“To his dismay he found his young master stretched on the turf at the side of the drive, thirty feet from the house. He rushed into the library, where David was still asleep and moving uneasily—muttering, the man thought:
“ ‘Come quickly, sir,’ he cried, ‘I fear something has happened to Sir Alan. He is lying on the ground outside the house, and I cannot arouse him.’
“Then David Hume-Frazer sprang to his feet and shouted:
“ ‘My God! It was not a dream. He is murdered!’
“Unquestionably—”
But the barrister’s cold-blooded synopsis of a thrilling crime proved to be too much for his hearer’s nerves. Hume stood up. The man was a born fighter. He could take his punishment, but only on his feet.
Again he cried in anguish:
“No! It was no dream, but a foul murder. And they blame me!”
Chapter II
David Hume’s Story
Return to Table of Contents
Brett closed the book with a snap.
“What good purpose can it serve at this time to reopen the miserable story?” he asked.
Curiously enough, Hume paid no heed to the question. His lips quivered, his nostrils twitched, and his eyes shot strange gleams. He caught the back of his chair with both hands in a grasp that tried to squeeze the tough oak.
“What else have you written there?” he said, and Brett could not help but admire his forced composure.
“Nothing of any material importance. You were arrested, after an interval of some days, as the result of a coroner’s warrant. You explained that you had a vivid dream, in which you saw your cousin stabbed by a stranger whom you did not know, whose face even you never saw. Sir Alan was undoubtedly murdered. The dagger-like attachment to your Japanese sword had been driven into his breast up to the hilt, actually splitting his heart. To deliver such a blow, with such a weapon, required uncommon strength and skill. I think I describe it here as ‘un-English.’ ”
Brett referred to his scrap-book. In spite of himself, he felt all his old interest reawakening in this remarkable crime.
“Yes?” queried Hume.
The barrister, his lips pursed up and critical, surveyed his concluding notes.
“You were tried at the ensuing Assizes, and the jury disagreed. Your second trial resulted in an acquittal, though the public attitude towards you was dubious. The judge, in summing up, said that the evidence against you ‘might be deemed insufficient.’ In these words he conveyed the popular opinion. I see I have noted here that Miss Margaret Hume-Frazer was at a Covent Garden Fancy Dress Ball on the night of the murder. But the tragic deaths of her father and brother had a marked influence on the young lady. She, of course, succeeded to the estates, and decided at once to live at Beechcroft. Does she still live there?”
“Yes. I am told she is distinguished for her charity and good works. She is married.”
“Ah! To whom?”
“To an Italian, named Giovanni Capella.”
“His stage name?”
“No; he is really an Italian.”
Brett’s pleasantry was successful in its object. David Hume regained his equanimity and sat down again. After a pause he went on:
“May I ask, Mr. Brett, before I tell you my part of the story, if you formed any theories as to the occurrence at the time?”
The barrister consulted his memoranda. Something that met his eyes caused him to smile.
“I see,” he said, “that Mr. Winter, of Scotland Yard, was convinced of your guilt. That is greatly in your favour.”
“Why?”
Hume disdained the police, but Brett’s remark evoked curiosity.
“Because Mr. Winter is a most excellent officer, whose intellect is shackled by handcuffs. ‘De l’audace!’ says the Frenchman, as a specific for human conduct. ‘Lock ’em up,’ says Mr. Winter, when he is inquiring into a crime. Of course, he is right nine times out of ten; but if, in the tenth case, intellect conflicts with handcuffs, the handcuffs win, being stronger in his instance.”
Hume was in no mood to appreciate the humours of Scotland Yard, so the other continued:
“The most telling point against you was the fact that not only the butler, footman, and two housemaids, but you yourself, at the coroner’s inquest, swore that the small Japanese knife was in its sheath during the afternoon; indeed, the footman said it was there, to the best of his belief, at midnight. Then, again, a small drawer in Sir Alan’s writing-table had been wrenched open whilst you were alone in the room. On this point the footman was positive. Near the drawer rested the sword from which its viperish companion had been abstracted. Had not the butler found Sir Alan’s body, still palpitating, and testified beyond any manner of doubt that you were apparently sleeping in the library, you would have been hanged, Mr. Hume.”
“Probably.”
“The air of probability attending your execution would have been most convincing.”
“Is my case, then, so desperate?”
“You cannot be tried again, you know.”
“I do not mean that. I want to establish my innocence; to compel society to reinstate me as a man profoundly wronged; above all, to marry the woman I love.”
Brett amused himself by rapidly projecting several rings of smoke through a large one.
“So you really are innocent?” he said, after a pause.
David Hume rose from his chair, and reached for his hat, gloves, and stick.
“You have crushed my remaining hope of emancipation,” he exclaimed bitterly. “You have the repute of being able to pluck the heart out of a mystery, Mr. Brett, so when you assume that I am guilty—”
“I have assumed nothing of the kind. You seem to possess the faculty of self-control. Kindly exercise it, and answer my questions, Did you kill your cousin?”
“No.”
“Who did kill him?”
“I do not know.”
“Do you suspect anybody ?”
“Not in the remotest degree.”
“Did he kill himself?”
“That theory was discussed privately, but not brought forward at the trial. Three doctors said it was not worthy of a moment’s consideration.”
“Well, you need not shout your replies, and I would prefer to see you comfortably seated, unless, of course, you feel more at ease near the door.”
A trifle shamefacedly, Hume returned to his former position near the fireplace—that shrine to which all the household gods do reverence, even in the height of summer. It is impossible to conceive the occupants of a room deliberately grouping themselves without reference to the grate.
Brett placed the open scrap-book on his knees, and ran an index finger along underlined passages in the manner of counsel consulting a brief.
“Why