The hound of death

Contents

The Hound of DeathThe Red SignalThe Fourth ManThe GipsyThe LampWirelessThe Witness for the ProsecutionThe Mystery of the Blue JarThe Strange Case of Sir Arthur CarmichaelThe Call of WingsThe Last SeanceS O STHE RED SIGNAL"No, but how too thrilling," said pretty Mrs Eversleigh, opening her lovely, but slightly vacant, blue eyes very wide. "They always say women have a sixth sense; do you think it's true, Sir Alington?"The famous alienist smiled sardonically. He had an unbounded contempt for the foolish pretty type, such as his fellow guest. Alington West was the supreme authority on mental disease, and he was fully alive to his own position and importance. A slightly pompous man of full figure."A great deal of nonsense is talked, I know that, Mrs Eversleigh. What does the term mean - a sixth sense?""You scientific men are always so severe. And it really is extraordinary the way one seems to positively know things sometimes - just know them, feel them, I mean - quite uncanny - it really is. Claire knows what I mean, don't you, Claire?"She appealed to her hostess with a slight pout, and a tilted shoulder.Claire Trent did not reply at once. It was a small dinner party - she and her husband, Violet Eversleigh, Sir Alington West, and his nephew Dermot West, who was an old friend of Jack Trent's. Jack Trent himself, a somewhat heavy florid man, with a good-humored smile, and a pleasant lazy laugh, took up the thread."Bunkum, Violet! Your best friend is killed in a railway accident. Straight away you remember that you dreamed of a black cat last Tuesday - marvelous, you felt all along that something was going to happen!""Oh, no, Jack, you're mixing up premonitions with intuition now. Come, now, Sir Alington, you must admit that premonitions are real?""To a certain extent, perhaps," admitted the physician cautiously. "But coincidence accounts for a good deal, and then there is the invariable tendency to make the most of a story afterwards.""I don't think there is any such thing as premonition," said Claire Trent, rather abruptly. "Or intuition, or a sixth sense, or any of the things we talk about so glibly. We go through life like a train rushing through the darkness to an unknown destination.""That's hardly a good simile, Mrs Trent," said Dermot West, lifting his head for the first time and taking part in the discussion. There was a curious glitter in the clear gray eyes that shone out rather oddly from the deeply tanned face. "You've forgotten the signals, you see.""The signals?""Yes, green if it's all right, and red - for danger!""Red - for danger - how thrilling!" breathed Violet Eversleigh.Dermot turned from her rather impatiently."That's just a way of describing it, of course."Trent stared at him curiously."You speak as though it were an actual experience, Dermot, old boy.""So it is - has been, I mean.""Give us the yarn.""I can give you one instance. Out in Mesopotamia, just after the Armistice, I came into my tent one evening with the feeling strong upon me. Danger! Look out! Hadn't the ghost of a notion what it was all about. I made a round of the camp, fussed unnecessarily, took all precautions against an attack by hostile Arabs. Then I went back to my tent. As soon as I got inside, the feeling popped up again stronger than ever. Danger! In the end I took a blanket outside, rolled myself up in it and slept there.""Well?""The next morning, when I went inside the tent, first thing I saw was a great knife arrangement - about half a yard long - struck down through my bunk, just where I would have lain. I soon found out about it - one of the Arab servants. His son had been spot as a spy. What have you got to say to that, Uncle Alington, as an example of what I call the red signal?"The specialist smiled noncommittally. "A very interesting story, my dear Dermot.""But not one that you accept unreservedly?""Yes, yes, I have no doubt but that you had the premonition of danger, just as you state. But it is the origin of the premonition I dispute. According to you, it came from without, impressed by some outside source upon your mentality. But nowadays we find that nearly everything comes from within - from our subconscious self."I suggest that by some glance or look this Arab had betrayed himself. Your conscious self did not notice or remember, but with your subconscious self it was otherwise. The subconscious never forgets. We believe, too, that it can reason and deduce quite independently of the higher or conscious will. Your subconscious self, then, believed that an attempt might be made to assassinate you, and succeeded in forcing its fear upon your conscious realization.""That sounds very convincing, I admit," said Dermot, smiling."But not nearly so exciting," pouted Mrs Eversleigh."It is also possible that you may have been subconsciously aware of the hate felt by the man towards you. What in old days used to be called telepathy certainly exists, though the conditions governing it are very little understood.""Have there been any other instances?" asked Claire of Dermot."Oh yes, but nothing very pictorial - and I suppose they could all be explained under the heading of coincidence. I refused an invitation to a country house once, for no other reason than the 'red signal.' The place was burned out during the week. By the way, Uncle Alington, where does the subconscious come in there?""I'm afraid it doesn't," said Sir Alington, smiling."But you've got an equally good explanation. Come, now. No need to be tactful with near relatives.""Well, then, nephew, I venture to suggest that you refused the invitation for the ordinary reason that you didn't much want to go, and that after the fire, you suggested to yourself that you had had a warning of danger, which explanation you now believe implicitly.""It's hopeless," laughed Dermot. "It's heads you win, tails I lose.""Never mind, Mr West," cried Violet Eversleigh. "I believe in your Red Signal. Is the time in Mesopotamia the last time you had it?""Yes - until -""I beg your pardon?""Nothing."Dermot sat silent. The words which had nearly left his lips were: "Yes, until tonight." They had come quite unbidden to his lips, voicing a thought which had as yet not been consciously realized, but he was aware at once that they were true. The Red Signal was looming up out of the darkness. Danger! Danger close at hand!But why? What conceivable danger could there be here? Here in the house of his friends? At least - well, yes, there was that kind of danger. He looked at Claire Trent - her whiteness, her slenderness, the exquisite droop of her golden head. But that danger had been there for some time - it was never likely to get acute. For Jack Trent was his best friend, and more than his best friend, the man who had saved his life in Flanders and been recommended for the V.C. for doing so. A good fellow, Jack, one of the best. Damned bad luck that he should have fallen in love with Jack's wife. He'd get over it some day, he supposed. A thing couldn't go on hurting like this forever. One could starve it out - that was it, starve it out. It was not as though she would ever guess - and if she did guess, there was no danger of her caring. A statue, a beautiful statue, a thing of gold and ivory and pale pink coral... a toy for a king, not a real woman...Claire... the very thought of her name, uttered silently, hurt him... He must get over it. He'd cared for women before... "But not like this!" said something. "Not like this." Well, there it was. No danger there - heartache, yes, but not danger. Not the danger of the Red Signal. That was for something else.He looked round the table and it struck him for the first time that it was rather an unusual little gathering. His uncle, for instance, seldom dined out in this small, informal way. It was not as though the Trents were old friends; until this evening Dermot had not been aware that he knew them at all.To be sure, there was an excuse. A rather notorious medium was coming after dinner to give a séance. Sir Alington professed to be mildly interested in spiritualism. Yes, that was an excuse, certainly.The word forced itself on his notice. An excuse. Was the séance just an excuse to make the specialist's presence at dinner natural? If so, what was the real object of his being here? A host of details came rushing into Dermot's mind, trifles unnoticed at the time, or, as his uncle would have said, unnoticed by the conscious mind.The great physician had looked oddly, very oddly, at Claire more than once. He seemed to be watching her. She was uneasy under his scrutiny. She made little twitching motions with her hands. She was nervous, horribly nervous, and was it, could it be, frightened? Why was she frightened?With a jerk he came back to the conversation round the table. Mrs Eversleigh had got the great man talking upon his own subject."My dear lady," he was saying, "what is madness? I can assure you that the more we study the subject, the more difficult we find it to pronounce. We all practice a certain amount of self-deception, and when we carry it so far as to believe we are the Czar of Russia, we are shut up or restrained. But there is a long road before we reach that point. At what particular spot on it shall we erect a post and say, 'On this side sanity, on the other madness'? It can't be done, you know. And I will tell you this: if the man suffering from a delusion happened to hold his tongue about it, in all probability we should never be able to distinguish him from a normal individual. The extraordinary sanity of the insane is an interesting subject."Sir Alington sipped his wine with appreciation and beamed upon the company."I've always heard they are very cunning," remarked Mrs Eversleigh. "Loonies, I mean.""Remarkably so. And suppression of one's particular delusion has a disastrous effect very often. All suppressions are dangerous, as psychoanalysis has taught us. The man who has a harmless eccentricity, and can indulge it as such, seldom goes over the border-line. But the man -" he paused - "or woman who is to all appearance perfectly normal, may be in reality a poignant source of danger to the community."His gaze traveled gently down the table to Claire and then back again.A horrible fear shook Dermot. Was that what he meant? Was that what he was driving at? Impossible, but -"And all from suppressing oneself," sighed Mrs Eversleigh. "I quite see that one should be very careful always to - to express one's personality. The dangers of the other are frightful.""My dear Mrs Eversleigh," expostulated the physician, "you have quite misunderstood me. The cause of the mischief is in the physical matter of the brain - sometimes arising from some outward agency such as a blow; sometimes, alas, congenital.""Heredity is so sad," sighed the lady vaguely. "Consumption and all that.""Tuberculosis is not hereditary," said Sir Alington drily."Isn't it? I always thought it was. But madness is! How dreadful. What else?""Gout," said Sir Alington, smiling. "And color blindness - the latter is rather interesting. It is transmitted direct to males, but is latent in females. So, while there are many color blind men, for a woman to be color blind, it must have been latent in her mother as well as present in her father - rather an unusual state of things to occur. That is what is called sex limited heredity.""How interesting. But madness is not like that, is it?""Madness can be handed down to men or women equally," said the physician gravely.Claire rose suddenly, pushing back her chair so abruptly that it overturned and fell to the ground. She was very pale and the nervous motions of her fingers were very apparent."You - you will not be long, will you?" she begged. "Mrs Thompson