Part 5

But, anxious as I was to fall in with his suggestion myself, I felt that that was more than I could do.

"It's very good of you, doctor," I said; "but, seeing that you are a medical man, I really must ask you to come and look at this youngster first. I'd never forgive myself if by any chance he wasn't dead. As a matter of fact, I've seen death too often not to recognize it, and the boy was stabbed clean through the heart right in front of my eyes--but..."

I broke off, as one of the girls leaned forward and whispered to her father. But he only shook his head, and stared at me curiously.

"Did you make no effort to stop the murder?" he asked at length.

It was the question I had been dreading, the question I knew must come sooner or later. But, now that I was actually confronted with it, I had no answer ready. I could only shake my head and stammer out confusedly:

"It seems incredible for a man of my age and experience to confess it, doctor--but I didn't. I couldn't.... I was just going to try and separate them, when the girl rushed in ... and..."

"What did she do?" It was one of the daughters who fired the question at me so suddenly that I looked at her in amazement. "What did Mary do?"

"She got her husband by the knees," I said, "and hung on like a bull-dog. But he'd got a grip on the boy's throat and then--suddenly--it was all over. They came crashing down as he stabbed young Trelawnay." Once again the girls clung together shuddering, and I turned to the doctor. "I wish you'd come, doctor: it's only just a step. I can show you the house."

"I know the house, sir, very well," he answered, gravely. Then he put his arms on the steering-wheel and for a long time sat motionless staring into the gathering dusk, while I fidgeted restlessly, and the girls whispered together. What on earth was the man waiting for? I wondered: after all, it wasn't a very big thing to ask of a doctor.... At last he got down from the car and stood beside me on the grass.

"You've never been here before, sir?" he asked again, looking at me fixedly.

"Never," I answered, a shade brusquely. "And I'm not altogether bursting with a desire to return."

"Strange," he muttered. "Very, very strange. I will come with you."

For a moment he spoke to his daughters as if to reassure them; then, together we walked over the springy turf towards the house by the headland. He seemed in no mood for conversation, and my own mind was far too busy with the tragedy for idle talk.

But he asked me one question when we were about fifty yards from the house.

"Rupert Carlingham carried his wife up to the headland, you say?"

"Slung over his shoulder," I answered, "and then..."

But the doctor had stopped short, and was staring at the house, while, once again, every vestige of colour had left his face.

"My God!" he muttered, "there's a light in the room.... A light, man; don't you see it?"

"I left the candles burning," I said, impatiently. "Really, doctor, I suppose murder doesn't often come your way, but..."

I walked on quickly and he followed. Really the fuss was getting on my nerves, already distinctly ragged. The front door was open as I had left it, and I paused for a moment in the cobwebby hall. Then, pulling myself together, I stepped into the room where the body lay, to halt and stare open-mouthed at the floor....

The candles still flickered on the mantelpiece; the furniture was as I had left it; but of the body of John Trelawnay there was not a trace. It had vanished utterly and completely.

"I don't understand, doctor," I muttered foolishly. "I left the body lying there."

The doctor stood at the door beside me, and suddenly I realized that his eyes were fixed on me.

"I know," he said, and his voice was grave and solemn. "With the head near that chair."

"Why, how do you know?" I cried, amazed. "Have you taken the body away?"

But he answered my question by another.

"Do you notice anything strange in this room, sir?" he asked. "On the floor?"

"Only a lot of dust," I remarked.

"Precisely," he said. "And one would expect footprints in dust. I see yours going to the mantelpiece; I see no others."

I clutched his arm, as his meaning came to me.

"My God!" I whispered. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," he said, "that Rupert Carlingham murdered John Trelawnay, and then killed himself and his wife, five years ago ... during just such another storm as we have had this evening."

_*IV -- The Man who would not Play Cards*_

*I*

"Thanks very much, but as I told you before--I don't play cards."

