Читать книгу The Devil's Advocate - Fred M. White - Страница 6

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"Perhaps not," Philippa laughed. "Still it is a strange thing that I was thinking the same as I was standing talking to him before you came out of the house. He has changed. Do you know, father, he was quite ill-tempered when you asked to have a look at his hand. And fancy you noticing it."

"My dear child, that sort of thing is second nature to me. As a doctor, one notices many things. Still, it is no business of mine. I thought, at one time, that you and Farrell were going to make a match of it. But I am glad you didn't, very glad indeed, though I hadn't a word to say against the man then. I understand he is making a big practice for himself, and getting on famously. But I am glad, yes, I am glad you didn't marry him."

With that Goldfinch turned away and went back to the house. Those books of his would certainly keep him occupied for the rest of the morning, despite the fact that the index had not arrived, so that Philippa went back to her work with a full determination of sticking to it until luncheon time.

But again she was interrupted. A minute or two later David Macrae came striding down the path, looking neither to the right nor to the left, his eyes full of misery, and his face white, and almost despairing. He was close to Philippa before he was even aware that she was so near at hand.

She looked at him with a sinking heart and a strange foreboding of coming evil. She rose to meet him, and held out two hands, which he took almost mechanically.

"David," she whispered—"David! what has happened? Why do you look at me in that strange way?"

"What has happened?" Macrae echoed. "My dearest girl, I am just trying to think. I have been walking about for hours. Sometimes it is perfectly clear to me, and at others I am moving in a dream. I meant to have seen you just after breakfast, but I took the wrong turning and crossed the common instead."

"David!" Philippa cried, "David, what is it? Do try and think. You are frightening me terribly."

There was something in the tone of Philippa's voice that acted like a tonic on Macrae's strained nerves. His eye gradually cleared, and his features became normal.

"A most terrible thing has happened, Philippa," he said. "A thing incredible. I could not have believed it possible, though a novelist like myself imagines many strange things."

"You have lost your money," Philippa suggested. "That serial story has gone off. Oh, it cannot be worse than that."

"Ah, if I could only think so. What you suggest would be merely amusing by comparison. But I must tell you in the best way I can, I suppose. Ah, my dear girl, it would have been far better for you if you had never seen me, and had married Farrell instead."

"You speak as if you had done something wrong," Philippa said. "But I shall never believe that."

"Oh, I have done nothing wrong," Macrae replied. "Though whether the rest of the world will believe me is another matter. Now, let us go into the house and I will try and tell you all about it. But I don't want to see the doctor at present."

"Oh, you won't," Philippa smiled, faintly. "He is in his den with some new books, and I shall have great difficulty in dragging him from them to his luncheon."

She led the way to the little dining room at the back of the house, and there dropped into a chair with limbs that were shaking strangely. With folded hands she waited for Macrae to proceed.

"Do you remember my telling you, last night, all about that hundred pounds I borrowed from Douglas & Co.?"

Philippa began to breathe a little easier. She had been doubtful in her mind ever since that loan was mentioned. She had seen trouble of the sort in her own home, but, if it was merely a question of money, then, it was hard to account for David's strange agitation. The thought flashed across her mind that he was not the boldly courageous man that she had taken him for. If a comparatively little thing like this upset him so greatly, then what would happen in the case of a real misfortune? It was impossible to look into David's strong, self-reliant face and believe this.

"I remember it perfectly well," she said. "It worried me at the time, but you were so confident—"

"Would you mind waiting till I have finished?" Macrae said. "After all, money has very little to do with it. If I had lost everything, I should still have had you, and it would only be a question of waiting and working for a few more months. I told you that I had borrowed that money to complete the purchase of the bungalow, and that before Douglas & Co. let me have it I had to consent to what is called a judgment. That meant that if they demanded the money at any moment I must pay, or they would realise their security. They would take over everything, and give me the balance after they had sold the property and paid themselves. You know that I was sleeping in the bungalow last night, and I made some light reference to what the last post might bring me. Well, Philippa, it brought me a letter from Douglas & Co., giving me till 12 o'clock today to find the money, or they would proceed. Of course, there was the usual excuse that they were hard pressed—"

"But what a monstrous thing to do," Philippa cried. "They must have known perfectly well that you could pay in a few days, and moneylenders are never short of capital. Why did they do it? Has some enemy of yours been at work here?"