will be here in a few minutes now.""One glass of port, and I will be with you," declared Sir Alington. "To see this wonderful Mrs Thompson's performance is what I have come for, is it not? Ha, ha! Not that I needed any inducement." He bowed.Claire gave a faint smile of acknowledgment and passed out of the room with Mrs Eversleigh."Afraid I've been talking shop," remarked the physician as he resumed his seat. "Forgive me, my dear fellow.""Not at all," said Trent perfunctorily.He looked strained and worried. For the first time Dermot felt an outsider in the company of his friend. Between these two was a secret that even an old friend might not share. And yet the whole thing was fantastic and incredible. What had he to go upon? Nothing but a couple of glances and a woman's nervousness.They lingered over their wine but a very short time, and arrived up in the drawing room just as Mrs Thompson was announced.The medium was a plump middle-aged woman, atrociously dressed in magenta velvet, with a loud, rather common voice."Hope I'm not late, Mrs Trent," she said cheerily. "You did say nine o'clock, didn't you?""You are quite punctual, Mrs Thompson," said Claire in her sweet, slightly husky voice. "This is our little circle."No further introductions were made, as was evidently the custom. The medium swept them all with a shrewd, penetrating eye."I hope we shall get some good results," she remarked briskly. "I can't tell you how I hate it when I go out and I can't give satisfaction, so to speak. It just makes me mad. But I think Shiromako (my Japanese control, you know) will be able to get through all right tonight. I'm feeling ever so fit, and I refused the welsh rarebit, fond of cheese though I am."Dermot listened, half-amused, half-disgusted. How prosaic the whole thing was! And yet, was he not judging foolishly? Everything, after all, was natural - the powers claimed by mediums were natural powers, as yet imperfectly understood. A great surgeon might be wary of indigestion on the eve of a delicate operation. Why not Mrs Thompson?Chairs were arranged in a circle, lights so that they could conveniently be raised and lowered. Dermot noticed that there was no question of tests, or of Sir Alington satisfying himself as to the conditions of the séance. No, this business of Mrs Thompson was only a blind. Sir Alington was here for quite another purpose. Claire's mother, Dermot remembered, had died abroad. There had been some mystery about her... Hereditary...With a jerk he forced his mind back to the surroundings of the moment.Everyone took their places, and the lights were turned out, all but a small red-shaded one on a far table.For a while nothing was heard but the low, even breathing of the medium. Gradually it grew more and more stertorous. Then, with a suddenness that made Dermot jump, a loud rap came from the far end of the room. It was repeated from the other side. Then a perfect crescendo of raps was heard. They died away, and a sudden high peal of mocking laughter rang through the room.Then silence, broken by a voice utterly unlike that of Mrs Thompson, a high-pitched, quaintly inflected voice."I am here, gentlemen," it said. "Yess, I am here. You wish ask me things?""Who are you? Shiromako?""Yess. I Shiromako. I pass over long ago. I work. I very happy."Further details of Shiromako's life followed. It was all very flat and uninteresting, and Dermot had heard it often before. Everyone was happy, very happy. Messages were given from vaguely described relatives, the description being so loosely worded as to fit almost any contingency. An elderly lady, the mother of someone present, held the floor for some time, imparting copybook maxims with an air of refreshing novelty hardly borne out by her subject matter."Someone else want to get through now," announced Shiromako. "Got a very important message for one of the gentlemen."There was a pause, and then a new voice spoke, prefacing its remarks with an evil demoniacal chuckle."Ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha! Better not go home. Take my advice.""Who are you speaking to?" asked Trent."One of you three. I shouldn't go home if I were him. Danger! Blood! Not very much blood - quite enough. No, don't go home." The voice grew fainter. "Don't go home!"It died away completely. Dermot felt his blood tingling. He was convinced that the warning was meant for him. Somehow or other, there was danger abroad tonight.There was a sigh from the medium, and then a groan. She was coming round. The lights were turned on, and presently she sat upright, her eyes blinking a little."Go off well, my dear? I hope so.""Very good indeed, thank you, Mrs Thompson.""Shiromako, I suppose?""Yes, and others."Mrs Thompson yawned."I'm dead beat. Absolutely down and out. Does fairly take it out of you. Well, I'm glad it was a success. I was a bit afraid something disagreeable might happen. There's a queer feel about this room tonight."She glanced over each ample shoulder in turn, and then shrugged them uncomfortably."I don't like it," she said. "Any sudden deaths among any of you people lately?""What do you mean - among us?""Near relatives - dear friends? No? Well, if I wanted to be melodramatic, I'd say that there was death in the air tonight. There, it's only my nonsense. Good-bye, Mrs Trent. I'm glad you've been satisfied."Mrs Thompson in her magenta velvet gown went out."I hope you've been interested, Sir Alington," murmured Claire."A most interesting evening, my dear lady. Many thanks for the opportunity. Let me wish you good night. You are all going on to a dance, are you not?""Won't you come with us?""No, no. I make it a rule to be in bed by half-past eleven. Good night. Good night, Mrs Eversleigh. Ah, Dermot, I rather want to have a word with you. Can you come with me now? You can rejoin the others at the Grafton Galleries.""Certainly, Uncle. I'll meet you there then, Trent."Very few words were exchanged between uncle and nephew during the short drive to Harley Street. Sir Alington made a semi-apology for dragging Dermot away, and assured him that he would only detain him a few minutes."Shall I keep the car for you, my boy?" he asked, as they alighted."Oh, don't bother, Uncle. I'll pick up a taxi.""Very good. I don't like to keep Charlson up later than I can help. Good night, Charlson. Now where the devil did I put my key?"The car glided away as Sir Alington stood on the steps searching his pockets."Must have left it in my other coat," he said at length. "Ring the bell, will you? Johnson is still up, I dare say."The imperturbable Johnson did indeed open the door within sixty seconds."Mislaid my key, Johnson," explained Sir Alington. "Bring a couple of whiskies and sodas into the library.""Very good, Sir Alington."The physician strode on into the library and turned on the lights. He motioned to Dermot to close the door."I won't keep you long, Dermot, but there's just something I want to say to you. Is it my fancy, or have you a certain - tendresse, shall we say, for Mrs Jack Trent?"The blood rushed to Dermot's face."Jack Trent is my best friend.""Pardon me, but that is hardly answering my question. I dare say that you consider my views on divorce and such matters highly puritanical, but I must remind you that you are my only near relative and my heir.""There is no question of a divorce," said Dermot angrily."There certainly is not, for a reason which I understand perhaps better than you do. That particular reason I cannot give you now, but I do wish to warn you. She is not for you."The young man faced his uncle's gaze steadily."I do understand - and permit me to say, perhaps better than you think. I know the reason for your presence at dinner tonight.""Eh?" The physician was clearly startled. "How did you know that?""Call it a guess, sir. I am right, am I not, when I say that you were there in your - professional capacity."Sir Alington strode up and down."You are quite right, Dermot. I could not, of course, have told you so myself, though I am afraid it will soon be common property."Dermot's heart contracted."You mean that you have - made up your mind?""Yes, there is insanity in the family - on the mother's side. A sad case - a very sad case.""I can't believe it, sir.""I dare say not. To the layman there are few if any signs apparent.""And to the expert?""The evidence is conclusive. In such a case the patient must be placed under restraint as soon as possible.""My God!" breathed Dermot. "But you can't shut anyone up for nothing at all.""My dear Dermot! Cases are only placed under restraint when their being at large would result in danger to the community.""Danger?""Very grave danger. In all probability a peculiar form of homicidal mania. It was so in the mother's case."Dermot turned away with a groan, burying his face in his hands. Claire - white and golden Claire!"In the circumstances," continued the physician comfortably, "I felt it incumbent on me to warn you.""Claire," murmured Dermot. "My poor Claire.""Yes, indeed, we must all pity her."Suddenly Dermot raised his head."I say I don't believe it. Doctors make mistakes. Everyone knows that. And they're always keen on their own specialty.""My dear Dermot," cried Sir Alington angrily."I tell you I don't believe it - and anyway, even if it is so, I don't care. I love Claire. If she will come with me, I shall take her away - far away - out of the reach of meddling physicians. I shall guard her, care for her, shelter her with my love.""You will do nothing of the sort. Are you mad?"Dermot laughed scornfully."You would say so.""Understand me, Dermot." Sir Alington's face was red with suppressed passion. "If you do this thing - this shameful thing - I shall withdraw the allowance I am now making you, and I shall make a new will leaving all I possess to various hospitals.""Do as you please with your damned money," said Dermot in a low voice. "I shall have the woman I love.""A woman who -""Say a word against her and, by God, I'll kill you!" cried Dermot.A slight chink of glasses made them both swing round. Unheard by them in the heat of their argument, Johnson had entered with a tray of glasses. His face was the imperturbable one of the good servant, but Dermot wondered just exactly how much he had overheard."That'll do, Johnson," said Sir Alington curtly. "You can go to bed.""Thank you, sir. Good night, sir."Johnson withdrew.The two men looked at each other. The momentary interruption had calmed the storm."Uncle," said Dermot. "I shouldn't have spoken to you as I did. I can quite see that from your point of view you are perfectly right. But I have loved Claire Trent for a long time. The fact that Jack Trent is my best friend has hitherto stood in the way of my ever speaking of love to Claire herself. But in these circumstances that fact no longer counts. The idea that any monetary condition's can deter me is absurd. I think we've both said all there is to be said. Good night.""Dermot -""It is really no good arguing further. Good night, Uncle Alington."He went out quickly, shutting the door behind him. The hall was in darkness. He passed through it, opened the front door and emerged into the street, banging the door behind him.A taxi had just deposited a fare at a house farther along the street and Dermot hailed it, and drove to the Grafton Galleries.In the door of the ballroom he stood for a minute, bewildered, his head spinning. The raucous jazz music, the smiling women - it was as though he had stepped into another world.Had he dreamed it all? Impossible that that grim conversation with his uncle should have really taken place. There was Claire floating past, like a lily in her white and silver gown that fitted sheathlike to her slenderness. She smiled at him, her face calm and