The speaker, a tall, bronzed man whose clear eye and slightly weather-beaten face proclaimed him to be no dweller in cities, paused at the smoking-room door, and stared, a little deliberately, at the man who had just accosted him. It was the second time that day that this same gentleman had endeavoured to rope him into a game of poker--"just small stakes, you know"--and Hugh Massingham disliked being asked things twice. Almost as much as, in this particular case, he disliked the appearance of the asker.

He paused long enough to let the stare become pointed; then he opened the door and stepped out on deck. He hated the stuffiness of the smoking-room, with its eternal cards and whisky pegs, and with an atmosphere so thick with tobacco smoke that at times he could hardly see across it.

Away to port, like a faint smudge on the horizon, lay the North Coast of Africa, and Hugh Massingham, with a faint smile, wondered just how many times he'd seen that smudge before. And how many times he'd see it in the future.

He leaned over the rail staring at the water thoughtfully. It depended, of course, on Delia. Things are apt to depend on a man's wife. There was no necessity for him to go back to the East--no financial necessity--yet somehow he hoped Delia would like to come, at any rate, for a few years. England, from all he heard, didn't sound much of a place to live in just now, but, of course, she'd have to decide.

Surreptitiously he put a hand into his breast pocket and pulled out a photograph. It was the likeness of a woman--little more than a girl--with a pair of eyes that, even on the cardboard, mocked and haunted him. It was the likeness of a girl who was more than passing lovely; it was the likeness of his wife; a wife with whom he had spent his whole married life of one week. Involuntarily he smiled. A week together, out of four years. But if tactless Governments will conduct campaigns in Mesopotamia, some such result is hardly to be wondered at.

He drew in a deep breath, and once again started to stroll up and down the deck. He wondered if she'd find him much changed: a bit thinner, perhaps, but enteric tends to remove superfluous flesh. And what would she be like? Grown a little--no longer a lovely girl, but a lovely woman. The photograph was nearly five years old, and she had been nineteen then--no, nearly twenty. A week out of four years--a week!

With a faint smile still on his lips, he turned and re-entered the smoking-room. The persuasive gentleman, he noticed, had settled down to his game of poker with four youngsters, and for a moment Massingham frowned. He knew the type--knew it inside out, and whoever might lose at that quiet game of poker there was one player who would certainly win. Not that he accused the persuasive gentleman for a moment of anything unfair; but he was of the type who had forgotten more about poker than the other four players combined were ever likely to know. With a slight shrug of his shoulders, he walked over to the bar and called for a gin and bitters. It was no business of his, and, from time immemorial, youth has had to pay for its experience.

It was about ten o'clock that night that it became increasingly evident that youth was paying with a vengeance. The persuasive gentleman had a very considerable proportion of the total number of chips beside him, to say nothing of a small library of written chits. And two of the other four players were looking worried, very worried. The thing was perfectly absurd; had they not played poker pretty consistently in the mess? Made a bit of money out of it, too, taking it in the long run. But to-night the luck was simply infernal. Hugh Massingham smiled grimly to himself. Truly, the lambs had walked docilely to the slaughter.

For a while he watched the persuasive gentleman narrowly through half-closed eyes; then, because it was still no business of his, he moved towards the door for a final stroll on deck before turning in. And it was as he was on the point of opening it that one of the youngsters rose suddenly with a muttered curse.

"I can't play any more," he said, shortly. "I'm holding good cards, but they always seem to go down."

Hugh smiled once again; it isn't the man who holds bad cards who loses heavily at poker; it's the man who holds good ones when somebody else is holding a bit better. Then something in the boy's face made his hand drop to his side; quite evidently he had lost more than he could comfortably afford. And the persuasive gentleman's complacent smirk made Hugh annoyed. He disliked the persuasive gentleman.

"Have your revenge to-morrow night," he remarked, with a kind of oily suavity, and with a grunt the youngster drained his whisky and soda sullenly.

"Won't someone else take his place?" As if by accident the speaker's eyes met Hugh's, and it may have been due to the procession of whiskies, or it may have been due to the fact that the dislike was reciprocal, but the persuasive gentleman allowed himself the pleasure of a very faint sneer. "You, as you have told me twice, do not play, do you?"

