“Well,” she said, “now that you have told me the truth, I know what you are thinking when they talk of that night. Do you not wish, perhaps, to tell this story to my husband, to those others who believe that De Besset saw the burglar and ran in to warn me? Or what is it you wish? To make a bargain with me for your silence?”
He turned his head, and for a moment she was ashamed. She laid her hand upon his wrist. Tears suddenly dimmed her eyes.
“I am imbecile!” she exclaimed. “I am a little beast! Forgive—please forgive.”
A manservant, who had been crossing the lawn, made his respectful approach.
“You are asked for upon the telephone, my lady,” he announced. “It is a call from London.”
Félice sprang to her feet. She looked up at Haslam almost piteously. She was like a child shrinking from pain.
“You forgive?” she repeated.
“I forgive,” he assured her.
She crossed the lawn with flying footsteps. She found her husband by her side as she hung up the receiver. He looked at her a little anxiously.
“Tired, dear?”
“Perhaps a little,” she admitted. “Did you hear with whom I spoke?”
“I tried to play the eavesdropper, but I failed,” he confessed, laughing. “I arrived just a second too late. One of your young admirers, I imagine, who can’t get over this afternoon.”
She clung tightly to his arm.
“Why do all these big schoolboys,” she demanded, “like me so much, and a great man like you—though he is my husband—he does not care at all?”
He passed his arm around her waist and kissed her. She closed her eyes and nestled against him for a moment or two.
“Now that you have been sweet, I will tell you who it was who telephoned,” she confided. “It was the stern, cruel man who gets people hung.”
“Dick Cotton, by Jove!” Andrew exclaimed. “What on earth did he want?”
“He proposed himself to spend the week-end with us. He is on his way down. I told him, of course, that we would be very glad. He will be here in time for dinner.”
“Capital! I am always glad to see old Cotton. And don’t you make any mistake about him, sweetheart. A stern fellow he seems to most people, but he’s really one of the kindest-hearted men in the world.”
Félice shivered a little.
“I wish he did not frighten me so,” she sighed. “It is his eyes which seem to be always following one about and asking cruel questions.”
They stepped outside, and she flung herself into the outstretched arms of a new arrival—a pleasant-faced beflanneled youth, a nephew of the house.
“No more serious talk,” she cried. “We will play tennis together—you and I, Billy, against the world —and afterwards rounders. Andrew, you must tell them about preparing Sir Richard’s room. I am a child again and I am going to play.”
They had gathered round her and rushed off to an unoccupied court. Haslam, who had made his unobtrusive appearance, stood by his host’s side. They both watched her with varying expressions. The longer they looked, the more masklike became Haslam’s face. Presently he turned to his host.
“Andrew,” he said, “I am very sorry, but I have just received an urgent message from town. I must leave within a quarter of an hour. I have taken the liberty of ordering my car, and the man who looks after me is packing my clothes.”
“My dear fellow!” Andrew protested. “I am terribly sorry. Sure you can’t hang on until tomorrow?”
“Quite impossible.”
“Well, I’ll call Félice?”
“Please don’t. Make my excuses to her, won’t you? We have had a little conversation already, and I hinted that I might be called away. It’s my Chief who needs me. There are a lot of changes being made, and two new posts to be granted. I can’t afford to be away for a moment.”
“Well, of course one must not say a word, if that’s the case,” Andrew observed, turning towards the house with his guest. “We’ll be awfully sorry to lose you, all the same. Come down again—any time—so long as you’re sure we’re here. I may bring Félice up to town for a day or so before we start the pheasants. She’s like most young women of a volatile temperament who have had to face a shock—the better for continual change afterwards. Here are your things coming out already, I see.”
Haslam paused on the edge of the lawn and held out his hand.
“Don’t come any farther, please,” he begged his host. “They want you for tennis. I’ve had a ripping two days, anyway, and if I hear you’re in town, I’ll ring up.”
“The twelfth for the pheasants, remember, unless you’d like the second go at the big wood,” his friend reminded him, as they shook hands.
“I’ll make a note of the twelfth,” Haslam promised. “I’ll come unless I’m packed off.”
He hurried away, and Andrew Glenlitten retraced his steps in leisurely fashion. Upon the border of the higher lawn, he paused. Before him was the wing of the great edifice in which the tragedy had taken place. He stood with his hands behind his back, looking up at the row of windows, counting them until he arrived at Félice’s. At them he gazed long and earnestly. He saw where the ladder had been. He pictured to himself the dark form slipping rapidly up the rungs, unfastening the catch holding the window which led into the room. He looked farther along the line towards De Besset’s quarters. It was so natural what had happened—De Besset, leaning out for a breath of fresh air and seeing the intruder. A terrible tragedy, but a very simple one. The period of acute shock of course now had passed, and the reconstructing mind moved more easily. He could see De Besset obeying a chivalrous enough instinct, not pausing to give the alarm, but hurrying along the corridor, bursting into the threatened room, to find himself face to face with a desperate man collecting his spoils. Horrible to be shot down unarmed, without a moment’s warning, or a chance at self-defence. There was only one thought which sometimes filled him with a vague unease—an unease which he recognised owed its reawakening in those few minutes to the thought of Cotton’s unexpected visit. The great lawyer’s attitude about the whole thing had been a little strange. Always his manner had seemed to conceal some hidden thought. The legal mind refusing to accept the obvious, he decided, as he turned away.
He met a scattered little group coming towards him. Félice now was being gravely polite to some older callers. The chill of the autumn evening, after the long Indian summer’s day, was calling them all indoors.
CHAPTER VII
There were times when, after the second glass of vintage port, a slight tinge of colour showed itself in Sir Richard’s parchment-like skin, and his eyes lost something of their accustomed steely glow. That night, however, after the departure of Félice, nothing of the sort happened. He sat playing with the stem of his glass, gazing moodily at the polished mahogany beneath. His host passed the decanter with a little wave and held it invitingly forward.
“Nearly