serene. Surely it was all a dream.The dance had stopped. Presently she was near him, smiling up into his face. As in a dream he asked her to dance. She was in his arms now, the raucous melodies had begun again.He felt her flag a little."Tired? Do you want to stop?""If you don't mind. Can we go somewhere where we can talk? There is something I want to say to you."Not a dream. He came back to earth with a bump. Could he ever have thought her face calm and serene? It was haunted with anxiety, with dread. How much did she know?He found a quiet corner, and they sat down side by side."Well," he said, assuming a lightness he did not feel, "you said you had something you wanted to say to me?""Yes." Her eyes were cast down. She was playing nervously with the tassel of her gown. "It's difficult -""Tell me, Claire.""It's just this, I want you to - to go away for a time."He was astonished. Whatever he had expected, it was not this."You want me to go away? Why?""It's best to be honest, isn't it? I know that you are a - a gentleman and my friend. I want you to go away because I - I have let myself get fond of you.""Claire."Her words left him dumb - tongue-tied."Please do not think that I am conceited enough to fancy that you - would ever be likely to fall in love with me. It is only that - I am not very happy - and - oh! I would rather you went away.""Claire, don't you know that I have cared - cared damnably - ever since I met you?"She lifted startled eyes to his face."You cared? You have cared a long time?""Since the beginning.""Oh!" she cried. "Why didn't you tell me? Then? When I could have come to you! Why tell me now when it's too late. No, I'm mad - I don't know what I'm saying. I could never have come to you.""Claire, what did you mean when you said 'now that it's too late'? Is it - is it because of my uncle? What he knows?"She nodded, the tears running down her face."Listen, Claire, you're not to believe all that. You're not to think about it. Instead, you will come away with me. I will look after you - keep you safe always."His arms went round her. He drew her to him, felt her tremble at his touch. Then suddenly she wrenched herself free."Oh, no, please. Can't you see? I couldn't now. It would be ugly - ugly - ugly. All along I've wanted to be good - and now - it would be ugly as well."He hesitated, baffled by her words. She looked at him appealingly."Please," she said. "I want to be good..."Without a word, Dermot got up and left her. For the moment he was touched and racked by her words beyond argument He went for his hat and coat, running into Trent as he did so."Hallo, Dermot, you're off early.""Yes, I'm not in the mood for dancing tonight""It's a rotten night," said Trent gloomily. "But you haven't got my worries."Dermot had a sudden panic that Trent might be going to confide in him. Not that - anything but that!"Well, so long," he said hurriedly. "I'm off home.""Home, eh? What about the warning of the spirits?""I'll risk that. Good night, Jack."Dermot's flat was not far away. He walked there, feeling the need of the cool night air to calm his fevered brain. He let himself in with his key and switched on the light in the bedroom.And all at once, for the second time that night, the feeling of the Red Signal surged over him. So overpowering was it that for the moment it swept even Claire from his mind.Danger! He was in danger. At this very moment, in this very room!He tried in vain to ridicule himself free of the fear. Perhaps his efforts were secretly halfhearted. So far, the Red Signal had given him timely warning which had enabled him to avoid disaster. Smiling a little at his own superstition, he made a careful tour of the flat. It was possible that some malefactor had got in and was lying concealed there. But his search revealed nothing. His man, Milson, was away, and the flat was absolutely empty.He returned to his bedroom and undressed slowly, frowning to himself. The sense of danger was acute as ever. He went to a drawer to get out a handkerchief, and suddenly stood stock still. There was an unfamiliar lump in the middle of the drawer.His quick nervous fingers tore aside the handkerchiefs and took out the object concealed beneath them.It was a revolver.With the utmost astonishment Dermot examined it keenly. It was of a somewhat unfamiliar pattern, and one shot had been fired from it lately. Beyond that he could make nothing of it Someone had placed it in that drawer that very evening. It had not been there when he dressed for dinner - he was sure of that.He was about to replace it in the drawer, when he was startled by a bell ringing. It rang again and again, sounding unusually loud in the quietness of the empty flat.Who could be coming to the front door at this hour? And only one answer came to the question - an answer instinctive and persistent.Danger - danger - danger.Led by some instinct for which he did not account, Dermot switched off his light, slipped on an overcoat that lay across a chair, and opened the hall door.Two men stood outside. Beyond them Dermot caught sight of a blue uniform. A policeman!"Mr West?" asked one of the two men.It seemed to Dermot that ages elapsed before he answered. In reality it was only a few seconds before he replied in a very fair imitation of his servant's expressionless voice:"Mr West hasn't come in yet.""Hasn't come in yet, eh? Very well, then, I think we'd better come in and wait for him.""No, you don't.""See here, my man, I'm inspector Verall of Scotland Yard, and I've got a warrant for the arrest of your master. You can see it if you like."Dermot perused the proffered paper, or pretended to do so, asking in a dazed voice:"What for? What's he done?""Murder. Sir Alington West of Harley Street"His brain in a whirl, Dermot fell back before his redoubtable visitors. He went into the sitting-room and switched on the light. The inspector followed him."Have a search round," he directed the other man. Then he turned to Dermot."You stay here, my man. No slipping off to warn your master. What's your name, by the way?""Milson, sir.""What time do you expect your master in, Milson?""I don't know, sir, he was going to a dance, I believe. At the Grafton Galleries.""He left there just under an hour ago. Sure he's not been back here?""I don't think so, sir. I fancy I should have heard him come in."At this moment the second man came in from the adjoining room. In his hand he carried the revolver. He took it across to the inspector in some excitement. An expression of satisfaction flitted across the latter's face."That settles it," he remarked. "Must have slipped in and out without your hearing him. He's hooked it by now. I'd better be off. Cawley, you stay here, in case he should come back again, and you can keep an eye on this fellow. He may know more about his master than he pretends."The inspector bustled off. Dermot endeavored to get the details of the affair from Cawley, who was quite ready to be talkative."Pretty clear case," he vouchsafed. "The murder was discovered almost immediately. Johnson, the manservant, had only just gone up to bed when he fancied he heard a shot, and came down again. Found Sir Alington dead, shot through the heart. He rang us up at once and we came along and heard his story.""Which made it a pretty clear case?" ventured Dermot."Absolutely. This young West came in with his uncle and they were quarrelling when Johnson brought in the drinks. The old boy was threatening to make a new will, and your master was talking about shooting him. Not five minutes later the shot was heard. Oh, yes, clear enough."Clear enough indeed. Dermot's heart sank as he realized the overwhelming evidence against him. And no way out save flight. He set his wits to work. Presently he suggested making a cup of tea. Cawley assented readily enough. He had already searched the flat and knew there was no back entrance.Dermot was permitted to depart to the kitchen. Once there he put the kettle on, and chinked cups and saucers industriously. Then he stole swiftly to the window and lifted the sash. The flat was on the second floor, and outside the window was the small wire lift used by tradesmen which ran up and down on its steel cable.Like a flash Dermot was outside the window and swinging himself down the wire rope. It cut into his hands, making them bleed, but he went on desperately.A few minutes later he was emerging cautiously from the back of the block. Turning the corner, he cannoned into a figure standing by the sidewalk. To his utter amazement he recognized Jack Trent. Trent was fully alive to the perils of the situation."My God! Dermot! Quick, don't hang about here."Taking him by the arm, he led him down a by street, then down another. A lonely taxi was sighted and hailed and they jumped in, Trent giving the man his own address."Safest place for the moment. There we can decide what to do next to put those fools off the track. I came round here, hoping to be able to warn you before the police got here.""I didn't even know that you had heard of it. Jack, you don't believe -""Of course not, old fellow, not for one minute. I know you far too well. All the same, it's a nasty business for you. They came round asking questions - what time you got to the Grafton Galleries, when you left, and so on. Dermot, who could have done the old boy in?""I can't imagine. Whoever did it put the revolver in my drawer, I suppose. Must have been watching us pretty closely.""That séance business was damned funny. 'Don't go home.' Meant for poor old West. He did go home, and got shot.""It applies to me, too," said Dermot. "I went home and found a planted revolver and a police inspector.""Well, I hope it doesn't get me, too," said Trent "Here we are."He paid the taxi, opened the door with his latchkey, and guided Dermot up the dark stairs to his den, a small room on the first floor.He threw open the door and Dermot walked in, while Trent switched on the light, and came to join him."Pretty safe here for the time being," he remarked. "Now we can get our heads together and decide what is best to be done.""I've made a fool of myself," said Dermot suddenly. "I ought to have faced it out. I see more clearly now. The whole thing's a plot. What the devil are you laughing at?"For Trent was leaning back in his chair, shaking with unrestrained mirth. There was something horrible in the sound - something horrible, too, about the man altogether.There was a curious light in his eyes."A damned clever plot," he gasped out. "Dermot, you're done for."He drew the telephone towards him."What are you going to do?" asked Dermot."Ring up Scotland Yard. Tell 'em their bird's here - safe under lock and key. Yes, I locked the door when I came in and the key's in my pocket. No good looking at that other door behind me. That leads into Claire's room, and she always locks it on her side. She's afraid of me, you know. Been afraid of me a long time. She always knows when I'm thinking about that knife - a long sharp knife. No, you don't -"Dermot had been about to make a rush at him. but the other had suddenly produced a revolver."That's the second of them," chuckled Trent. "I put the first in your drawer - after shooting old West with it - What are you looking at over my head? That door? It's no use, even if Claire were to open it - and she might to you - I'd shoot you before you got there. Not in the heart - not to kill, just wing you, so that you couldn't get away. I'm a jolly good shot, you know. I saved your life once. More fool I. No, no, I want you hanged - yes, hanged. It isn't you I want the knife for. It's Claire - pretty Claire, so white and soft. Old West knew. That's what he was here for tonight, to see if I were mad or not. He wanted to shut me up - so that I shouldn't