It wasn't the words, but it was the way they were said that decided Massingham. The persuasive gentleman should have his lesson.

"I don't mind taking this gentleman's place for half an hour," he remarked, quietly. "What stakes are you playing?"

"Maximum five-pound rise, and limit of a hundred in the pool," returned the other, and Hugh's eyebrows went up. He called those small stakes, did he?

For a while the game went on normally without any hands of importance, and it was not until they had been playing about twenty minutes that the cards became interesting. And that hand they were very interesting! It was Hugh's deal, and he dealt, as usual, slowly and methodically. The three youngsters threw their hands in at once; only the persuasive gentleman remained. And Hugh noted that the little finger of his left hand twitched slightly as he glanced at his cards.

"How many?" he demanded.

"One," said the other, and his voice was oily as ever.

"I stand," said Hugh, laying his cards face downwards on the table.

Then began the betting and the youngster whose place he had taken watched eagerly in his excitement. They mounted a fiver at a time, until the persuasive gentleman reached the limit of a hundred.

"I'll see you at a hundred," drawled Hugh.

And a little gasp of, envy ran round the spectators as the originator of the quiet game laid down four aces.

"You dealt 'em to me," he remarked with a smirk, his hand already stretched out to collar the pool.

"Er--one moment," murmured Hugh, and the persuasive gentleman turned white. Four aces. Only a straight flush could beat it. Surely--

Another gasp ran round the group. Hugh had just turned up his hand. And the three, four, five, six, and seven of clubs being a straight flush beats four aces.

For a moment Hugh allowed himself the luxury of watching the other's face. Then he spoke. "I certainly dealt you four aces, my friend; so I took the precaution of dealing myself a straight flush. And that is the reason why I do not play cards. Years of boredom by myself on a plantation made me take up card-conjuring as a hobby. And I did this simple little trick to-night in order to demonstrate to you boys that even a fine card-player like the gentleman opposite may be quite helpless when playing with a stranger. In fact, I could win money off him just as easily as he can win money off you."

The persuasive gentleman appeared to be the least pleased member of the group, though the fact that after all he had not lost his money appeased him somewhat.

"Anyone, sir," he remarked, a little thickly, "can win money by cheating."

"Not anyone," said Hugh, amicably. "But we'll let that pass. Only I'd win money off you playing perfectly fair. You're not a good gambler: your finger twitches. Good-night."

And he was still smiling as he turned in.

*II*

With fingers that fumbled over the unaccustomed stiff shirt, Hugh Massingham was dressing for dinner. His first dinner with his wife for four years. It was the moment he had dreamed of through long, sweltering days in Mesopotamia--and now that it had come, he was afraid.

Things were different to what he had expected; Delia was different. He could hear her now, moving about in the next room, and her voice as she spoke to her maid. Somehow, he hadn't expected that maid. He had hoped--well, it didn't much matter what he'd hoped. Anyway, it was absurd: naturally, his wife would have a maid.

It wasn't that that made him pause every now and again and stare a little blankly in front of him; it was something far bigger and more fundamental than such a triviality as a maid. And even to himself he would hardly acknowledge what it was. She was shy--naturally, any woman would be after such a long separation. And then the idea of associating shyness with his singularly self-possessed and lovely wife made him smile grimly. It was not that. No, it was simply--and Hugh Massingham took a deep breath like a man about to dive--it was simply that she had become a stranger to him. Or, to put it more accurately, he had become a stranger to her. The kiss which she had given him had been such as a sister would give to her brother. True, there had not been much time--some people had arrived to play bridge and had remained most of the afternoon. Delia wouldn't hear of their going away, though they had half suggested it. And he had spent the afternoon at his club--the afternoon of which he'd dreamed through four long weary years. A stranger--he was a stranger in his own house. With a twisted apology for a smile, he put on his coat and switched out the light. Time doubtless would straighten out the situation; but there had been enough time, already in their married life. There had been four years.