"Indeed, there has," Macrae groaned. "It was a typewritten letter, and across it was scrawled a line or two saying that this would teach me to make attacks upon people in the 'Hitherfield Mercury' who had never done me any harm. And those few lines I am speaking about were signed by Joseph Baines."

"But what does that mean?" Philippa asked.

"Surely, my dearest girl, the meaning is plain enough. These bloodsuckers often masquerade under different names, and, without us knowing it, all this time Baines and Douglas & Co. are one and the same man. It is a favorite dodge of these scoundrels. They lend some poor devil money, and call it in suddenly. At the same time he gets a circular from the same rascal, in another name, and he flies to him for assistance. Oh, it has been done a thousand times. And now you understand. When I was replying to Douglas & Co. I was really addressing Joseph Baines. And, without appearing himself, he was actually lending me his own money. This is his revenge for those articles I wrote in my paper. You see how cunningly he lured me into the trap. He knew I could not find the money at a moment's notice, and he thinks he has ruined me."

"Yes, but only thinks. I suppose that our little house will have to go. It is a mean revenge, but will only cost us a trifling inconvenience. Don't worry, David; don't worry."

"Ah, if I had only told you the worst," Macrae sighed. "When I got that letter I went off at once to see Baines. You know that he lives in a little house by himself on the far side of the common, with no one to look after him. Well, late as it was, I set out to see him, and to try if I could soften his heart. It was a hateful thing to have to do, but for your sake I did it. I thought perhaps when I convinced him that his money was all right he might listen to reason. It was a stupid idea, because he knew very well that his beloved cash was safe. Still, I did it. I went over to his cottage about 10 o'clock, but I could not make anybody hear. I knocked in vain, until I came to the conclusion that he was either out or would not come to the door. Perhaps he saw me through one of the bedroom windows. At any rate, I had my journey for my pains, and I went back to the Bungalow very downhearted. Just before I locked up for the night I went round the house, and, rather to my surprise, found that the outer door of the little conservatory was open, and the key missing. It occurred to me that perhaps there never had been a key. So, to make sure that there was nothing wrong I turned on the light in the conservatory, and there, lying on the floor behind some ferns—"

Macrae stopped, almost unable to proceed. Philippa rose with a white and terrified face, and held out her hands to him.

"Go on," she whispered. "David, please go on."

"It was Baines himself," Macrae said, brokenly. "He was lying on the floor, quite dead, and had been murdered beyond the shadow of a doubt. And that is all I can tell you."

"What an awful thing!" Philippa said. "Do you think he was lying there when we were in the house? Oh, it is impossible to know what to think."

"Yes; but you can see what people will think," Macrae groaned. "They will say that I lured him into the Bungalow and murdered him in cold blood. Here is a man in whose power I am. He writes me a letter saying what he is going to do. He can ruin me absolutely, and being quite desperate, I lured him into my own house and destroyed him like the dog that he is. Oh, I know I shall have a good deal of sympathy, but everybody will say that I am the only possible culprit. Don't forget the letter, Philippa."

"Couldn't you destroy it?" Philippa whispered.

"Oh, I could, of course. But that would be an admission of guilt if it was found out, and I am certainly not going to do that. No; I must fight the thing through. Of course, I went to the police station at once, and told Superintendent Dent exactly what had happened. I was with him pretty nearly all night. He allowed me to leave him this morning, pending the inquest, which takes place tomorrow, but though I said nothing about my indebtedness to Baines I could see what the inspector thought. My dearest girl, I may be arrested at any moment."

Before Philippa could reply a little servant looked into the room and said that Inspector Dent was there, and he would like to see Mr. Macrae at once.

"Ah, there you are," David said bitterly. "It is as I told you, Philippa. They are after me already. You know what Dent wants, of course. He has come here without doubt to arrest me for the wilful murder of Joseph Baines."