get at Claire with a knife. I was very cunning. I took his latchkey and yours, too. I slipped away from the dance as soon as I got there. I saw you come out of his house, and I went in. I shot him and came away at once. Then I went to your place and left the revolver. I was at the Grafton Galleries again almost as soon as you were, and I put the latchkey back in your coat pocket when I was saying good night to you. I don't mind telling you all this. There's no one else to hear, and when you're being hanged I'd like you to know I did it... There's not a loophole of escape. It makes me laugh... God, how it makes me laugh! What are you thinking of? What the devil are you looking at?""I'm thinking of some words you quoted just now. You'd have done better, Trent, not to come home.""What do you mean?""Look behind you!"Trent spun round. In the doorway of the communicating room stood Claire - and Inspector Verall...Trent was quick. The revolver spoke just once - and found its mark. He fell forward across the table. The inspector sprang to his side, as Dermot stared at Claire in a dream. Thoughts flashed through his brain disjointedly. His uncle - their quarrel - the colossal misunderstanding - the divorce laws of England which would never free Claire from an insane husband - "we must all pity her" - the plot between her and Sir Alington which the cunning of Trent had seen through - her cry to him, "Ugly - ugly - ugly!" Yes, but now -The inspector straightened up."Dead," he said vexedly."Yes," Dermot heard himself saying, "he was always a good shot..." THE FOURTH MANCanon Parfitt panted a little. Running for trains was not much of a business for a man of his age. For one thing his figure was not what it was and with the loss of his slender silhouette went an increasing tendency to be short of breath. This tendency the Canon himself always referred to, with dignity, as "My heart, you know!"He sank into the corner of the first-class carriage with a sigh of relief. The warmth of the heated carriage was most agreeable to him. Outside the snow was falling. Lucky to get a corner seat on a long night journey. Miserable business if you didn't. There ought to be a sleeper on this train.The other three corners were already occupied, and noting this fact Canon Parfitt became aware that the man in the far corner was smiling at him in gentle recognition. He was a clean-shaven man with a quizzical face and hair just turning gray on the temples. His profession was so clearly the law that no one could have mistaken him for anything else for a moment. Sir George Durand was, indeed, a very famous lawyer."Well, Parfitt," he remarked genially, "you had a run for it, didn't you?""Very bad for my heart, I'm afraid," said the Canon. "Quite a coincidence meeting you, Sir George. Are you going far north?""Newcastle," said Sir George laconically. "By the way," he added, "do you know Dr Campbell Clark?"The man sitting on the same side of the carriage as the Canon inclined his head pleasantly."We met on the platform," continued the lawyer. "Another coincidence."Canon Parfitt looked at Dr Campbell Clark with a good deal of interest. It was a name of which he had often heard. Dr Clark was in the forefront as a physician and mental specialist, and his last book, The Problem of the Unconscious Mind, had been the most discussed book of the year.Canon Parfitt saw a square jaw, very steady blue eyes, and reddish hair untouched by gray, but thinning rapidly. And he received also the impression of a very forceful personality.By a perfectly natural association of ideas the Canon looked across to the seat opposite him, half-expecting to receive a glance of recognition there also, but the fourth occupant of the carriage proved to be a total stranger - a foreigner, the Canon fancied. He was a slight dark man, rather insignificant in appearance. Hunched in a big overcoat, he appeared to be fast asleep."Canon Parfitt of Bradchester?" inquired Dr Campbell Clark in a pleasant voice.The Canon looked flattered. Those "scientific sermons" of his had really made a great hit - especially since the press had taken them up. Well, that was what the Church needed - good modern up-to-date stuff."I have read your book with great interest, Dr Campbell Clark," he said. "Though it's a bit too technical here and there for me to follow."Durand broke in."Are you for talking or sleeping, Canon?" he asked. "I'll confess at once that I suffer from insomnia and that therefore I'm in favor of the former.""Oh, certainly! By all means," said the Canon. "I seldom sleep on these night journeys and the book I have with me is a very dull one.""We are at any rate a representative gathering," remarked the doctor with a smile. "The Church, the law, the medical profession.""Not much we couldn't give an opinion on between us, eh?" laughed Durand. "The Church for the spiritual view, myself for the purely worldly and legal view, and you, doctor, with the widest field of all, ranging from the purely pathological to the - super-psychological! Among the three of us we should cover any ground pretty completely, I fancy.""Not so completely as you imagine, I think," said Dr Clark. "There's another point of view, you know, that you left out, and that's rather an important one.""Meaning?" queried the lawyer."The point of view of the man in the street.""Is that so important? Isn't the man in the street usually wrong?""Oh, almost always! But he has the thing that all expert opinion must lack - the personal point of view. In the end, you know, you can't get away from personal relationships. I've found that in my profession. For every patient who comes to me genuinely ill, at least five come who have nothing whatever the matter with them except an inability to live happily with the inmates of the same house. They call it everything - from housemaid's knee to writer's cramp, but it's all the same thing, the raw surface produced by mind rubbing against mind.""You have a lot of patients with 'nerves,' I suppose," the Canon remarked disparagingly. His own nerves were excellent."Ah, and what do you mean by that?" The other swung round on him, quick as a flash. "Nerves! people use that word and laugh after it, just as you did. 'Nothing the matter with so and so,' they say. 'Just nerves.' But, good God, man, you've got the crux of everything there! You can get at a mere bodily ailment and heal it. But at this day we know very little more about the obscure causes of the hundred and one forms of nervous disease than we did in - well, the reign of Queen Elizabeth!""Dear me," said Canon Parfitt, a little bewildered by this onslaught. "Is that so?""Mind you, it's a sign of grace," Dr Campbell Clark went on. "In the old days we considered man a simple animal, body and soul - with stress laid on the former.""Body, soul and spirit," corrected the clergyman mildly."Spirit?" The doctor smiled oddly. "What do you parsons mean exactly by spirit? You've never been very clear about it, you know. All down the ages you've funked an exact definition."The Canon cleared his throat in preparation for speech, but to his chagrin he was given no opportunity. The doctor went on."Are we even sure the word is spirit - might it not be spirits?""Spirits?" Sir George Durand questioned, his eyebrows raised quizzically."Yes." Campbell Clark's gaze transferred itself to him. He leaned forward and tapped the other man lightly on the breast. "Are you so sure," he said gravely, "that there is only one occupant of this structure - for that is all it is, you know - this desirable residence to be let furnished - for seven, twenty-one, forty-one, seventy-one - whatever it may be! - years? And in the end the tenant moves his things out - little by little - and then goes out of the house altogether - and down comes the house, a mass of ruin and decay. You're the master of the house, we'll admit that, but aren't you ever conscious of the presence of others - soft-footed servants, hardly noticed, except for the work they do - work that you're not conscious of having done? Or friends - moods that take hold of you and make you, for the time being, a 'different man,' as the saying goes? You're the king of the castle, right enough, but be very sure the 'dirty rascal' is there too.""My dear Clark," drawled the lawyer, "you make me positively uncomfortable. Is my mind really a battleground of conflicting personalities? Is that Science's latest?"It was the doctor's turn to shrug his shoulders."Your body is," he said drily. "If the body, why not the mind?""Very interesting," said Canon Parfitt. "Ah! Wonderful science - wonderful science."And inwardly he thought to himself: "I can get a most arresting sermon out of the idea."But Dr Campbell Clark had leaned back again in his seat, his momentary excitement spent."As a matter of fact," he remarked in a dry, professional manner, "it is a case of dual personality that takes me to Newcastle tonight. Very interesting case. Neurotic subject, of course. But quite genuine.""Dual personality," said Sir George Durand thoughtfully. "It's not so very rare, I believe. There's loss of memory as well, isn't there? I know the matter cropped up in a case in the Probate Court the other day."Dr Clark nodded."The classic case, of course," he said, "was that of Felicie Bault. You may remember hearing of it?""Of course," said Canon Parfitt. "I remember reading about it in the papers - but quite a long time ago - seven years at least."Dr Campbell Clark nodded."That girl became one of the most famous figures in France. Scientists from all over the world came to see her. She had no less than four distinct personalities. They were known as Felicie 1, Felicie 2, Felicie 3, etc.""Wasn't there some suggestion of deliberate trickery?" asked Sir George alertly."The personalities of Felicie 3 and Felicie 4 were a little open to doubt," admitted the doctor. "But the main facts remain. Felicie Bault was a Brittany peasant girl. She was the third of a family of five, the daughter of a drunken father and a mentally defective mother. In one of his drinking bouts the father strangled the mother and was, if I remember rightly, transported for life. Felicie was then five years of age. Some charitable people interested themselves in the children and Felicie was brought up and educated by an English maiden lady who had a kind of home for destitute children. She could make very little of Felicie, however. She describes the girl as abnormally slow and stupid, taught to read and write only with the greatest difficulty, and clumsy with her hands. This lady, Miss Slater, tried to fit the girl for domestic service, and did indeed find her several places when she was of an age to take them. But she never stayed long anywhere owing to her stupidity and also her intense laziness."The doctor paused for a minute, and the Canon, recrossing his legs and arranging his traveling rug more closely round him, was suddenly aware that the man opposite him had moved very slightly. His eyes, which had formerly been shut, were now open, and something in them, something mocking and indefinable, startled the worthy Canon. It was as though the man were listening and gloating secretly over what he heard."There is a photograph taken of Felicie Bault at the age of seventeen," continued the doctor. "It shows her as a loutish peasant girl, heavy of build. There is nothing in that picture to indicate that she was soon to be one of the most famous persons in France."Five years later, when she was 22, Felicie Bault had a severe nervous illness, and on recovery the strange phenomena began to manifest themselves. The following are facts attested to by many eminent scientists. The personality called Felicie 1 was indistinguishable from the