Dinner, perfectly served and faultlessly cooked, merely continued the hollow mockery of his home-coming. He felt that he might have been dining with any pretty woman at any house; not with his wife in his own. In fact, except that he happened to pay for it, it wasn't his house. Everything about it was hers--except himself. He was merely the stranger within his own gates.

"A little different, Delia, to what I had imagined it," he remarked, quietly, as the servant, having placed the port in front of him, left the room.

For a moment she looked at him narrowly; then she leaned back in her chair.

"In what way?" she asked, calmly. "Don't you think the flat is comfortable?"

They had got to have a straight talk anyway; perhaps it was as well, she reflected, to get it over and done with. There was no good starting on false pretences.

"Very." He rose and stood by the fireplace looking down at her. "It wasn't the flat I was alluding to." With ostentatious deliberation he selected a cigarette and lit it. "Do you know it's four years since we've seen one another?"

"Quite strangers, aren't we?" she agreed, lightly.

"Exactly--the very word. Strangers. But through no wish of mine."

"Nor mine, either, my dear man. It's simply the inevitable result of four years' separation."

"I disagree; the result is by no manner of means inevitable. However, I won't press the point. But was it absolutely essential that those people should have stopped to bridge this afternoon? They had the decency to suggest going."

It was not a happy way of putting it, and a red spot burned for a moment on his wife's cheek.

"And I had not the decency to let them, you imply." She laughed a little shortly. "Well, since you've started this conversation, I suppose we may as well have it out."

Hugh's hand clenched suddenly behind his back, and he stood very still. A little dully, he wondered what was coming.

"I can only hope that you will be sensible and try and look at the matter from all points of view." She, too, lit a cigarette, and stared at him deliberately. "In the first place, I suppose I've changed--considerably. And in order to save any misunderstanding, it's just as well that we should both know where we stand."

"You mean you don't love me any more?" said her husband, slowly.

"Don't be ridiculous," she cried. "I never said anything of the sort. I'm very fond of you. But----" she stirred a little restlessly in her chair. "I've never believed, as you know, in beating about the bush, and there is another man whom I'm very fond of, too."

The dull, sickening blow, which well-nigh stunned him mentally, showed not at all on Hugh Massingham's face.

"One can't help these things," continued his wife, gravely, "and I think you'll agree that it is best for everybody to discuss matters as they are--rather than go on living as if they were otherwise."

"Quite," he murmured, grimly. "Please go on."

"We need neither of us insult our intelligences by regarding the matter in the light that our fathers and mothers would have looked at it. The fact that a married woman falls in love with a man who is not her husband is not a thing to hold up hands of pious horror at--or so it seems to me; it is just a thing which has happened, and if one is sensible, the best course is to see the most satisfactory way out for all concerned. Don't you agree?"

"Your argument certainly has its points," concurred Hugh. Great heavens! was this conversation real, or was he dreaming?

"Jimmy Staunton has kissed me--but that's all."

His wife was speaking again, and he listened dully.

"Jimmy Staunton! Is that the man's name?"

He threw his cigarette, long gone out, into the grate.

"Yes--that is the man. He's been asking me for months to go away with him, but I've refused. I didn't tell him why, but I'm going to tell you now. I wouldn't go until you'd come home, and I'd seen you again, and made sure--that----"

She hesitated, and the man laughed grimly.

"Made sure that you really did love Mr. Jimmy Staunton more than me! Dreadful thing to make a second mistake."

"Put it that way, if you like," she answered, quietly. "Though it wasn't from quite such baldly selfish motives that I refused to go with him. I tried, Hugh, to argue the thing out as best I could; I tried to be fair to him and to you. I realized that I might be wrong--that I didn't really love him----" the man by the fireplace made a quick, convulsive movement, "and anyway I realized that I must give you a chance if you want to have it. If, after what I've told you, you decide to let me go--well and good; we can arrange details easily. If, on the other hand, you refuse, and in the course of a month, say, I find that I was not mistaken, and that I'm fonder of Jimmy than I am of you, well, I shall have to take the law into my own hands."

Hugh Massingham laughed shortly.

