Mystery in White. J. Jefferson Farjeon

me everything about the first time? How long were you there? Was the sound repeated? It is a good plan, I have always found, to know all there is to know at once, then one does not have to go back to it.”

      “I agree that’s a good plan,” responded David, finding some comfort in the old man’s thoroughness, “only in this case it doesn’t advance us any, as I’ve told you the lot.”

      “On the contrary, Mr. Carrington, you haven’t answered my specific questions.”

      “So I haven’t. I was there about half a minute, I should say, and the sound wasn’t repeated. No, wait—as we’re being so particular! I’ve told you things in the wrong order. I didn’t hear any sound till I knocked. Then the quick, faint movement. Then the silence.”

      “Thank you. And now for the second time.”

      “Yes, the second time,” said David. “The door wasn’t locked the second time. I walked into the room, a sort of attic, and found it empty. That’s what gave me my shock.”

      “Naturally,” nodded Mr. Maltby. “Did you form any conclusion this time?”

      “Only that—that whoever had been in the room had now left it, and—and was somewhere else in the house.”

      “Not necessarily.”

      “What do you mean?”

      “The window looked closed, or it would have occurred to you.”

      “Oh, I see. Well, it was closed, so it didn’t occur to me.”

      “You examined the window?”

      “No. I didn’t do that.”

      “I think, when you examine it, you will find that it is closed, but not fastened. It may not even be completely closed. You may find——”

      “Look here,” interposed David. “If the person got out of the window, why should he worry about the door?”

      “He may have tried the door first, and then suddenly changed his mind to the window,” retorted Mr. Maltby. “Obviously your question cannot be answered without some knowledge of the person—whom we merely assume to be male—and his mental attitude. We must search the house very thoroughly, to make sure that this person is not hiding anywhere else. My own theory, however, inclines to the window. By the way, what did you think of our friend Mr. Smith?”

      “Smith? That chap who came in with you?” queried David.

      “Perhaps you are right to query the name,” observed Mr. Maltby, dryly. “But we must use Smith for lack of another.”

      “I didn’t think much of him,” said David. “Nor did you.”

      “I am sorry I did not conceal my antipathy. No, I did not think much of him. You know, of course, that he was on our train?”

      “I rather deduced that.”

      “Yes, it was unfortunate for him that he dropped his ticket. Now, since Mr. Smith was on our train, and stoutly denied the fact, what do you suppose would be the reason?”

      David did not reply at once. The only reason he could suppose was a very unpleasant one, and while he waited some one emerged from the kitchen into the back of the hall. Thomson had finished his rather disastrous operations at the sink.

      His face was paler than ever, despite a little pink spot on either cheek. The pink accentuated the surrounding white. His eyes were watering.

      “Well, here we are!” he exclaimed, with a sort of glazed attempt at cheerfulness.

      He stood for a few moments on one foot, and then sat down rather awkwardly in the nearest chair. It was a very hard chair, with a seat and back of dark polished wood. He looked as uncomfortable as he felt.

      “Nice of you to do all the work,” said David.

      Thomson’s advent had cut across the conversation and temporarily ended it. He was like a bit of grit that had got into a smoothly running engine.

      “No, not at all, not at all,” he replied. “I like washing up. Well, you know what I mean. If it’s got to be done.”

      The pink spots grew pinker. He didn’t want anybody to think his soul was so small that the pleasure of washing up filled it. On the other hand, he didn’t want to imply that he had been a martyr. Funny how you could sometimes think of the right words, and at other times they seemed a mile off. Lots of things seemed a mile off to Thomson at this moment. In fact, almost everything but the fire, and that was too close.

      “Is it getting warmer?” he asked.

      Before anybody could answer him he began sneezing. It was his longest bout.

      “Seven,” he murmured, smiling mirthlessly. “That must be a record. Not really, of course. I remember one chap who sneezed sixteen times. Hay fever. Atchoo!”

      As Thomson came up from his eighth sneeze, his eyes caught a glimpse of something blue. It was the blue of a dressing-gown. It gave him a strange sense of peace, though also an impulse to cry. Of course, he mustn’t do that. That would finish him!... Hot? Had he said it was hot?

      Mr. Maltby and David glanced at each other, and then at Lydia on the stairs.

      “That fellow’s going to be ill, if he’s not looked after,” murmured Mr. Maltby.

      “Shall I put him to bed, too?” asked Lydia.

      “Eh? What? I’m all right!” gasped Thomson, as the room swam. “I just get them sometimes. Colds. They don’t mean anything.”

      “I’ll take responsibility for this,” said Mr. Maltby. “Stick him between sheets somewhere!”

      A few moments later Thomson found himself being led up the stairs by the Most Beautiful Girl in the World. She had hold of his arm.... She was close to him ... Oh, nonsense!...

      “The one thing it is useless to fight, Mr. Carrington,” remarked Mr. Maltby, “is the inevitable. I think we were talking about Mr. Smith.”

      The front door was shoved open the next instant, and the subject of their conversation staggered in.