Felicie Bault of the last twenty-two years. Felicie 1 wrote French badly and haltingly, spoke no foreign languages, and was unable to play the piano. Felicie 2, on the contrary, spoke Italian fluently and German moderately. Her handwriting was quite different from that of Felicie 1, and she wrote fluent and expressive French. She could discuss politics and art and she was passionately fond of playing the piano. Felicie 3 had many points in common with Felicie 2. She was intelligent and apparently well educated, but in moral character she was a total contrast. She appeared, in fact, an utterly depraved creature - but depraved in a Parisian and not a provincial way. She knew all the Paris argot, and the expressions of the chic demi monde. Her language was filthy and she would rail against religion and so-called 'good people' in the most blasphemous terms. Finally there was Felicie 4 - a dreamy, almost half-witted creature, distinctly pious and professedly clairvoyant, but this fourth personality was very unsatisfactory and elusive, and has been sometimes thought to be a deliberate trickery on the part of Felicie 3 - a kind of joke played by her on a credulous public. I may say that (with the possible exception of Felicie 4) each personality was distinct and separate and had no knowledge of the others. Felicie 2 was undoubtedly the most predominant and would last sometimes for a fortnight at a time, then Felicie 1 would appear abruptly for a day or two. After that, perhaps, Felicie 3 or 4, but the two latter seldom remained in command for more than a few hours. Each change was accompanied by severe headache and heavy sleep, and in each case there was complete loss of memory of the other states, the personality in question taking up life where she had left it, unconscious of the passage of time.""Remarkable," murmured the Canon. "Very remarkable. As yet we know next to nothing of the marvels of the universe.""We know that there are some very astute impostors in it," remarked the lawyer dryly."The case of Felicie Bault was investigated by lawyers as well as by doctors and scientists," said Dr Campbell Clark quickly. "Maître Quimbellier, you remember, made the most thorough investigation and confirmed the views of the scientists. And after all, why should it surprise us so much? We come across the double-yolked egg, do we not? And the twin banana? Why not the double soul - or in this case the quadruple soul - in the single body?""The double soul?" protested the Canon.Dr Campbell Clark turned his piercing blue eyes on him."What else can we call it? That is to say - if the personality is the soul?""It is a good thing such a state of affairs is only in the nature of a 'freak,'" remarked Sir George. "If the case were common, it would give rise to pretty complications.""The condition is, of course, quite abnormal," agreed the doctor. "It was a great pity that a longer study could not have been made, but all that was put an end to by Felicie's unexpected death.""There was something queer about that, if I remember rightly," said the lawyer slowly.Dr Campbell Clark nodded."A most unaccountable business. The girl was found one morning dead in bed. She had clearly been strangled. But to everyone's stupefaction it was presently proved beyond doubt that she had actually strangled herself. The marks on her neck were those of her own fingers. A method of suicide which, though not physically impossible, must have necessitated terrific muscular strength and almost superhuman will power. What had driven the girl to such straits has never been found out. Of course her mental balance must always have been precarious. Still, there it is. The curtain has been rung down forever on the mystery of Felicie Bault."It was then that the man in the far corner laughed.The other three men jumped as though shot. They had totally forgotten the existence of the fourth among them. As they stared towards the place where he sat, still hunched in his overcoat, he laughed again."You must excuse me, gentlemen," he said, in perfect English that had, nevertheless, a foreign flavor.He sat up, displaying a pale face with a small jet-black mustache."Yes, you must excuse me," he said, with a mock bow. "But really! in science, is the last word ever said?""You know something of the case we have been discussing?" asked the doctor courteously."Of the case? No. But I knew her.""Felicie Bault?""Yes. And Annette Ravel also. You have not heard of Annette Ravel, I see? And yet the story of the one is the story of the other. Believe me, you know nothing of Felicie Bault if you do not also know the history of Annette Ravel."He drew out a watch and looked at it."Just half an hour before the next stop. I have time to tell you the story - that is, if you care to hear it?""Please tell it to us," said the doctor quietly."Delighted," said the Canon. "Delighted."Sir George Durand merely composed himself in an attitude of keen attention."My name, gentlemen," began their strange traveling companion, "is Raoul Letardeau. You have spoken just now of an English lady, Miss Slater, who interested herself in works of charity. I was born in that Brittany fishing village and when my parents were both killed in a railway accident it was Miss Slater who came to the rescue and saved me from the equivalent of your English workhouse. There were some twenty children under her care, girls and boys. Among these children were Felicie Bault and Annette Ravel. If I cannot make you understand the personality of Annette, gentlemen, you will understand nothing. She was the child of what you call a fille de joie who had died of consumption abandoned by her lover. The mother had been a dancer, and Annette, too, had the desire to dance. When I saw her first she was eleven years old, a little shrimp of a thing with eyes that alternately mocked and promised - a little creature all fire and life. And at once - yes, at once - she made me her slave. It was 'Raoul, do this for me.' 'Raoul, do that for me.' And me, I obeyed. Already I worshipped her, and she knew it."We would go down to the shore together, we three - for Felicie would come with us. And there Annette would pull off her shoes and stockings and dance on the sand. And then when she sank down breathless, she would tell us of what she meant to do and be."'See you, I shall be famous. Yes, exceedingly famous. I will have hundreds and thousands of silk stockings - the finest silk. And I shall live in an exquisite apartment. All my lovers shall be young and handsome as well as being rich. And when I dance all Paris shall come to see me. They will yell and call and shout and go mad over my dancing. And in the winters I shall not dance, I shall go south to the sunlight. There are villas there with orange trees. I shall have one of them. I shall lie in the sun on silk cushions, eating oranges. As for you, Raoul, I will never forget you, however great and rich and famous I shall be. I will protect you and advance your career. Felicie here shall be my maid - no, her hands are too clumsy. Look at them, how large and coarse they are.'"Felicie would grow angry at that. And then Annette would go on teasing her."'She is so ladylike, Felicie - so elegant, so refined. She is a princess in disguise - ha, ha.'"'My father and mother were married, which is more than yours were,' Felicie would growl out spitefully."'Yes, and your father killed your mother. A pretty thing, to be a murderer's daughter.'"'Your father left your mother to rot,' Felicie would rejoin."'Ah! yes.' Annette became thoughtful. 'Pauvre Maman. One must keep strong and well. It is everything to keep strong and well.'"'I am as strong as a horse,' Felicie boasted."And indeed she was. She had twice the strength of any other girl in the Home. And she was never ill."But she was stupid, you comprehend, stupid like a brute beast. I often wondered why she followed Annette round as she did. It was, with her, a kind of fascination. Sometimes, I think, she actually hated Annette, and indeed Annette was not kind to her. She jeered at her slowness and stupidity, and baited her in front of the others. I have seen Felicie grow quite white with rage. Sometimes I have thought that she would fasten her fingers round Annette's neck and choke the life out of her. She was not nimble-witted enough to reply to Annette's taunts, but she did learn in time to make one retort which never failed. That was the reference to her own health and strength. She had learned (what I had always known) that Annette envied her her strong physique, and she struck instinctively at the weak spot in her enemy's armor."One day Annette came to me in great glee."'Raoul,' she said, 'we shall have fun today with that stupid Felicie.'"'What are you going to do?'"'Come behind the little shed and I will tell you.'"It seemed that Annette had got hold of some book. Part of it she did not understand, and indeed the whole thing was much over her head. It was an early work on hypnotism."'A bright object, they say. The brass knob of my bed, it twirls round. I made Felicie look at it last night. "Look at it steadily," I said. "Do not take your eyes off it." And then I twirled it. Raoul, I was frightened. Her eyes looked so queer - so queer. "Felicie, you will do what I say always," I said. "I will do what you say always, Annette," she answered. And then - and then - I said: "Tomorrow you will bring a tallow candle out into the playground at twelve o'clock and start to eat it. And if anyone asks you, you will say that it is the best galette you ever tasted." Oh! Raoul, think of it!'"'But she'll never do such a thing,' I objected."'The book says so. Not that I can quite believe it - but, oh! Raoul, if the book is all true, how we shall amuse ourselves!'"I, too, thought the idea very funny. We passed word round to the comrades and at twelve o'clock we were all in the playground. Punctual to the minute, out came Felicie with a stump of candle in her hand. Will you believe me, Messieurs, she began solemnly to nibble at it. We were all in hysterics! Every now and then one or another of the children would go up to her and say solemnly: 'It is good, what you eat there, eh, Felicie?' And she would answer. 'But, yes, it is the best galette I ever tasted.' And then we would shriek with laughter. We laughed at last so loud that the noise seemed to wake up Felicie to a realization of what she was doing. She blinked her eyes in a puzzled way, looked at the candle, then at us. She passed her hand over her forehead."'But what is it that I do here?' she muttered."'You are eating a candle,' we screamed."'I made you do it. I made you do it,' cried Annette, dancing about."Felicie stared for a moment. Then she went slowly up to Annette."'So it is you - it is you who have made me ridiculous? I seem to remember. Ah! I will kill you for this.'"She spoke in a very quiet tone, but Annette rushed suddenly away and hid behind me."'Save me, Raoul! I am afraid of Felicie. It was only a joke, Felicie. Only a joke.'"'I do not like these jokes,' said Felicie. 'You understand? I hate you. I hate you all.'"She suddenly burst out crying and rushed away."Annette was, I think, scared by the result of her experiment, and did not try to repeat it. But from that day on her ascendancy over Felicie seemed to grow stronger."Felicie, I now believe, always hated her, but nevertheless she could not keep away from her. She used to follow Annette around like a dog."Soon after that, Messieurs, employment was found for me, and I only came to the Home for occasional holidays. Annette's desire to become a dancer was not taken seriously, but she developed a very pretty singing voice as she grew older and Miss Slater consented to her being trained as a singer."She was not lazy, Annette. She worked feverishly, without rest. Miss Slater was obliged to prevent her doing too much. She spoke to me once about her."'You have always been fond of Annette,' she said. 