Читать книгу Blackmail! - Fred M. White - Страница 6

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It was a quiet drive to Broadwater, for Burlinson was a silent man given to intricate problems, and he seemed to have much on his mind at present. Lance also carried a load of care on his shoulders that would have astonished the doctor had he known. There was something blacker and uglier far than the mere loss of the family property.

"I've come to get a certain book from the library," Burlinson said meaningly, as the trap pulled up at length. "You understand what I mean?"

Lance nodded. Burlinson strolled away towards the library with the air of a man who is very much at home. Away across the park Stott, a Dutch doll figure, could be seen, fading away in the direction of the village. Lyn came out of the darkened morning room with a mass of cut flowers and trailing ferns in her hands. She looked a little pale and anxious; her deep dark dress threw up her face with a certain marble pallor.

"Lance," she whispered, "you look as if you had some bad news."

"Come into the billiard-room," Lance said. "There is something I want to tell you. You must try and be brave, darling. It is hard to know what is for the best."

Lyn listened to all Lance had to say. There was a look of pain in her clear eyes, and the little hands were trembling As Lance saw it, he drew her tenderly to his side.

"I must confess I never anticipated anything like this," he said.

"Oh, who could?" Lyn cried. "And I have ruined you, Lance. If I had not been so weak and selfish all might have been well. But who would have thought that Sir George—. Still, it is no use going back to that. I have ruined you, Lance. You have nothing."

"Nothing except a good income from my pen and you, dearest."

"And shall I always be held worthy of the sacrifice?"

"What sacrifice, Lyn? I always meant to marry you. Had Sir George lived I should not have waited much longer. He would have known in the course of time—"

"He would have forgiven us. Perhaps I counted too much on that."

"Never mind, sweetheart. It will all come right in the end. Meanwhile we must say nothing—not for a few days at least. As yet I have no official notice of my uncle's will."

"Failing you, whom does the property go to?"

"I declare I never troubled to inquire. I was so dreadfully upset over the first discovery that the future was driven out of my head. We can do no harm in keeping the secret for a few days longer. Now I should like to see you cheerfully going through your duties as if nothing out of the common had happened."

Lyn smiled unsteadily, and there was just the suspicion of a tear in her eye. But the pressure of her lips was warm and thrilling, and Lance was strangely comforted. If the worst came he had her. And he had his pen to fall back upon.

Burlinson appeared to be busy in the library. Nothing was disturbed there, the litter of papers still lay on the big table on which Sir George had fallen as if asleep. One or two of the topmost papers had been moved nearer to the window, a blind of which was slightly raised. There was a faint brown stain on one of the documents, a stain deeper towards the centre.

"Have you got to the bottom of the mystery?" Lance asked.

"I've made it still more puzzling," Burlinson replied. "Long tells me that every one of those papers was placed on the table by Sir George after dinner on the night he was mur—he died. Our poor friend committed suicide by cutting his carotid artery with a razor. At any rate he left a written confession of the fact that he had committed suicide. Now, just look at this paper. What do you see on it?"

"A stain that is rather like a big brown blur in the centre, doctor."

"Precisely. And you don't know what that stain was caused by?"

"I haven't the least idea. What is it?"

"Chloroform," Burlinson said, tapping the paper excitedly. "I have made all the tests, and find that a deal of that drug was dropped over the table. See! The stain is here—and here—and here—as if a bottle had been toppled over. There is a regular pattern of stains. After what Long tells me, I am forced to the belief that the chloroform was upset after those papers were placed on the table—in other words, late in the evening of the mur—tragedy. Now it is not to be imagined for a moment that Sir George drugged himself first and cut his throat after, is it? Nor is it credible that he took chloroform to ease the pain. If that had been so, we should have found the bottle. I have quite another theory on the subject."

In spite of himself and his troubles, Lance was interested. He was deeply puzzled, and indeed was Burlinson. The puzzle knotted at every fresh pull.

"Are you sure it is chloroform?" Lance asked.

"Sure as I am of my own name. I have made all the tests. Do you know what has happened? Sir George was murdered. He was chloroformed, and, whilst insensible, his throat was cut by the assassin, who upset the bottle of drug in his agitation. Nothing could possibly be plainer to my mind than that."

"But you forget all about the letter," Lance said.

"Hang the letter!" Burlinson cried. "That is part of some infernal conspiracy. Sir George has been foully murdered, and I don't rest till I've proved it."