night. He'd found out somehow that you'd brought her here to me. And so—Mr. Somerset, what are you looking like that for?"
Jack Somerset stood very still. Every atom of blood seemed to have drained from his heart, hideous foreboding gripped him. And then he heard a voice speaking. It was his own.
"You—didn't—let—her—go—back," said the voice jerkily.
"A tiff—a bad tiff...Only fair to him—"
The words followed him as he crossed the hall, walking like a palsied man. And then, for an eternity, he stood on the front door steps staring at his car below. He was dimly conscious that Mrs. Sidmouth was talking, and then the voice spoke again.
"The dickey," it croaked. "The dickey. Open the dickey."
Wonderingly, she did so. Ruth Caterham was inside. She had taken her second ride wedged round with sacks, and with a bullet through her brain.
Sinclair passed his hand over his forehead, and for a space no one spoke.
"We found out afterwards," he went on after a while, "that he'd shot her early that morning, and it was then that the boys had run away. They'd been arguing all the night, and then I suppose something snapped, when he realised she wouldn't go back to him. And he'd put the body in the car when he'd pretended to write the note."
"Did they hang him?" asked someone.
Sinclair shook his head and rose. "No. He had used another bullet by the time they reached his farm. Which all seems to show that there are advantages in employing an intermediary, Murgatroyd. Even a man of Caterham's peculiar disposition would hardly have murdered a respectable solicitor and put his body in a taxi."
THE END
Mufti
MELTON HOUSE, OFFHAM, NEAR LEWES.
Prologue