'Persuade her not to work too hard. She has a little cough lately that I do not like.'"My work took me far afield soon afterwards. I received one or two letters from Annette at first, but then came silence. For five years after that I was abroad."Quite by chance, when I returned to Paris, my attention was caught by a poster advertising Annette Ravelli with a picture of the lady. I recognized her at once. That night I went to the theatre in question. Annette sang in French and Italian. On the stage she was wonderful. Afterwards I went to her dressing room. She received me at once."'Why, Raoul,' she cried, stretching out her whitened hands to me. 'This is splendid! Where have you been all these years?'"I would have told her, but she did not really want to listen."'You see, I have very nearly arrived!'"She waved a triumphant hand round the room filled with bouquets."'The good Miss Slater must be proud of your success.'"'That old one? No, indeed. She designed me, you know, for the Conservatoire. Decorous concert singing. But me, I am an artist. It is here, on the variety stage, that I can express myself.'"Just then a handsome middle-aged man came in. He was very distinguished. By his manner I soon saw that he was Annette's protector. He looked sideways at me, and Annette explained."'A friend of my infancy. He passes through Paris, sees my picture on a poster, et voilà!'"The man was then very affable and courteous. In my presence he produced a ruby and diamond bracelet and clasped it on Annette's wrist. As I rose to go, she threw me a glance of triumph and a whisper."'I arrive, do I not? You see? All the world is before me.'"But as I left the room, I heard her cough, a sharp dry cough. I knew what it meant, that cough. It was the legacy of her consumptive mother."I saw her next two years later. She had gone for refuge to Miss Slater. Her career had broken down. She was in a state of advanced consumption for which the doctors said nothing could be done."Ah! I shall never forget her as I saw her then! She was lying in a kind of shelter in the garden. She was kept outdoors night and day. Her cheeks were hollow and flushed, her eyes bright and feverish."She greeted me with a kind of desperation that startled me."'It is good to see you, Raoul. You know what they say - that I may not get well? They say it behind my back, you understand. To me they are soothing and consolatory. But it is not true, Raoul, it is not true! I shall not permit myself to die. Die? With beautiful life stretching in front of me? It is the will to live that matters. All the great doctors say that nowadays. I am not one of the feeble ones who let go. Already I feel myself infinitely better - infinitely better, do you hear?'"She raised herself on her elbow to drive her words home, then fell back, attacked by a fit of coughing that racked her thin body."'The cough - it is nothing,' she gasped. 'And hemorrhages do not frighten me. I shall surprise the doctors. It is the will that counts. Remember, Raoul, I am going to live.'"It was pitiful, you understand, pitiful."Just then, Felicie Bault came out with a tray. A glass of hot milk. She gave it to Annette and watched her drink it with an expression that I could not fathom. There was a kind of smug satisfaction in it."Annette, too, caught the look. She flung the glass down angrily, so that it smashed to bits."'You see her? That is how she always looks at me. She is glad I am going to die! Yes, she gloats over it. She who is well and strong. Look at her - never a day's illness, that one! And all for nothing. What good is that great carcass of hers to her? What can she make of it?'"Felicie stooped and picked up the broken fragments of glass."'I do not mind what she says,' she observed in a singsong voice. 'What does it matter? I am a respectable girl, I am. As for her. She will be knowing the fires of Purgatory before very long. I am a Christian. I say nothing.'"'You hate me!' cried Annette. 'You have always hated me. Ah! but I can charm you, all the same. I can make you do what I want. See now, if I asked you to, you would go down on your knees before me now on the grass.'"'You are absurd,' said Felicie uneasily."'But, yes, you will do it. You will. To please me. Down on your knees. I ask it of you, I, Annette. Down on your knees, Felicie.'"Whether it was the wonderful pleading in the voice, or some deeper motive, Felicie obeyed. She sank slowly on to her knees, her arms spread wide, her face vacant and stupid."Annette flung back her head and laughed - peal upon peal of laughter."'Look at her, with her stupid face! How ridiculous she looks. You can get up now, Felicie, thank you! It is of no use to scowl at me. I am your mistress. You have to do what I say.'"She lay back on her pillows exhausted. Felicie picked up the tray and moved slowly away. Once she looked back over her shoulder, and the smoldering resentment in her eyes startled me."I was not there when Annette died. But it was terrible, it seems. She clung to life. She fought against death like a madwoman. Again and again she gasped out: 'I will not die - do you hear me? I will not die. I will live - live -'"Miss Slater told me all this when I came to see her six months later."'My poor Raoul,' she said kindly. 'You loved her, did you not?'""'Always - always. But of what use could I be to her? Let us not talk of it. She is dead - she so brilliant, so full of burning life...'"Miss Slater was a sympathetic woman. She went on to talk of other things. She was very worried about Felicie, so she told me. The girl had had a queer sort of nervous breakdown and ever since she had been very strange in manner."'You know,' said Miss Slater, after a momentary hesitation, 'that she is learning the piano?'"I did not know it and was very much surprised to hear it. Felicie - learning the piano! I would have declared the girl would not know one note from another."'She has talent, they say,' continued Miss Slater. 'I can't understand it. I have always put her down as - well, Raoul, you know yourself, she was always a stupid girl.'"I nodded."'She is so strange in her manner I don't know what to make of it.'"A few minutes later I entered the Salle de Lecture. Felicie was playing the piano. She was playing the air that I had heard Annette sing in Paris. You understand, Messieurs, it gave me quite a turn. And then, hearing me, she broke off suddenly and looked round at me, her eyes full of mockery and intelligence. For a moment I thought - Well, I will not tell you what I thought."'Tiens!' she said. 'So it is you - Monsieur Raoul.'"I cannot describe the way she said it. To Annette I had never ceased to be Raoul. But Felicie, since we had met as grown-ups, always addressed me as Monsieur Raoul. But the way she said it now was different - as though the Monsieur, slightly stressed, was somehow amusing."'Why, Felicie,' I stammered, 'you look quite different today.'"'Do I?' she said reflectively. 'It is odd, that. But do not be so solemn, Raoul - decidedly I shall call you Raoul - did we not play together as children? - Life was made for laughter. Let us talk of the poor Annette - she who is dead and buried. Is she in Purgatory, I wonder, or where?'"And she hummed a snatch of song - untunefully enough, but the words caught my attention."'Felicie!' I cried. 'You speak Italian?'"'Why not, Raoul? I am not as stupid as I pretend to be, perhaps.' She laughed at my mystification."'I don't understand -' I began."'But I will tell you. I am a very fine actress, though no one suspects it. I can play many parts - and play them very well.'"She laughed again and ran quickly out of the room before I could stop her."I saw her again before I left. She was asleep in an armchair. She was snoring heavily. I stood and watched her, fascinated, yet repelled. Suddenly she woke with a start. Her eyes, dull and lifeless, met mine."'Monsieur Raoul,' she muttered mechanically."'Yes, Felicie. I am going now. Will you play for me again before I go?'"'I? Play? You are laughing at me, Monsieur Raoul.'"'Don't you remember playing for me this morning?'"She shook her head."'I play? How can a poor girl like me play?'"She paused for a minute as though in thought, then beckoned me nearer."'Monsieur Raoul, there are things going on in this house! They play tricks upon you. They alter the clocks. Yes, yes, I know what I am saying. And it is all her doing.'"'Whose doing?' I asked, startled."'That Annette's. That wicked one's. When she was alive she always tormented me. Now that she is dead, she comes back from the dead to torment me.'"I stared at Felicie. I could see now that she was in an extremity of terror, her eyes starting from her head."'She is bad, that one. She is bad, I tell you. She would take the bread from your mouth, the clothes from your back, the soul from your body...'"She clutched me suddenly."'I am afraid, I tell you - afraid. I hear her voice - not in my ear - no, not in my ear. Here, in my head -' She tapped her forehead. 'She will drive me away - drive me away altogether, and then what shall I do, what will become of me?'"Her voice rose almost to a shriek. She had in her eyes the look of the terrified beast at bay..."Suddenly she smiled, a pleasant smile, full of cunning, with something in it that made me shiver."'If it should come to it, Monsieur Raoul, I am very strong with my hands - very strong with my hands.'"I had never noticed her hands particularly before. I looked at them now and shuddered in spite of myself. Squat brutal fingers, and as Felicie had said, terribly strong... I cannot explain to you the nausea that swept over me. With hands such as these her father must have strangled her mother..."That was the last time I ever saw Felicie Bault. Immediately afterwards I went abroad - to South America. I returned from there two years after her death. Something I had read in the newspapers of her life and sudden death. I have heard fuller details tonight - from you. Felicie 3 and Felicie 4 - I wonder? She was a good actress, you know!"The train suddenly slackened speed. The man in the corner sat erect and buttoned his overcoat more closely."What is your theory?" asked the lawyer, leaning forward."I can hardly believe -" began Canon Parfitt, and stopped.The doctor said nothing. He was gazing steadily at Raoul Letardeau."The clothes from your back, the soul from your body," quoted the Frenchman lightly. He stood up. "I say to you, Messieurs, that the history of Felicie Bault is the history of Annette Ravel. You did not know her, gentlemen. I did. She was very fond of life..."His hand on the door, ready to spring out, he turned suddenly and bending down tapped Canon Parfitt on the chest."M. le docteur over there, he said just now that all this -" his hand smote the Canon's stomach, and the Canon winced - "was only a residence. Tell me, if you find a burglar in your house what do you do? Shoot him, do you not?""No," cried the Canon. "No, indeed - I mean - not in this country."But he spoke the last words to empty air. The carriage door banged.The clergyman, the lawyer, and the doctor were alone. The fourth corner was vacant. S.O.S."Ah!" said Mr Dinsmead appreciatively. He stepped back and surveyed the round table with approval. The firelight gleamed on the coarse white tablecloth, the knives and forks, and the other table appointments."Is - is everything ready?" asked Mrs Dinsmead hesitatingly. She was a little faded woman, with a colorless face, meager hair scraped back from her forehead, and a perpetually nervous manner."Everything's ready," said