“You are surprised to see me here living with my husband, after what I told you yesterday afternoon?” she said calmly, breaking at last the silence which had reigned between them.
“I am,” he admitted.
“It seems unnatural to you, I suppose?”
“Entirely.”
“You still believe all that I told you?”
“I must.”
She looked at the door and raised her head a little, as though either listening or adjudging the time before her husband would return. Then she glanced across at him once more.
“Hatred,” she said, “does not always drive away. Sometimes it attracts. Sometimes the person who hates can scarcely bear the other out of his sight. That is where hate and love are somewhat alike.”
The room was warm but Francis was conscious of shivering. She raised her finger warningly. It seemed typical of the woman, somehow, that the message could not be conveyed by any glance or gesture.
“He is coming,” she whispered.
Oliver Hilditch reappeared, carrying cigars wrapped in gold foil which he had brought with him from Cuba, the tobacco of which was a revelation to his guest. The two men smoked and sipped their coffee and brandy. The woman sat with half-closed eyes. It was obvious that Hilditch was still in the mood for speech.
“I will tell you, Mr. Ledsam,” he said, “why I am so happy to have you here this evening. In the first place, I desire to tender you once more my thanks for your very brilliant efforts on my behalf. The very fact that I am able to offer you hospitality at all is without a doubt due to these.”
“I only did what I was paid to do,” Francis insisted, a little harshly. “You must remember that these things come in the day’s work with us.”
His host nodded.
“Naturally,” he murmured. “There was another reason, too, why I was anxious to meet you, Mr. Ledsam,” he continued. “You have gathered already that I am something of a crank. I have a profound detestation of all sentimentality and affected morals. It is a relief to me to come into contact with a man who is free from that bourgeois incubus to modern enterprise—a conscience.”
“Is that your estimate of me?” Francis asked.
“Why not? You practise your profession in the criminal courts, do you not?”
“That is well-known,” was the brief reply.
“What measure of conscience can a man have,” Oliver Hilditch argued blandly, “who pleads for the innocent and guilty alike with the same simulated fervour? Confess, now, Mr. Ledsam—there is no object in being hypocritical in this matter—have you not often pleaded for the guilty as though you believed them innocent?”
“That has sometimes been my duty,” Francis acknowledged.
Hilditch laughed scornfully.
“It is all part of the great hypocrisy of society,” he proclaimed. “You have an extra glass of champagne for dinner at night and are congratulated by your friends because you have helped some poor devil to cheat the law, while all the time you know perfectly well, and so do your high-minded friends, that your whole attitude during those two hours of eloquence has been a lie. That is what first attracted me to you, Mr. Ledsam.”
“I am sorry to hear it,” Francis commented coldly. “The ethics of my profession—”
His host stopped him with a little wave of the hand.
“Spare me that,” he begged. “While we are on the subject, though, I have a question to ask you. My lawyer told me, directly after he had briefed you, that, although it would make no real difference to your pleading, it would be just as well for me to keep up my bluff of being innocent, even in private conversation with you. Why was that?”
“For the very obvious reason,” Francis told him, “that we are not all such rogues and vagabonds as you seem to think. There is more satisfaction to me, at any rate, in saving an innocent man’s life than a guilty one’s.”
Hilditch laughed as though amused.
“Come,” he threatened, “I am going to be ill-natured. You have shown signs of smugness, a quality which I detest. I am going to rob you of some part of your self-satisfaction. Of course I killed Jordan. I killed him in the very chair in which you are now sitting.”
There was a moment’s intense silence. The woman was still fanning herself lazily. Francis leaned forward in his place.
“I do not wish to hear this!” he exclaimed harshly.
“Don’t be foolish,” his host replied, rising to his feet and strolling across the room. “You know the whole trouble of the prosecution. They couldn’t discover the weapon, or anything like it, with which the deed was done. Now I’ll show you something ingenious.”
Francis followed the other’s movements with fascinated eyes. The woman scarcely turned her head. Hilditch paused at the further end of the room, where there were a couple of gun cases, some fishing rods and a bag, of golf clubs. From the latter he extracted a very ordinary-looking putter, and with it in his hands strolled back to them.
“Do you play golf, Ledsam?” he asked. “What do you think of that?”
Francis took the putter into his hand. It was a very ordinary club, which had apparently seen a good deal of service, so much, indeed, that the leather wrapping at the top was commencing to unroll. The maker’s name was on the back of the blade, also the name of the professional from whom it had been purchased. Francis swung the implement mechanically with his wrists.
“There seems to be nothing extraordinary about the club,” he pronounced. “It is very much like a cleek I putt with myself.”
“Yet it contains a secret which would most certainly have hanged me,” Oliver Hilditch declared pleasantly. “See!”
He held the shaft firmly in one hand and bent the blade away from it. In a moment or two it yielded and he commenced to unscrew it. A little exclamation escaped from Francis’ lips. The woman looked on with tired eyes.
“The join in the steel,” Hilditch pointed out, “is so fine as to be undistinguishable by the naked eye. Yet when the blade comes off, like this, you see that although the weight is absolutely adjusted, the inside is hollow. The dagger itself is encased in this cotton wool to avoid any rattling. I put it away in rather a hurry the last time I used it, and as you see I forgot to clean it.”
Francis staggered back and gripped at the mantelpiece. His eyes were filled with horror. Very slowly, and with the air of one engaged upon some interesting task, Oliver Hilditch had removed the blood-stained sheath of cotton wool from around the thin blade of a marvellous-looking stiletto, on which was also a long stain of encrusted blood.
“There is a handle,” he went on, “which is perhaps the most ingenious thing of all. You touch a spring here, and behold!”
He pressed down two tiny supports which opened upon hinges about four inches from the top of the handle. There was now a complete hilt.
“With this little weapon,” he explained, “the point is so sharpened and the steel so wonderful that it is not necessary to stab. It has the perfection of a surgical instrument. You have only to lean it against a certain point in a man’s anatomy, lunge ever so little and the whole thing is done. Come here, Mr. Ledsam, and I will show you the exact spot.”
Francis made no movement. His eyes were fixed upon the weapon.
“If I had only known!” he muttered.
“My dear fellow, if you had,” the other protested soothingly, “you know perfectly well that it would not have made the slightest difference. Perhaps that little break in your voice