"I see," he answered. "You have put things very clearly." He turned on her with an expressionless face. "I take it, then, that as matters stand at present, I am on trial."

"If you wish," she said. "I realize that you have a perfect right to refuse that trial, and tell me to go; but, after all your goodness to me, I could not do less than offer it to you."

"Your generosity touches me," he remarked, grimly. "And----"

It was at that moment that the servant opened the door and announced: "Mr. Staunton."

"Are you coming to Hector's, Delia?"

An immaculately clad young man entered, with his evening overcoat on his arm and a top-hat in his hand, to stop in momentary confusion on seeing Hugh.

"I beg your pardon," he muttered. "I--er----"

"This is my husband, Jimmy," said Delia, composedly, and the two men bowed.

"My wife was just talking about you, Mr. Staunton," said Hugh, impassively, while he took in every detail of the other's face--the mouth, well-formed, but inclined to weakness; the eyes that failed to meet his own; the hands, beautifully manicured, which twitched uneasily as they played with his white scarf.

Good God! This effeminate clothes-peg! To be on trial against--this! He stifled a contemptuous laugh; there was Delia to be considered.

"Pray don't let me detain you from Hector's; though I'm not quite certain what it is."

"A night-club, Mr. Massingham," said the other, nervously. "But perhaps Mrs. Massingham would prefer not to go this evening?"

"I am convinced my wife would prefer nothing of the sort," returned Hugh, and for a moment his eyes and Delia's met. Then with a faint shrug she stood up. "Four years in Mesopotamia do not improve one's dancing." He strolled to the door. "I shall wander round to the club, my dear," he murmured. "And, by the way, with regard to your offer, I accept it."

"Good Lord, darling!" whispered Staunton, as the door closed. "I'd got no idea he'd come back. What an awful break!"

But she was staring at the door, and seemed not to hear his remark. It was only as he kissed her that she came back to the reality of his presence.

"Let's go and dance, Jimmy," she said, feverishly. "I feel like dancing--to-night."

*III*

"Halloa, Hugh! Got back, have you?"

The words greeted Massingham as he strolled through the club smoking-room in search of a seat, and with a start he looked at the speaker. So engrossed had he been in his own thoughts that he had failed to notice his brother-in-law, John Ferrers, till he was right on top of him.

"Yes, John--back," he said, slowly. "Back to-day--after four years."

Ferrers grunted and leaned over to pull up a chair. Something wrong--quite obviously. A man doesn't come to his club on the first evening home after four years, under normal circumstances.

"Have a drink!" Ferrers beckoned a waiter and gave the order. "How do you think Delia is looking?"

"Very well," said Hugh, quietly. "Very well indeed. She has gone off to a place called Hector's to-night."

Ferrers paused in the act of lighting his pipe, and looked at him in mild amazement. "Delia gone to Hector's to-night! What the devil has she done that for?"

"A gentleman of the name of Staunton--Jimmy Staunton--arrived in his glad rags after dinner," remarked Hugh. "She went to Hector's with him--I came here."

"Young Staunton!" muttered Ferrers. "I didn't know----" He looked quickly at Hugh; then he resumed lighting his pipe. "If I were you, Hugh--of course I know it's not my business--but if I were you I wouldn't let Delia go about too much with young Staunton. He's a--well, he's a useless young puppy to begin with, and his reputation is nothing to write home about in addition."

"Ah! is that so?" Hugh lay back in his chair and stared at his brother-in-law. "I had already classed him as a puppy; but I didn't think he was big enough to have a reputation of any kind--good or bad."

"My dear fellow--he's young, he's good-looking, and he's sufficiently well off to be able to do nothing. Also I believe he dances perfectly. Whether it's those assets, or whether it's something which the vulgar masculine eye is unable to appreciate, I can't tell you. But I do know this: that three ordinary, decent, sensible young married women of my acquaintance have made the most infernal fools of themselves over that youth." John Ferrers shook his head. "I'm hanged if I know what it is. It must be the war or something. But a lot of these girls seem to have gone completely off the rails."