her husband with a kind of ferocious geniality.He was a big man, with stooping shoulders and a broad red face. He had little pig's eyes that twinkled under his bushy brows, and a big jowl devoid of hair."Lemonade?" suggested Mrs Dinsmead, almost in a whisper.Her husband shook his head."Tea. Much better in every way. Look at the weather, streaming and blowing. A nice cup of hot tea is what's needed for supper on an evening like this."He winked facetiously, then fell to surveying the table again."A good dish of eggs, cold corned beef, and bread and cheese. That's my order for supper. So come along and get it ready, Mother. Charlotte's in the kitchen waiting to give you a hand."Mrs Dinsmead rose, carefully winding up the ball of her knitting."She's grown a very good-looking girl," she murmured."Ah!" said Mr Dinsmead. "The mortal image of her ma! So go along with you, and don't let's waste any more time."He strolled about the room humming to himself for a minute or two. Once he approached the window and looked out."Wild weather," he murmured to himself. "Not much likelihood of our having visitors tonight."Then he too left the room.About ten minutes later Mrs Dinsmead entered bearing a dish of fried eggs. Her two daughters followed, bringing the rest of the provisions. Mr Dinsmead and his son Johnnie brought up the rear. The former seated himself at the head of the table."And for what we are to receive, et cetera," he remarked humorously. "And blessings on the man who first thought of tinned foods. What would we do, I should like to know, miles from anywhere, if we hadn't a tin now and then to fall back upon when the butcher forgets his weekly call?"He proceeded to carve corned beef dexterously."I wonder who ever thought of building a house like this, miles from anywhere," said his daughter Magdalen, pettishly. "We never see a soul.""No," said her father. "Never a soul.""I can't think what made you take it, Father," said Charlotte."Can't you, my girl? Well, I had my reasons - I had my reasons."His eyes sought his wife's furtively, but she frowned."And haunted, too," said Charlotte. "I wouldn't sleep alone here for anything.""Pack of nonsense," said her father. "Never seen anything, have you?""Not seen anything perhaps, but -""But what?"Charlotte did not reply, but she shivered a little. A great surge of rain came driving against the window-pane, and Mrs Dinsmead dropped a spoon with a tinkle on the tray."Not nervous, are you, Mother?" said Mr Dinsmead. "It's a wild night, that's all. Don't you worry, we're safe here by our fireside, and not a soul from outside likely to disturb us. Why, it would be a miracle if anyone did. And miracles don't happen. No," he added as though to himself, with a kind of peculiar satisfaction, "miracles don't happen."As the words left his lips there came a sudden knocking at the door. Mr Dinsmead stayed as though petrified."What's that?" he muttered. His jaw fell.Mrs Dinsmead gave a little whimpering cry and pulled her shawl up round her. The color came into Magdalen's face and she leaned forward and spoke to her father."The miracle has happened," she said. "You'd better go and let whoever it is in."Twenty minutes earlier Mortimer Cleveland had stood in the driving rain and mist surveying his car. It was really cursed bad luck. Two punctures within ten minutes of each other, and here he was, stranded, miles from anywhere, in the midst of these bare Wiltshire downs with night coming on and no prospect of shelter. Serve him right for trying to take a short cut. If only he had stuck to the main road! Now he was lost on what seemed a mere cart-track on the hillside, with no possibility of getting the car farther, and with no idea if there were even a village anywhere near.He looked round him perplexedly, and his eye was caught by a gleam of light on the hillside above him. A second later the mist obscured it once more but, waiting patiently, he presently got a second glimpse of it. After a moment's cogitation, he left the car and struck up the side of the hill.Soon he was out of the mist, and he recognized the light as shining from the lighted window of a small cottage. Here, at any rate, was shelter. Mortimer Cleveland quickened his pace, bending his head to meet the furious onslaught of wind and rain trying its best to drive him back.Cleveland was, in his own way, something of a celebrity though doubtless the majority of folks would have displayed complete ignorance of his name and achievements. He was an authority on mental science and had written two excellent text books on the subconscious. He was also a member of the Psychical Research Society and a student of the occult in so far as it affected his own conclusions and line of research.He was by nature peculiarly susceptible to atmosphere, and by deliberate training he had increased his own natural gift. When he had at last reached the cottage and rapped at the door, he was conscious of an excitement, a quickening of interest, as though all his faculties had suddenly been sharpened.The murmur of voices within had been plainly audible to him. Upon his knock there came a sudden silence, then the sound of a chair being pushed back along the floor. In another minute the door was flung open by a boy of about fifteen. Cleveland could look straight over his shoulder upon the scene within.It reminded him of an interior by some Dutch painter. A round table spread for a meal, a family party sitting round it, one or two flickering candies and the firelight's glow over all. The father, a big man, sat at one side of the table, a little gray woman with a frightened face sat opposite him. Facing the door, looking straight at Cleveland, was a girl. Her startled eyes looked straight into his, her hand with a cup in it was arrested halfway to her lips.She was, Cleveland saw at once, a beautiful girl of an extremely uncommon type. Her hair, red gold, stood out round her face like a mist; her eyes, very far apart, were a pure gray. She had the mouth and chin of an early Italian Madonna.There was a moment's dead silence. Then Cleveland stepped into the room and explained his predicament. He brought his trite story to a close, and there was another pause harder to understand. At last, as though with an effort, the father rose."Come in, sir - Mr Cleveland, did you say?""That is my name," said Mortimer, smiling."Ah, yes. Come in, Mr Cleveland. Not weather for a dog outside, is it? Come in by the fire. Shut the door, can't you, Johnnie? Don't stand there half the night."Cleveland came forward and sat on a wooden stool by the fire. The boy Johnnie shut the door."Dinsmead, that's my name," said the other man. He was all geniality now. "This is the Missus, and these are my two daughters, Charlotte and Magdalen."For the first time, Cleveland saw the face of the girl who had been sitting with her back to him, and saw that, in a totally different way, she was quite as beautiful as her sister. Very dark, with a face of marble pallor, a delicate aquiline nose, and a grave mouth. It was a kind of frozen beauty, austere and almost forbidding. She acknowledged her father's introduction by bending her head, and she looked at him with an intent gaze that was searching in character. It was as though she were summing him up, weighing him in the balance of her clear young judgement."A drop of something to drink, eh, Mr Cleveland?""Thank you," said Mortimer. "A cup of tea will meet the case admirably."Mr Dinsmead hesitated a minute, then he picked up the five cups, one after another, from the table and emptied them into the slop bowl."This tea's cold," he said brusquely. "Make us some more, will you, Mother?"Mrs Dinsmead got up quickly and hurried off with the teapot. Mortimer had an idea that she was glad to get out of the room.The fresh tea soon came, and the unexpected guest was plied with viands.Mr Dinsmead talked and talked. He was expansive, genial, loquacious. He told the stranger all about himself. He'd lately retired from the building trade - yes, made quite a good thing out of it. He and the Missus thought they'd like a bit of country air - never lived in the country before. Wrong time of year to choose, of course, October and November, but they didn't want to wait "Life's uncertain, you know, sir." So they had taken this cottage. Eight miles from anywhere, and nineteen miles from anything you could call a town. No, they didn't complain. The girls found it a bit dull, but he and Mother enjoyed the quiet.So he talked on, leaving Mortimer almost hypnotized by the easy flow. Nothing here, surely, but rather commonplace domesticity. And yet, at that first glimpse of the interior, he had diagnosed something else, some tension, some strain, emanating from one of those four people - he didn't know which. Mere foolishness, his nerves were all awry! They were startled by his sudden appearance - that was all.He broached the question of a night's lodging, and was met with a ready response."You'll have to stop with us, Mr Cleveland. Nothing else for miles around. We can give you a bedroom, and though my pajamas may be a bit roomy, why, they're better than nothing, and your own clothes will be dry by morning.""It's very good of you.""Not at all," said the other genially. "As I said just now, one couldn't turn away a dog on a night like this. Magdalen, Charlotte, go up and see to the room."The two girls left the room. Presently Mortimer heard them moving about overhead."I can quite understand that two attractive young ladies like your daughters might find it dull here," said Cleveland."Good lookers, aren't they?" said Mr Dinsmead with fatherly pride. "Not much like their mother or myself. We're a homely pair, but much attached to each other, I'll tell you that, Mr Cleveland. Eh, Maggie, isn't that so?"Mrs Dinsmead smiled primly. She had started knitting again. The needles clicked busily. She was a fast knitter.Presently the room was announced ready, and Mortimer, expressing thanks once more, declared his intention of turning in."Did you put a hot-water bottle in the bed?" demanded Mrs Dinsmead, suddenly mindful of her house pride."Yes, Mother, two.""That's right," said Dinsmead. "Go up with him, girls, and see that every thing is all right."Magdalen preceded him up the staircase, her candle held aloft. Charlotte came behind.The room was quite a pleasant one, small and with a sloping roof, but the bed looked comfortable, and the few pieces of somewhat dusty furniture were of old mahogany. A large can of hot water stood in the basin, a pair of pink pajamas of ample proportions were laid over a chair, and the bed was made and turned down.Magdalen went over to the window and saw that the fastenings were secure. Charlotte cast a final eye over the washstand appointments. Then they both lingered by the door."Good night, Mr Cleveland. You are sure there is everything?""Yes, thank you, Miss Magdalen. I am sorry to have given you both so much trouble. Good night.""Good night."They went out, shutting the door behind them. Mortimer Cleveland was alone. He undressed slowly and thoughtfully. When he had donned Mr Dinsmead's pink pajamas, he gathered up his own wet clothes and put them outside the door as his host had bade him. From downstairs he could hear the rumble of Dinsmead's voice.What a talker the man was! Altogether an odd personality - but indeed there was something odd about the whole family, or was it his imagination?He went slowly back into his room and shut the door. He stood by the bed lost in thought. And then he started -The mahogany table by the bed was smothered in dust. Written in the dust were three letters, clearly visible. S.O.S.Mortimer stared as if he could hardly believe his eyes. It was a confirmation of all his vague surmises and forebodings. He was right, then. Something was wrong in this house.S.O.S. A call for help. But whose finger had written it in the dust? Magdalen's or Charlotte's? They had both stood there, he remembered, for a moment or two, before going out of the room. Whose hand had secretly dropped to the table and traced out those three letters?The faces of the two girls came up before him. Magdalen's, dark and aloof, and Charlotte's, as he had seen it first, wide-eyed, startled, with an unfathomable something in her glance.He went again to the door and opened it. The boom of Mr Dinsmead's voice was no longer to be heard. The house was silentHe thought to himself."I can do nothing tonight. Tomorrow - well, we shall see."Cleveland woke early. He went down through the living room, and out into the garden. The morning was fresh and beautiful after the rain. Someone else was up early, too. At the bottom of the garden Charlotte was leaning on the fence staring out over the Downs. His pulses quickened a little as he went down to join her. All along he had been secretly convinced that it was Charlotte who had written the message. As he came up to her, she turned and wished him "Good morning." Her eyes were direct and childlike, with no hint of a secret understanding in them."A very good morning," said Mortimer, smiling. "The weather this morning is a contrast to last night's.""It is indeed."Mortimer broke off a twig from a tree near by. With it he began idly to draw on the smooth, sandy patch at his feet. He traced an S, then an O, then an S, watching the girl narrowly as he did so. But again he could detect no gleam of comprehension."Do you know what these letters represent?" he said abruptly.Charlotte frowned a little. "Aren't they what boats send out when they are in distress?" she asked.Mortimer nodded. "Someone wrote that on the table by my bed last night," he said quietly. "I thought perhaps you might have done so."She looked at him in wide-eyed astonishment."I? Oh, no."He was wrong then. A sharp pang of disappointment shot through him. He had been so sure - so sure. It was not often that his intuitions led him astray."You are quite certain?" he persisted."Oh, yes."They turned and went slowly together toward the house. Charlotte seemed preoccupied about something. She replied at random to the few observations he made. Suddenly she burst out in a low, hurried voice."It - it's odd your asking that about those letters, S.O.S. I didn't write them, of course, but - I so easily might have."He stopped and looked at her, and she went on quickly: "It sounds silly, I know, but I have been so frightened, so dreadfully frightened, and when you came in last night, it seemed like an - an answer to something.""What are you frightened of?" he asked quickly."I don't know.""You don't know?""I think - it's the house. Ever since we came here it has been growing and growing. Everyone seems different somehow. Father, Mother, and Magdalen, they all seem different."Mortimer did not speak at once, and before he could do so, Charlotte went on again."You know this house is supposed to be haunted?""What?" All his interest was quickened."Yes, a man murdered his wife in it, oh, some years ago now. We only found out about it after we got here. Father says ghosts are all nonsense, but I - don't know."Mortimer was thinking rapidly."Tell me," he said in a businesslike tone, "was this murder committed in the room I had last night?""I don't know anything about that," said Charlotte."I wonder now," said Mortimer half to himself, "yes, that may be it."Charlotte looked at him uncomprehendingly."Miss Dinsmead," said Mortimer, gently, "Have you ever had any reason to believe that you are mediumistic?"She stared at him."I think you know that you did write S.O.S. last night," he said quietly. "Oh! quite unconsciously, of course. A crime stains the atmosphere, so to speak. A sensitive mind such as yours might be acted upon in such a manner. You have been reproducing the sensations and impressions of the victim. Many years ago she may have written S.O.S. on that table, and you unconsciously reproduced her act last night."Charlotte's face brightened."I see," she said. "You think that is the explanation?"A voice called her from the house, and she went in, leaving Mortimer to pace up and down the garden paths. Was he satisfied with his own explanation? Did it cover the facts as he knew them? Did it account for the tension he had felt on entering the house last night?Perhaps, and yet he still had the odd feeling that his sudden appearance had produced something very like consternation. He thought to himself."I must not be carried away by the psychic explanation. It might account for Charlotte - but not for the others. My coming as I did upset them horribly, all except Johnnie. Whatever it is that's the matter, Johnnie is out of it."He was quite sure of that; strange that he should be so positive, but there it was.At that minute Johnnie himself came out of the cottage and approached the guest."Breakfast's ready," he said awkwardly. "Will you come in?"Mortimer noticed that the lad's fingers were much stained. Johnnie felt his glance and laughed ruefully."I'm always messing about with chemicals, you know," he said. "It makes Dad awfully wild sometimes. He wants me to go into building, but I want to do chemistry and research work."Mr Dinsmead appeared at the window ahead of them, broad, jovial, smiling, and at sight of him all Mortimer's distrust and antagonism reawakened. Mrs Dinsmead was already seated at the table. She wished him "Good morning" in her colorless voice, and he had again the impression that for some reason or other, she was afraid of him.Magdalen came in last. She gave him a brief nod and took her seat opposite him."Did you sleep well?" she asked abruptly. "Was your bed comfortable?"She looked at him very earnestly, and when he replied courteously in the affirmative he noticed something very like a flicker of disappointment pass over her face. What had she expected him to say, he wondered?He turned to his host."This lad of yours is interested in chemistry, it seems," he said pleasantly.There was a crash. Mrs Dinsmead had dropped her tea cup."Now then, Maggie, now then," said her husband.It seemed to Mortimer that there was admonition, warning, in his voice. He turned to his guest and spoke fluently of the advantages of the building trade, and of not letting young boys get above themselves. After breakfast he went out in the garden by himself, and smoked. The time was clearly at hand when he must leave the cottage. A night's shelter was one thing; to prolong it was difficult without an excuse, and what possible excuse could he offer? And yet he was singularly loath to depart.Turning the thing over and over in his mind, he took a path that led round the other side of the house. His shoes were soled with crepe rubber, and made little or no noise. He was passing the kitchen window when he heard Dinsmead's words from within, and the words attracted his attention immediately."It's a fair lump of money, it is."Mrs Dinsmead's voice answered. It was too faint in tone for Mortimer to hear the words, but Dinsmead replied:"Nigh on £60,000, the lawyer said."Mortimer had no intention of eavesdropping, but he retraced his steps very thoughtfully. The mention of money seemed to crystallize the situation. Somewhere or other there was a question of £60,000. It made the thing clearer - and uglier.Magdalen came out of the house, but her father's voice called her almost immediately, and she went in again. Presently Dinsmead himself joined his guest."Rare good morning," he said genially. "I hope your car will be none the worse.""Wants to find out when I'm going," thought Mortimer to himself.Aloud he thanked Mr Dinsmead once more for his timely hospitality."Not at all, not at all," said the other.Magdalen and Charlotte came together out of the house and strolled arm in arm to a rustic seat some little distance away. The dark head and the golden one made a pleasant contrast together and on an impulse Mortimer said:"Your daughters are very unlike, Mr Dinsmead."The other who was just lighting his pipe gave a sharp jerk of the wrist and dropped the match."Do you think so?" he asked. "Yes, well, I suppose they are."Mortimer had a flash of intuition."But of course they are not both your daughters," he said smoothly.He saw Dinsmead look at him, hesitate for a moment, and then make up his mind."That's very clever of you, sir," he said. "No, one of them is a foundling; we took her in as a baby and we have brought her up as our own. She herself has not the least idea of the truth, but she'll have to know soon." He sighed."A question of inheritance?" suggested Mortimer quietly.The other flashed a suspicious look at him.Then he decided that frankness was best; his manner became almost aggressively frank and open."It's odd you should say that, sir.""A case of telepathy, eh?" said Mortimer, and smiled."It is like this, sir. We took her in to oblige the mother - for a consideration, as at the time I was just starting in the building trade. A few months ago I noticed an advertisement in the papers, and it seemed to me that the child in question must be our Magdalen. I went to see the lawyers, and there has been a lot of talk one way and another. They were suspicious - naturally, as you might say - but everything is cleared up now. I am taking the girl herself to London next week - she doesn't know anything about it so far. Her father, it seems, was a very rich man. He only learned of the child's existence a few months before his death. He hired agents to try and trace her, and left all his money to her when she should be found."Mortimer listened with close attention. He had no reason to doubt Mr Dinsmead's story. It explained Magdalen's dark beauty; explained too, perhaps, her aloof manner. Nevertheless, though the story itself might be true, something lay undivulged behind it.But Mortimer had no intention of rousing the other's suspicions. Instead, he must go out of his way to allay them."A very interesting story, Mr Dinsmead," he said. "I congratulate Miss Magdalen. An heiress and a beauty, she has a great future ahead.""She has that," agreed her father warmly, "and she's a rare good girl too, Mr Cleveland."There was every evidence of hearty warmth in his manner."Well," said Mortimer, "I must be pushing along now, I suppose. I have got to thank you once more, Mr Dinsmead, for your singularly well-timed hospitality."Accompanied by his host, he went into the house to bid farewell to Mrs Dinsmead. She was standing by the window with her back to them, and did not hear them enter. At her husband's jovial, "Here's Mr Cleveland come to say good-bye," she started nervously and swung round, dropping something which she held in her hand. Mortimer picked it up for her. It was a miniature of Charlotte done in the style of some twenty-five years ago. Mortimer repeated to her the thanks he had already proffered to her husband. He noticed again her look of fear and the furtive glances that she shot at him beneath her eyelids.The two girls were not in evidence, but it was not part of Mortimer's policy to seem anxious to see them; also he had his own idea, which was shortly to prove correct.He had gone about half a mile from the house on his way down to where he had left the car the night before, when the bushes on one side of the path were thrust aside, and Magdalen came out on the track ahead of him."I had to see you," she said."I expected you," said Mortimer. "It was you who wrote S.O.S. on the table in my room last night, wasn't it?"Magdalen nodded."Why?" asked Mortimer gently.The girl turned aside and began pulling off leaves from a bush.